Philosophy of the Modern Era

Rousseau

Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712—1778), although a philosopher in the sense understood by the term "philosopher" in 18th-century France, was not what we would now call a philosopher. Nevertheless, he exerted a powerful influence on philosophy, as well as on literature, tastes, customs, and politics. Regardless of our opinions about his merits as a thinker, we must acknowledge his immense significance as a social force. This significance arises chiefly from his appeal to the heart and to what was termed "sensibility" in his time. He is considered the father of the Romantic movement, the inspirer of systems of thought that derive facts unrelated to humanity from human emotions, and the inventor of a political philosophy advocating a pseudo-democratic dictatorship in opposition to traditional absolute monarchies. From Rousseau onwards, those who saw themselves as reformers divided into two factions: those who became followers of Rousseau and those who aligned with Locke. At times, they collaborated, and many perceived no incompatibility in their views. However, this incompatibility gradually became glaringly evident. By now, Hitler represents the culmination of Rousseauist tendencies, while Roosevelt embodies Lockean principles.

Rousseau’s biography is laid out in detail in his "Confessions," albeit without a slavish concern for truth. He relished presenting himself as a great sinner, occasionally suffering from exaggeration in this regard. Nevertheless, there is abundant external evidence that he was devoid of all ordinary virtues. This did not trouble him, as he believed himself to possess a warm heart, which, however, never hindered him in his base actions against his best friends. I will touch upon his life only insofar as it is necessary for understanding his thoughts and his influence.

Born in Geneva, he was raised as an orthodox Calvinist. His father, a poor man, combined the professions of a watchmaker and a dance teacher. His mother died when he was a child, and he was brought up by an aunt. He left school at the age of twelve and was apprenticed to various trades, but he detested the work and fled Geneva for Savoy at sixteen. Lacking means of sustenance, Rousseau approached a Catholic priest, presenting himself as someone seeking conversion. His formal conversion took place in Turin at the Institute for Converts, a procedure lasting nine days. Rousseau describes his motivations for this action as entirely self-serving: "I could not hide from myself that the holy act I was about to undertake was, in essence, an act of a bandit." However, this was written after he returned to Protestantism, and there is reason to believe that for several years he was a sincerely devout Catholic. In 1742, Rousseau solemnly proclaimed that the house in which he lived had miraculously been saved from fire in 1730 through the prayers of a bishop.

Returning from the institute in Turin with twenty francs in his pocket, he became a lackey for a noblewoman named de Vercelli, who died three months later. After her death, a ribbon belonging to her was found in his possession, which he had actually stolen. He claimed that it had been given to him by a maid whom he loved. He was believed, and she was punished. His justification is peculiar: "Immorality was never farther from me than in this cruel moment. And when I accused the poor girl—this is contradictory, but it is true—my affection for her was the reason for what I did. I remembered her and shifted my guilt onto the first object that came to mind." This is a fine example of how, in Rousseau’s ethics, "sensibility" occupies the place of all ordinary virtues.

Following this incident, Madame de Warens, who, like him, had converted from Protestantism, took a friendly interest in him—a charming lady who received a pension from the King of Savoy in recognition of her services to religion. For nine or ten years, he spent most of his time in her home, referring to her as "maman," even after she became his mistress. For a while, he shared her with a trusted servant. All lived in the greatest friendship, and when the trusted servant died, Rousseau mourned but consoled himself with the thought: "Well, at least I shall receive his clothes."

In the early years of his life, there were periods when he lived as a vagabond, traveling on foot and relying on the most unreliable means of support. During one such period, a companion with whom he was traveling had an epileptic seizure in the streets of Lyon. Rousseau seized the opportunity of the gathered crowd to abandon his companion at the height of the fit. On another occasion, he became the secretary to a man who introduced himself as an archimandrite traveling to the Holy Sepulchre. Once, he dealt with a wealthy lady, portraying himself as a Scottish Jacobite named Dudding.

