The legitimate goals of political communities and the proper objectives of law have been themes of political philosophy since its inception. Philosophers' disagreements about the nature of political life and law have occasioned divergent accounts of the best or ideal government and have generated an even deeper controversy as to whether the best case should be the measure of political phenomena in the first place. For the purpose of analysis, three kinds of political theories can be distinguished. Characteristic of the first kind is the belief that people can attain a wide range of excellences and that the function of a political community is to foster in a direct manner the best or most complete form of human excellence, regardless of how rare the individuals who profit from this guidance. Accordingly, a central concern of “idealistic” or “utopian” political philosophy is elaborating the nature of the absolutely best political order and the conditions of its emergence. Among the central activities of governments so conceived are moral and intellectual education, as presented, for example, in the works of Plato and Aristotle. A second kind of political theory shares the belief in a multiplicity of hierarchically ranked human ends but denies that the highest possibility for human development should serve as the foremost principle determining political institutions and governing political decisionmaking.

Lonergan's cognitional theory, though generally unknown in the discipline, points the way toward a more concrete understanding of politics through its emphasis on the self-appropriation of our knowing. This article examines the invariant structure or method Lonergan finds in all practical or scientific knowing, the precepts that can be derived from the operations of the mind, the continuity between cognitive and moral self-transcendence, and the different horizons which may confine our knowing. It considers the biases which distort personal and political development, the need for cosmopolis, an informal community which helps to save practicality by transcending it, the methodological natural right which may be derived from norms inherent in our knowing, and the emergent probability of progress or decline set by the stock of insights or oversights operative in a society. It concludes that Lonergan's work makes a substantial contribution to the critical human science he seeks and that it could play a helpful role in unifying the discipline.

Leo Strauss's “political” interpretation of Maimonides′ doctrine of prophecy is well known, as is his claim that the Guide of the Perplexed has two fundamentally different teachings: a literal teaching, and a more radical philosophic teaching. This essay attempts to show that, in Strauss's view, Maimonides′ doctrine of the prophet as philosopher-statesman belongs to the former only, while according to the latter, prophecy (revelation) simply does not exist. It does so by showing that, in Strauss's view, Maimonides indicates that the preconditions he lays down for the existence of prophecy—in particular, the combination of intellectual perfection with extreme asceticism—cannot possibly be met. It attempts to explain, moreover, why in Strauss's view Maimonides denies the existence of prophecy: namely, because irrational moral opinions are an essential cause of all so-called prophecy.

Jean-Paul Sartre and Jon Elster have taken great interest in the famous “children's” fable, “The Fox and the Grapes.” Elster believes the fable pinpoints problems in utilitarian doctrine while Sartre contends it demonstrates how consciousness copes with frustrated desire. As impressive as these insights are, neither philosopher can fully explain the cognitive and cultural processes involved in sour grapes. To improve upon their theories, I will argue that amour-propre is an important psychological motive inspiring sour grapes as well as show that sour grapes is built into the value commitments and institutional structures of democratic life through Tocqueville's analysis of American democracy.

In March, 1939, less than two weeks after Hitler marched into Prague, betraying the desperate hope of Munich and crushing the forlorn Czech republic, Franco marched into Madrid, concluding the grim Civil War and extinguishing the last faint hope for the survival of the Spanish Republic. With war clouds gathering over Europe, it seemed only too clear that Nationalist Spain was little more than an Axis satellite, for as Hitler himself a year later observed, without German and Italian aid during the Civil War, “there would today be no Franco.” Yet there was far less gratitude in Spain than there might have been, had the Germans not so avidly sought economic and political returns on their investment in goods and manpower. By the end of the Civil War, German economic interests had penetrated Spain and Spanish Morocco as never before, thanks to a ruthless policy of exacting contractual concessions from the Nationalists as the price of continued support. Moreover, there had been bitter dissension between Hitler and Franco over the latter's declaration of neutrality during the Sudeten Crisis, and an acrimonious discussion over his reluctance to publicize Spain's accession to the Anti-Comintern Pact, which was only brought to an end when the matter was leaked to the press without Spanish approval.

In book VII of the Politics, Aristotle requires that the best regime be eusunoptos, “easily taken in at a glance.” Throughout the history of political thought, the attendant ideal of the polis as a compact and surveyable society was particularly influential. However, closer scrutiny of the way in which Aristotle uses eusunoptos suggests that it designates a problem rather than a solution, to wit, the problems of defining political unity and of attuning the individual and the common good. Exploring the different contexts in which eusunoptos occurs in Aristotle's works, this paper argues that it has political, rhetorical, and poetical meanings that cannot be entirely distinguished from each other. As such, the notion is shown to be germane to the general design of book VII, which constructs the best regime in order to bring to light the limits of politics.

