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Martha Nussbaum

Can governments cultivate love in their citizens?

Should liberal governments try to cultivate certain emotional states in their citizens? In Political Emotions: Why Love Matters for Justice, University of Chicago philosopher Martha C. Nussbaum argues that liberal political philosophers, from John Locke to John Rawls, have dangerously ignored ‘the political cultivation of emotion’, failing to explore how governments can encourage pro-social emotions like love, patriotism and tolerance, while curbing anti-social emotions like envy, shame and excessive fear.

There have been exceptions to this emotional illiteracy in liberal philosophers, says Nussbaum. Rousseau imagined a ‘civil religion’, which would fuse the people together in ecstatic worship of the state (his ideas bore fruit during the French Revolution in the bizarre Cult of Reason.) The social scientist Auguste Comte also developed his own eccentric ‘Positivist religion’ which he planned to impose on the citizenry in his ideal state.

But Nussbaum finds these solutions unsatisfactory. Any sort of imposed religion – theistic, civil or positivistic – is illiberal and probably doomed to failure. Following Rawls, Nussbaum believes the state should not impose any ‘comprehensive theory of the good’ onto its populace. Nonetheless, she thinks it proper for a liberal state to encourage certain pro-social emotions as a psychological foundation for political stability. Rational utilitarianism isn’t enough – we need a more full-blooded ‘enthusiastic liberalism’.

Nussbaum is not alone in this desire for a more emotional politics. There has been a revival in the last two decades of Aristotle’s contention that it is the proper role of the state to encourage eudaimonia, or flourishing, in the citizenry. One finds this idea in a spate of books and articles on the politics of happiness, well-being and virtue over the last 20 years, by the likes of Richard Layard, Geoff Mulgan, Jeffrey Sachs, Derek Bok, Robert and Ed Skidelsky and others.

The Cult of Reason during the French Revolution

There has also been a growing interest in ‘political theology’, or the role of religion (whether theist or atheist) as an important cultivator of political emotions, in thinkers as diverse as Ronald Dworkin, Roberto Unger, Alasdair MacIntyre, Maurice Glasman, Jonathan Haidt, John Gray and Simon Critchley. The philosopher Alain de Botton has even started his own ‘religion for atheists’, while Lord Layard has launched a grassroots movement called Action for Happiness. There is a growing sense that liberal societies need more than rational skepticism, that we either need to return to religion (see the current popularity of the Pope and Archbishop Welby among political reformers) or to find some secular alternative.

Let’s say we accept the proposition that liberal societies are failing to promote the proper emotions, and this is threatening their long-term survival (this is a big claim, and Nussbaum does not do enough to back it up). Let’s say we accept her list of ‘good’ emotions and ‘bad emotions’ (are shame and envy necessarily bad for the polis? Protagoras and Adam Smith might disagree). The question remains: how can governments promote emotions in their citizens, without becoming cultish and totalitarian? What policy levers are available to the budding political psychologist, keen to promote certain emotional states in the citizenry?

Nussbaum rightly recognizes that if politicians really want to reach into the souls of their citizens and stir their emotions, they need the arts and humanities: symbols, metaphor, gesture, rhetoric, poetry, music, dance, monuments, architecture, festivals, pageantry, all the cultural apparatus that the Church wielded so expertly before the Reformation and Enlightenment tore it down as so much superfluous bunting.

With her usual critical acuity, she provides close readings of various works of art – the patriotic poetry of Whitman, the songs and dances of Rabindranath Tagore, Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro – to show how deftly they cultivate pro-social emotions in the audience while never becoming fanatical. However, none of these works of art were ‘ordered’ by politicians. They arose spontaneously from the genius of their authors. Artistic genius is unpredictable, the muses tend to resist clumsy advances by politicians. So how can policy-makers directly work with the arts to try and cultivate political emotions? Don’t they have to leave artists alone to experiment?

Politicians can at least recognise that the arts play an important role – not just in earning money for the ‘creative economy’, but more profoundly in making us who we are, in shaping our emotions and national identity. Politicians can create conditions in which artistic talent is more likely to arise, and help to educate a populace to a level where it’s capable of responding to great art.