However, in 1743, with the assistance of a noblewoman, he became the secretary to the French envoy in Venice, a drunkard named Montagu, who delegated all the work to Rousseau but cared little for paying him a salary. Rousseau worked diligently, and an inevitable quarrel arose not of his doing. He traveled to Paris to seek justice. Everyone conceded that he was right, but for a long time, nothing was done to restore justice. The irritation of this procrastination soured Rousseau against the existing form of government in France, although he eventually received the salary owed to him.

Around this time (1745), he met Thérèse Levasseur, a servant at a hotel in Paris. He lived with her until the end of his life (this did not prevent him from engaging in other affairs). He had five children with her, whom he placed in a foundling home. No one could understand what attracted him to her. She was unattractive and ignorant. She could neither read nor write (he later taught her to write, but not to read). She did not know the names of the months and could not count money. Her mother was greedy and miserly. Both used Rousseau and his friends as sources of income. Rousseau claimed (whether truthfully or not) that he never loved Thérèse. In later years, she drank and pursued stable hands. Probably, he enjoyed feeling that he was undoubtedly superior to her in both financial and intellectual terms and that she was entirely dependent on him. He always felt ill at ease in the company of the great and sincerely preferred simple people; in this respect, his democratic sentiment was entirely genuine. Although he never entered into an official marriage with her, he treated her almost as a wife, and all the noblewomen who maintained friendly relations with him had to tolerate her.

His first literary success came to him rather late. The Dijon Academy announced a prize for the best essay on the topic "Have the Sciences and Arts Been Beneficial to Humanity?" Rousseau responded negatively and won the prize (1750). He argued that the sciences, letters, and arts were the worst enemies of morality and, by creating poverty, were sources of slavery, for how can those who walk naked, like American savages, be bound in chains? He could not be expected to favor Sparta over Athens. He read Plutarch’s "Lives" at the age of seven, which had a very strong impact on him. He particularly admired the life of Lycurgus. Like the Spartans, he accepted success in war as a test of worthiness. Nevertheless, he admired the "noble savage" whom refined Europeans could defeat in battle. Science and virtue, he asserts, are incompatible, and all sciences have ignoble origins. Astronomy stems from the superstitions of astrology, rhetoric from ambition, geometry from avarice, and physics from vain curiosity. Even ethics finds its source in human arrogance. One must lament the effects of education and the art of printing. All that distinguishes the civilized man from the uneducated barbarian is evil.

Receiving acclaim and suddenly achieving fame through this work, Rousseau began to live in accordance with the principles articulated within it. He adopted a simple lifestyle, even selling his watch, declaring that he no longer needed to keep track of time.

The ideas of his first work were further developed in his second treatise, Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality Among Men (1754), which did not receive an award. He posited that “man is by nature good, and it is society that corrupts him” — a counterpoint to the doctrine of original sin and salvation in the church. Like many political theorists of his time, he spoke of the state of nature, albeit in a somewhat hypothetical manner, as a “condition that no longer exists, possibly never did exist, and probably never will exist, yet one which we must nonetheless understand to properly judge our present state.” Natural law should be derived from the state of nature, but since we know little of the natural man, it is impossible to determine the law originally prescribed or most suited to him. All that we can know is that the will of those subjected to it must acknowledge their subjugation, which should arise directly from the voice of nature. He does not object to natural inequalities pertaining to age, health, intellect, and the like, but only to inequalities arising from privileges sanctioned by custom.

The origins of civil society and the subsequent social inequality must be sought in private property. “The first man who enclosed a piece of ground, claiming ’This is mine,’ and found people sufficiently naïve to believe him, was the real founder of civil society.” He further asserts that the lamentable revolution ushered in metallurgy and agriculture. Grain stands as a symbol of our misfortune. Europe is the most miserable continent because it possesses the most grain and iron. To eliminate evil, it is necessary only to reject civilization, as man is naturally good and, when well-fed, the savage exists in harmony with all of nature and is a friend to all beings.