Although I welcome the opportunity to discuss Alex Zakaras's fine essay, I fear that my response will disappoint him (and perhaps others as well). I find his arguments cogent and plausible, if not altogether persuasive, but many of them are directed against claims that I do not think I made. Two examples will suffice.

Despite common portrayals of Ahab as beyond the pale of common humanity, Melville offers much reason in Moby-Dick to regard Ahab as a reflection of ordinary American political life. Two of Ahab's most definitive characteristics—his isolation and his desire for domination—do not differentiate him from the other characters in the book but rather underscore how much he is like them. Among the Pequod's crew in particular, those traits are the rule rather than the exception, a fact that helps to explain why the crew members are so quick to adopt Ahab's way of thinking: in large measure, it is already their own. Along these lines, looking at Ahab as a representative American man makes it possible to better understand Melville's true anxieties about the prospects for democratic flourishing in the United States.

Most scholars agree that Frederick Douglass was a liberal—he was committed to individual rights, toleration, limited government, and self-reliance. Wilson Carey McWilliams deviated from this view by suggesting that Douglass's experience as a slave led him to appreciate human interdependence and reject liberalism in favor of fraternal communitarianism. In this essay, Douglass's response to the problem of slavery is examined in order to demonstrate that both the liberal and the fraternal readings are correct. Douglass's aims were undoubtedly liberal, but he thought these aims could only be realized in a community of individuals who felt strong obligations to one another. As a statesman, Douglass was confronted with the challenge of convincing free people that they ought to care about those who are enslaved. My aim here is to explore how he met that challenge and with what consequences for how we think about liberal statesmanship.

Kant is regarded as one of the staunchest advocates of retributive punishment in the modern tradition. This essay makes the case that a careful reexamination of Kant's account of punishment is necessary, especially in light of liberalism's characteristic inability to give the powerful moral appeal of retribution its due. Kant attempted to provide a clear analysis of what we mean when we say that morality demands that punishment be “proportional” to the crime. According to Kant, punishment's retributive aspect—as distinguished from its deterrent or restorative effects—is primarily concerned with redeeming (negative) moral worth. This paper attempts to unpack this claim by examining Kant's discussions of judicial punishment, the conscience, and divine punishment, respectively. It concludes that as a result of serious unresolved difficulties in his arguments for retribution, Kant manages only to deepen the question of the morality of retribution rather than to give it a decisive answer.

Although Castiglione's The Courtier was one of the most popular products of the Italian Renaissance, it has largely escaped the attention of modern political theorists. Many dismiss The Courtier as an apolitical work characterized by nostalgia and escapism, but it should not be so dismissed: on the contrary, Castiglione's book expresses a definite political program. This essay explores that program as a “politics of the second best”—as a pragmatic response to unfortunately diminished political opportunities. Put simply, given the choice between trying to make one's master a better person, on the one hand, and not having a master at all, on the other, surely one would not opt for the former unless the latter was not available. Reflection on this point informs the debate between proponents of “negative liberty” and those of “republican liberty.”

Carl Schmitt's constant denunciation of political compromises has received little attention. This omission is damaging in two ways. On the one hand, it misses a central aspect of Schmitt's political thought. On the other, it deprives those interested in discourses challenging the legitimacy of compromise in democracy of a valuable source. In this article, I systematize Schmitt's multifaceted grievances to compromises, especially as expressed in the 1920s and early 1930s. If the Weimar Constitution is fertile soil for observing and contesting compromises, the Third Reich constituted, for Schmitt, a paradigm reversal on this subject, as it managed to rid itself of pluralism and compromises. Schmitt has been portrayed as an authoritarian populist: the systematic reconstruction of his critique of compromise allows for a finer elaboration of the points of convergence and divergence between his democratic theory and populist views of democracy.

In several key passages in Thomas Hobbes's understudied translation of Thucydides's History of the Peloponnesian War, Hobbes's Pericles directs audiences to distrust rhetoric in favor of calculative self-interest, inward-focused affective states, and an epistemic reliance on sovereignty. Hobbes's own intervention via his translation of Thucydides involves similar rhetorical moves. By directing readers to learn from Thucydides, Hobbes conceals his own rhetorical appeals in favor of sovereignty while portraying rhetoric undermining sovereignty as manipulative, self-serving, and representative of the entire category of “rhetoric.” Hobbes's double redescription of rhetoric is an important starting point for an early modern project: appeals that justify a desired political order are characterized as “right reason,” “the law of nature,” or “enlightenment,” while rhetoric constituting solidarities or publics outside the desired order is condemned. Hobbes's contribution to this project theorizes rhetoric as a barrier to individual calculations of interest, placing a novel constraint on political life.