They can do this by encouraging the teaching of arts and humanities in schools and adult education, and by supporting artistic institutions and allowing them to take risks. Nussbaum looks to John Stuart Mill’s inaugural address to the University of St Andrews, in 1867, in which Mill highlights the importance of ‘aesthetic education’ in schools and universities as the foundation for a sympathetic, liberal ‘religion of humanity’. Nussbaum would also include dance classes in her ideal education, as they were in the Tagore school where her friend Amartya Sen grew up. I completely agree – Plato argued that dance has a central role in our emotional education, and it’s sad that schools give so little space to dance (or indeed, to sport).

A second policy tool available to the budding political psychologist is rhetoric. Nussbaum analyses the speeches of Martin Luther King, Churchill, Lincoln and Franklin D. Roosevelt to show how cleverly they cultivated the political emotions appropriate to the crises their countries faced. Today, by contrast, politicians speak in tweet-like soundbites. There’s a lot to be said for trying to raise the bar of political rhetoric in our time, although the presidency of Barack Obama show that rhetorical prowess is no guarantee of successful government.

A third policy lever available to the political psychologist is urban planning (as another new book, Happy City, explores). Nussbaum provides clever readings of emotionally literate public spaces, such as Chicago’s Millennium Park and the Lincoln Memorial. However, the rising cost of living space (in London, particularly) arguably has a much bigger impact on people’s well-being than any park or monument.

Despite these examples, my abiding impression of Nussbaum’s book is of the disconnect between academic philosophy and the emotional lives of ordinary people, even with an unusually ‘public’ philosopher like Nussbaum. Her close readings of the Marriage of Figaro or the tragedies of Sophocles are interesting, but alas our citizenry is not as culturally sophisticated as the citizenry of fifth century Athens (we don’t have the luxury of a large slave population to support our leisure), and while there is a mass audience for high culture, it is still a minority. Today, the main aesthetic cultivators of the public’s emotions are pop music, cinema and television. Yet these are strangely absent from Nussbaum’s cultural analysis (she doesn’t listen to pop and probably doesn’t watch television).

Robbie Williams performing at the Diamond Jubilee concert

Some philosophers have considered the cultural and emotional impact of pop culture – Roger Scruton in Modern Culture (2007), Carson Colloway in All Shook Up: Music, Passion and Politics (2001), Allan Bloom in his 1987 book, The Closing of the American Mind. But these philosophers cast the most cursory of glances at pop culture before dismissing it with a Platonic sneer as barbaric and infantile. This is a pity. The two most successful recent examples of art shaping our political emotions in this country were the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Concert in 2012 and the Olympic Opening Ceremony the same year. In both of them, pop music played a key role. For good or ill, TV has also profoundly shaped our national psyche, far more than any opera or monument.

Another strange absence from her book is any discussion of psychotherapy and psychiatry – two policy levers by which governments can influence their citizens’ emotions. Aldous Huxley imagined a state where the citizens were pacified through soma. Today, the NHS spends $2 billion annually on mood-altering chemicals, including 50 million prescriptions for anti-depressants. The government has also spent over half a billion pounds on talking therapy, particularly Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, to try and reduce levels of depression and anxiety disorders in the population. CBT, as I’ve explored, was directly inspired by the Hellenistic philosophies that Nussbaum has done so much to revive, and is a way for many ordinary people to discover ancient philosophy.

Oddly, Nussbaum has never discussed CBT in her books, and has been very dismissive of Positive Psychology. She has made valid criticisms of Positive Psychology – it’s overly fixated on optimism, and can be illiberal and dogmatic when politicians try to impose it on their citizens without their consent. And yet for all their flaws, CBT and Positive Psychology have brought the ideas of Socratic philosophy to millions of people, which is more than can be said for any academic philosopher.

Nussbaum neglects to consider at any length the importance of religions to political emotions (again, for good and ill). She is rightly wary of governments imposing any particular religion onto its citizenry. Yet policy makers can still try to work with faith groups, as say the anti-slavery campaign and the Jubilee debt campaign did so successfully. As Jonathan Haidt has explored, if you really want to generate ‘enthusiasm’ in the populace, you will probably need to tap into areas of the mind usually reached by religion. It’s notable how many of the figures she celebrates are, in one way or another, religious: Whitman, Tagore, Gandhi, Luther King. We are moved by the sacred, which is a tricky thing for a secular liberal philosopher like Nussbaum.

Political Emotions is an important contribution to an already impressive body of work. Nussbaum has transformed modern philosophy, helping to re-connect it to the emotions, to psychology, to the arts, and to public policy. She has been a defining influence in the rise of the Neo-Aristotelian idea that philosophy, including political philosophy, can and should transform our emotions.