Rousseau sent this work to Voltaire, who replied (1775): “I have received your new book against the human race, and I thank you for it. There has never been a case where such talent has been used to render us all foolish. Every reader of your book is inclined to crawl on all fours. However, since I have lost that habit after more than sixty years, I sadly feel I cannot acquire it again. I cannot even set out to seek the savages of Canada, for the maladies to which I am condemned necessitate the services of a European surgeon, for war continues in those regions, and because our example would render the savages nearly as bad as ourselves.”

It is not surprising that Rousseau and Voltaire eventually fell out. The wonder lies in the fact that they did not quarrel sooner.

In 1754, when he gained fame, his native city recalled him and invited him to visit. He accepted the invitation, but since only Calvinists could be citizens of Geneva, he reverted to his former faith. It had already become customary for him to refer to himself as a Genevan Puritan and republican, and after his conversion, he contemplated living in Geneva. He dedicated his Discourse on Inequality to the city’s leaders, but they were displeased. They did not wish to be mere equal, ordinary citizens. Their opposition was not the only obstacle to his life in Geneva. There was also a more serious issue: Voltaire had arrived to live there. Voltaire was a playwright and a theater enthusiast, but Geneva, for Puritan reasons, had prohibited all dramatic performances. When Voltaire sought to lift the ban, Rousseau sided with the Puritans: savages never play plays; Plato disapproved of them; the Catholic Church refused to marry or bury actors; Bossuet called drama “a school of vice.” The opportunity to attack Voltaire was too good to miss, and Rousseau made himself a champion of ascetic virtue.

This was not their first public disagreement. The initial public discord arose over the Lisbon earthquake (1755), which Voltaire addressed in a poem expressing doubt that Providence governs the world. Rousseau was indignant. He remarked: “Voltaire, seemingly always a believer in God, in reality believes in nothing but the devil, for his hypocritical God is a criminal being that finds all its joy in causing harm. The absurdity of this doctrine is particularly disturbing in a man endowed with every blessing who, from the heights of his own happiness, seeks to instill despair in those close to him through cruel and terrifying depictions of grave calamities from which he himself is free.”

Rousseau, for his part, saw no reason for such turmoil regarding the earthquake. It is quite acceptable for a certain number of people to be killed now and in the future. Furthermore, the inhabitants of Lisbon suffered because they lived in seven-story buildings. Had they been scattered in the forests, as men ought to be, they would not have suffered.

The theological questions surrounding earthquakes and the morality of staged performances ignited a fierce enmity between Voltaire and Rousseau, with all philosophers taking sides. Voltaire regarded Rousseau as a malicious madman; Rousseau spoke of Voltaire as “the troubadour of dishonor, a brilliant mind and a base soul.” Nevertheless, elevated feelings had to find expression, and Rousseau wrote to Voltaire (1760): “I truly hate you, as you desire. But I hate you as a man who would be more fittingly inclined to love you, were you to wish it. Of all the feelings that have filled my heart towards you, only admiration remains for the fact that we cannot refuse your splendid genius and we love you for your works. If there is nothing in you that I might respect other than your talents, it is not my fault.”

We now arrive at the most fruitful period of Rousseau’s life. His tale The New Heloise appeared in 1760, while Emile and The Social Contract were published in 1762. Emile, which serves as a treatise on education according to “natural” principles, might have been regarded by the authorities as harmless had it not contained “The Confession of a Savoyard Vicar,” which establishes the principles of natural religion as Rousseau understood them, and which irritated both Catholic and Protestant orthodoxy. The Social Contract was even more dangerous, as it defended democracy and denied the divine right of kings. These books, which significantly increased his notoriety, provoked a storm of official condemnation against him. He was forced to flee France. Geneva refused to accept him. Bern denied him asylum. At last, Frederick the Great took pity on him and allowed him to live in Mottier, near Neuchâtel, which was part of the philosopher king’s domain. He resided there for three years. However, by the end of this period (1765), the peasants of Mottier, led by their pastor, accused him of poisoning and sought to kill him. He fled to England, where Hume offered him his services in 1762.

In England, initially, all seemed well. Rousseau enjoyed great public success, and King George III granted him a pension. He saw Burke nearly every day, but their friendship soon cooled to such an extent that Burke declared: “He has no principles that influence his feelings or guide his reason—only vanity.” Hume remained the most loyal, asserting that he loved him dearly and could live with him for a lifetime in mutual friendship and respect. Yet, in the meantime, Rousseau (and this was not unnatural) began to suffer from persecution mania, which ultimately drove him mad, and he suspected Hume of being involved in conspiracies against his life. At times, he recognized the absurdity of such suspicions and wanted to embrace Hume, exclaiming: “No, no, Hume is not a traitor!” To which Hume presumably responded quite bewilderedly: “Yes, my dear sir!” Ultimately, however, his delusions prevailed, and he fled. He spent his final years in Paris in considerable poverty, and when he died, there were suspicions that he had committed suicide.

After the quarrel, Hume remarked, “He felt only throughout his life, and in this regard, his sensitivity surpasses all I have seen. But it gives him a sharper sense of pain than of pleasure. He resembles a man who has not only had his clothes stripped away but has also had his skin torn off and has been placed in a position to wrestle with tumultuous and coarse elements.” This heartfelt assessment of Rousseau's character is perhaps the closest to the truth.

In Rousseau’s works, there is much that, while significant from other perspectives, does not pertain to the history of philosophical thought. There are only two aspects of his teachings that I will examine in some detail: first, his theology; second, his political theory.

In theology, he introduces an innovation now widely accepted by Protestant theologians. Prior to him, every philosopher, beginning with Plato, who believed in God proposed rational arguments in support of his faith. These arguments may not seem particularly convincing to us, and we may feel they are not irrefutable to those who do not already feel certain of the truth of the conclusion. Nevertheless, the philosopher who presents these arguments genuinely believes in their logical justification, and as such, they ought to instill confidence in the existence of God in any unbiased individual with sufficient philosophical abilities. Modern Protestants, who persuade us to believe in God, for the most part, disdain the old “proofs” and base their faith on specific aspects of human nature—feelings of fear or mystery, a sense of justice and injustice, a feeling of aspiration, and so forth. This manner of defending religious faith was invented by Rousseau. It has become so commonplace that its origins may easily go unappreciated by the contemporary reader unless he takes the trouble to compare Rousseau, for instance, with Descartes or Leibniz.

“Oh, madame!” Rousseau wrote to an aristocrat. “Sometimes in the solitude of my study, when I cover my eyes with my hands, or at night in the dark, I begin to feel as though God does not exist. But look there: the rising sun, as it disperses the mists that cover the earth and reveals the marvelous sparkling sights of nature, simultaneously dispels all the gloomy doubts of my soul. I regain my faith, my God, and my belief in him. I admire him, I bow before him, and I fall prostrate in his presence.”

Elsewhere he states, “I believe in God as strongly as I believe in any other truth, for believing and not believing are the last things in the world that depend on me.” This form of proof suffers from the flaw of being subjective; the fact that Rousseau cannot help but believe in something does not provide grounds for another person to believe in the same.

He was very expressive in his theism. Once, he threatened to leave a dinner because Saint Lambert (one of the guests) expressed doubt about the existence of God. “But, monsieur!” Rousseau exclaimed angrily, “I appeal to God!” Robespierre, in all respects his loyal disciple, followed him in this regard as well. Rousseau would wholeheartedly endorse the “Cult of the Supreme Being.”

“The Confession of the Savoyard Vicar,” which serves as an interlude to the fourth book of “Emile,” is the clearest and most structured presentation of Rousseau’s credo. Although it is presented as the voice of nature speaking to a virtuous priest suffering from the shame of a wholly “natural” guilt of seducing an unmarried woman, the reader is surprised to find that when the voice of nature begins to speak, it employs various arguments drawn from Aristotle, St. Augustine, Descartes, and others. True, their precision and logical form are obscured; this excuses them for their connection to the arguments of various philosophical systems and allows the esteemed vicar to assert that he cares nothing for the wisdom of philosophers.

The latter parts of “The Confession…” bear less resemblance to earlier thinkers than the earlier parts. After convincing himself of God’s existence, the vicar continues to consider rules of conduct. “I shall not derive these rules,” he says, “from the principles of high philosophy, but I find them inscribed by nature in the depths of my heart in indelible letters.” From this, he goes on to develop the view that consciousness, in all circumstances, is an infallible guide to right action. “By the grace of Heaven, we have finally freed ourselves from this horrifying mass of philosophy. We can be human beings without being learned. Having been spared the necessity of spending our lives studying morality, we have a more reliable guide in this infinite labyrinth of human opinions at lesser cost,” he concludes his reasoning. Our natural feelings, he asserts, lead us to serve the common good, while our reason urges us toward selfishness. We must, therefore, follow not reason but feeling in order to be virtuous.

Natural religion, as the vicar calls his doctrine, requires no revelation. If a person were to listen only to what God says to his heart, there would be only one religion in the world. If God revealed himself only to certain individuals, this could be known only through human verbal testimony, which is subject to error. Natural religion possesses the advantage of being revealed directly to each individual.

There is a curious passage regarding hell. The vicar does not know whether the wicked suffer eternal torments and speaks somewhat arrogantly that the fate of the wicked does not particularly concern him. Yet overall, he leans toward the idea that the sufferings of hell are not eternal. However, he is perhaps certain that salvation extends not only to members of any one church.

It seems that the rejection of revelation and hell was primarily what deeply unsettled the French government and the city council of Geneva.

The rejection of reason in favor of the heart was, in my opinion, not an achievement. Indeed, no one considered such a method of rejecting reason until reason stood on the side of religious faith. Rousseau and his followers, as Voltaire believed, pitted reason against religion; thus, reason was to be cast aside! Moreover, reason was vague and difficult: the savage, even when well-fed, could not grasp the ontological proof, and yet the savage is the repository of all necessary wisdom. Rousseau’s savage, who was not the savage known to anthropologists, was a good husband and a loving father; he was devoid of greed and possessed a religion of natural goodness. He was a convenient figure, but if he could follow the arguments of the good vicar and the belief in God, he would have to be a greater philosopher than could be expected from his rustic naïveté. Beyond the fictional character of Rousseau’s “natural man,” there are two objections to justifying beliefs, as an objective fact, based on the emotions of the heart. One objection is that there is no basis to assume that such beliefs will be true. The other is that the beliefs that arise will be personal, for the heart speaks different things to different people. Some savages are convinced by “natural light” that their duty is to eat people, and even the savages of Voltaire, whose voice of reason leads them to the conviction that they should eat only Jesuits, are not entirely satisfactory. To Buddhists, the light of nature does not reveal the existence of God but declares that it is wrong to eat the flesh of animals. Yet even if the heart speaks the same to all people, it cannot make the existence of something beyond our own emotions evident. However earnestly I or all humanity might desire something, no matter how essential it might be for human happiness, there is no basis to assume that such a thing exists. There is no law of nature guaranteeing that humanity must be happy. Everyone can see that this is true regarding our life here on earth, but a strange psychological peculiarity transforms our great sufferings in this life into an argument for a better life after death. We do not employ such reasoning in any other context. If you were to buy ten dozen eggs from someone, and the first dozen were all spoiled, you would not conclude from that that the remaining nine dozen possessed excellent qualities. However, reasoning that the “heart” will provide comfort for our sufferings in that world is of the same type.

From my perspective, I favor the ontological and cosmological proofs, along with the established arguments stemming from that sentimental illogicality that finds its roots in Rousseau. The older proofs were at least honest; if they are valid, they substantiate their claims, and if they are flawed, their fallibility can be critiqued. However, the new theology of the heart eschews proof; it cannot be dismissed, as it does not lay claim to substantiating its position. Ultimately, the sole basis for its acceptance lies in the fact that it allows us to indulge in pleasant reveries. This is not a respectable reason, and if I had to choose between Thomas Aquinas and Rousseau, I would choose Aquinas.

Rousseau's political theory is articulated in his "Social Contract," published in 1762. This work markedly differs in character from most of his writings, containing little sentimentality and significantly more logical reasoning. His doctrine, while ostensibly extolling democracy, inclines towards justifying a totalitarian state. Yet Geneva and antiquity conspired to lead him to favor the city-state over larger empires such as France and England. On the title page, he identifies himself as a citizen of Geneva, and in the introduction, he states: "No matter how weak the influence my voice may have on public affairs, for me, born a citizen of a free state and a member of a sovereign people, the very right to vote entails responsibilities to engage in these matters." There are frequent, enthusiastic references to Sparta, as depicted in Plutarch's "Life of Lycurgus." He asserts that democracy is the best form of governance in small states, aristocracy in medium-sized ones, and monarchy in large ones. This should be understood to mean that, in his view, small states are preferable, particularly because they render democracy more practicable. When he speaks of democracy, he refers to the direct participation of each citizen, as the Greeks understood it; he labels representative government as "elective aristocracy." Given that the former is unfeasible in a large state, his praise for democracy always implicitly champions the city-state. This love for the city-state, I believe, is insufficiently emphasized in most expositions of Rousseau's political philosophy.

Though the book overall is considerably less rhetorical than most of Rousseau's works, the first chapter opens with phrases laden with rhetoric: "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. Some consider themselves masters of others, yet they remain slaves to an even greater degree." Freedom is the nominal goal of Rousseau's thought, but in truth, the ultimate aim is equality, which he values and seeks to attain even at the expense of freedom.

His concept of the social contract may initially seem akin to Locke's, yet it soon reveals its proximity to Hobbes' ideas. In the development from the state of nature, a time arises when individuals can no longer exist in a state of primordial independence. At that juncture, their self-preservation necessitates unification to form a society. However, how can I surrender my freedom without compromising my own interests? "The challenge lies in discovering a form of association that would protect and safeguard, through collective strength, the person and property of each participant, whereby each, uniting with all, would obey only himself and remain as free as he was before." This encapsulates the fundamental issue that the social contract addresses.

The contract consists of "the complete alienation of each member, together with all his rights, in favor of the whole community. Since, firstly, as each gives himself entirely, the condition becomes identical for all; and as the condition is the same for everyone, none has an interest in making it burdensome for others." The alienation must be total: "For if individuals were to retain certain rights, in the absence of a higher authority to resolve disputes between them and society, each, being his own judge in some matters, would soon claim the right to judge in all others. Thus, the state of nature would continue to exist, and the association would inevitably become either tyrannical or futile."

This entails a complete annulment of freedom and a total repudiation of the doctrine of human rights. Admittedly, in the final chapter, this theory is somewhat tempered. It states that while the Social Contract grants the state absolute power over all its members, human beings nevertheless possess natural rights as individuals. "The sovereign cannot impose any restraints on the subjects if such restraints are of no utility to society; he cannot even desire it." It is clear that only a very weak barrier opposes collective tyranny.

It should be noted that for Rousseau, "supreme authority" does not denote a monarch or government but rather society in its collective legislative capacity.

The Social Contract can be summarized in the following terms: "Each of us relinquishes our power to the supreme guidance of the general will, and we collectively accept each member as an inseparable part of the whole." This act of association creates a moral and collective body, referred to as "the state" when it is passive, "the supreme authority" (or sovereign) when active, and "force" in relation to other similar bodies.

The concept of "the general will," articulated in the aforementioned phrases of the "Contract," plays a crucial role in Rousseau's system. I will briefly elaborate on it.

It is argued that the supreme authority need not provide any guarantees to its subjects, for since it is formed from the individuals constituting it, it cannot harbor interests contrary to their own.

"The sovereign is always what it ought to be, solely by virtue of its existence." This doctrine may mislead readers who overlook Rousseau's somewhat specific use of terminology. Supreme authority is not government, which may be tyrannical; rather, it is a more or less metaphysical entity, not fully embodied in any observable state organ. Its infallibility, therefore, even if conceded, lacks the practical consequences one might expect.

The will of the supreme authority, which is always right, is the "general will." Each citizen, as a citizen, participates in the general will, but he may also, as an individual, possess a personal will that conflicts with the general will. The Social Contract presupposes that anyone who refuses to comply with the general will must be compelled to do so. "This merely means that he is forcibly made to be free."

This concept of "being compelled to be free" is profoundly metaphysical. The general will in the time of Galileo was decidedly anti-Copernican. Was Galileo "compelled to be free" when the Inquisition forced him to recant? Is even a criminal "compelled to be free" when imprisoned?

Let us recall Byron's "Corsair":

Our free spirit soars on a free flight
Above the vastness of dark blue waters.

Would this man be more "free" in a subterranean prison? It is curious that Byron's noble pirates are a direct consequence of Rousseau's teachings, yet in the aforementioned quote, Rousseau abandons his romanticism and speaks like a police sophisticate. Hegel, who owes much to Rousseau, adopted his erroneous use of the term "freedom" and defined it as the right to submit to police authority or something akin to that.

Rousseau does not harbor the same deep respect for private property that characterizes Locke and his followers. "The state becomes the owner of all its members' possessions." He also does not believe in the separation of powers so ardently advocated by Locke and Montesquieu. However, in this regard, as in some others, his later detailed discussions do not fully align with his earlier general principles. In the first chapter of Book III, he states that the role of the supreme power is limited to the formulation of laws and that the executive branch, or government, serves as a mediating element between the subjects and the supreme power to ensure their mutual conformity. He continues: "If the sovereign wishes to govern or if the subjects refuse to obey, then disorder will ensue... and the state will thus fall into despotism or anarchy." In this statement, considering the differences in terminology, it seems he agrees with Montesquieu.

I now turn to the doctrine of the general will, which, on one hand, is significant, yet on the other, remains unclear. The general will is not identical to the will of the majority or even to the will of all citizens. It seems we must conceive of it as a will that belongs to the state as such. If we adopt Hobbes's view that civil society is a person, we must suppose it endowed with personal characteristics, including will. But then we face the challenge of determining the visible manifestations of this will, and here Rousseau leaves us in ignorance. We are told that the general will is always right and always seeks the common good. However, this does not imply that public discourse is likewise correct, as there often exists a significant difference between the will of all and the general will. In such a case, how can we know what the general will is? In the same chapter, there is a response of the following sort: "If at the time when a sufficiently conscious people makes a decision, the citizens have no relations with one another, then from the multitude of minor differences, the general will would always emerge, and the decision would always be correct."

This conception, in Rousseau's view, appears as follows: the political opinion of each person is determined by their self-interest, which consists of two parts—one specific to the individual, while the other is common to all members of society. If there is no possibility for citizens to engage in mutually beneficial exchanges with one another, which is always incidental, their individual interests, being divergent, will mutually annihilate each other, leaving a resultant interest that represents their collective interests. This resultant interest is the general will. Perhaps Rousseau's concept can be illustrated by the example of gravitational attraction. Each particle on Earth attracts every other particle in the universe. The air above us attracts us upwards, while the Earth beneath us pulls us downwards. Yet all these "selfish" attractions cancel each other out as they are divergent, and what remains is the resultant attraction directed towards the center of the Earth. This can metaphorically be seen as the action of the Earth, regarded as society, and as the expression of the general will.

To claim that the general will is always right is merely to state that, since it represents the common interests of various citizens, it must embody the greatest collective satisfaction of individual interests possible within society. This interpretation of the meaning that Rousseau ascribes to the concept of "general will" seemingly better aligns with his words than any other I can conceive.

According to Rousseau, in practice, the expression of the "general will" is hindered by the existence of subordinate associations within the state. Each of these will have its own general wills that may conflict with the will of society as a whole. "In such a case, one could say that the voters are no longer as numerous as the individuals, but only as numerous as the associations." This leads to an important consequence: "To obtain an expression of the general will, it is, therefore, crucial that there are no separate societies within the state, and that each citizen decides solely at their own discretion." In a footnote, Rousseau reinforces his view by appealing to the authority of Machiavelli.

Let us consider what such a system would lead to in practice. The state would need to prohibit churches, except for the state church, political parties, trade unions, and all other organizations of individuals with shared economic interests. The result, evidently, is a corporate or totalitarian state, wherein the individual citizen is rendered powerless. Rousseau seems to understand that it may prove difficult to ban all associations and adds, albeit belatedly, that if subordinate associations must exist, the more there are, the better, so that they might neutralize one another.

When, in the final part of the book, he turns to the consideration of government, he realizes that the executive power is inevitably an association, possessing its own interests and its own general will, which can easily come into conflict with the general will of society. He states that while the government of a large state must be stronger than that of a small one, there is also a greater necessity to limit government through the supreme power. A government member possesses three wills: their personal will, the will of the government, and the general will. These three wills should ideally form a crescendo, but in practice, they typically produce a diminuendo. "Everything tends to deprive both justice and reason from the individual trained to command others."

Thus, despite the infallibility of the general will, which is "always constant, unchanging, and pure," the old problems of law-evading tyranny remain. What Rousseau has to say on these matters is either a repetition of Montesquieu, which he consciously conceals, or a defense of the primacy of legislative power, which, if democratic, is identical to what he calls the supreme authority. The broad general principles from which he begins and which he portrays as if they resolve political issues vanish when he descends to specific questions, in relation to which they offer nothing of substance.

The condemnation of Rousseau's work by contemporary reactionaries leads readers to expect a far deeper revolutionary doctrine than it actually contains. We can illustrate this with respect to what he says about democracy. When Rousseau uses this term, he means, as we have seen, the direct democracy of the ancient city-state. Such democracy, he notes, can never be fully realized, as people cannot constantly gather and engage in public affairs. "If the people were made up of gods, they would be governed by democracy. Such a perfect government is not suitable for humans."

What we call democracy, he refers to as elective aristocracy. This, he asserts, is the best of all governments, but it is not appropriate for all nations. The climate must be neither too hot nor too cold. Production should not greatly exceed necessity, for where it does, the evils of luxury are inevitable, and it is better for that luxury to be confined to the monarch and his court than to be widespread among the people. Through these restrictions, a significant area remains for despotic government. Nevertheless, the defense of democracy, despite its limitations, was undoubtedly one of the elements that made the French government implacably hostile to his book; the second was, and this was fundamental, the rejection of the sacred right of kings, implied in his teaching on the social contract regarding the origin of government.

The "Social Contract" became the Bible of the majority of the leaders of the French Revolution, but, like the Bible, it was not thoroughly read, nor understood by many of its followers. It reintroduced a penchant for metaphysical abstractions among the theorists of democracy, and through its doctrine of the general will, a mystical identification of the leader with his people becomes possible, which does not require validation through such earthly means as the ballot box. Much of Rousseau's philosophy could be utilized by Hegel in his defense of the Prussian aristocracy. The fruits of this practice were reaped during the rule of Robespierre; the dictatorships in Russia and Germany (especially the latter) are the result of Rousseauist teachings. What other triumphs the future may offer this specter, I would not dare to predict.