And yet Political Emotions is curiously unemotional, dense, and unlikely to get the pulse racing. It opens the way for ‘further research’ (that phrase beloved of academics) and for no doubt interesting papers, seminars, conferences and books by other academics on the political emotions. But can philosophers not merely discuss the public emotions, but actually affect them? Maybe so – but to do so, they will need to venture further beyond the safety of the Ivory Tower and into politics and popular culture.

Chief Rabbi Sacks is too harsh on Greek philosophy

It’s gratifying and heartening when the Chief Rabbi of your country writes a column responding to your book, and says some kind things about it – so thanks are in order to Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks for using my book as a springboard for his discussion in The Times on the deficiencies of Stoicism as a philosophy for life.

Nevertheless, I feel that Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks mischaracterises Stoicism and Hellenistic philosophy, and seeing as my book is designed to attract people to Hellenistic philosophy, rather than put them off it, permit me to say a few words in its defence.

Firstly, Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks conflates all the philosophies of the Socratic Tradition into one philosophy, and then sets it in opposition to the benevolent theism of Judeo-Christianity. He draws a sharp dividing line between Athens and Jerusalem, which is a surprising move from the author of How to avoid the clash of civilisation.  

Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks suggests that all the philosophies of the Socratic Tradition (as I call it in my book) agree that there “is no transcendent purpose to human existence”. In fact, they don’t agree.

Certainly, Epicureanism believes “there is no transcendent purpose to existence” and that the universe is “fundamentally indifferent” to us. But that’s not true at all of Stoicism, Platonism or Aristotelianism – all of which are theistic and have a teleological view of the universe.

The Stoics, for example, believe we are connected to the Logos, the divine intelligence pervading the cosmos, which orders the universe according to its benevolent plan. Stoics believe we are on Earth to develop our consciousness and reason and bring them into harmony with the Logos. As the Stoic philosopher Epictetus put it, “God has introduced man to be a spectator of his works, and not just a spectator, but an interpreter.”

Aristotle, likewise, thought the transcendent purpose of human existence was to develop our consciousness in order to know both the cosmos and God. And Plato had his own cosmic teleology of love. The father of all these movements, Socrates, also appeared to believe in God, and to think it his own personal mission from God to teach us to ‘take care of our souls’.

Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks then makes an old criticism of Stoicism (it’s also made by Sir Isaiah Berlin and Bertrand Russell), that it’s too pessimistic and introverted, the product of a particularly chaotic historical period, ie the 3rd century BC, when Athens was conquered by various marauding empires. He says ‘contemporary writers fail to remind us’ of this fact, which is not true – I do discuss the original historical context for Stoicism in chapter two of my book (page 28).

I agree with Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks that Stoicism may perhaps be too politically pessimistic and individualistic, which is why I only spent the first quarter of my book on the Stoics, before moving to other philosophies like Aristotelianism, which is more politically optimistic. Nonetheless, I think it’s unfair to call Stoicism introverted, withdrawn, ‘risk-averse’, or the product of cultural decline. It flourished in Rome in the first century BC and the first century AD, hardly periods of cultural decline. And it included among its ranks some of the most active and engaged politicians of the era – Cato the Younger, Cicero, Seneca – all of whom gave their lives for their country. Risk averse? Hardly.

Yes, Stoicism is an excellent philosophy for coping with crisis and chaos, which is why it is so popular with active soldiers today (including Israeli soldiers). It may not be the perfect philosophy for stabler and more comfortable periods of our life. Stoicism helped me a great deal in a very difficult period of my life, but I subsequently felt more drawn to other philosophies of the Socratic Tradition. But I can still recognise the great therapeutic value of the Socratic Tradition in general, and Stoicism in particular. So, I might add, can many Jewish scholars, from Philo of Alexandria all the way to Martha Nussbaum and Ronald Pies today.

The great value of the Socratic tradition, it seems to me, is that it rescued humanity from the tyranny of priests and taught us how to take care of ourselves. Before Socrates, if people were unhappy, they felt it necessary to bend their knee both to the gods and to their representatives on earth, the priests, to beg for forgiveness and mercy (usually through some sort of expensive material sacrifice, perhaps even the sacrifice of a member of your family).This tradition continues today, via psychoanalysis.

After Socrates and the Athenian Enlightenment of the 5th century BC, humanity learnt, in the words of Montaigne, ‘how much it can do of itself’. In psychotherapeutic terms, we learnt that our emotional problems are often self-caused, that they arise from our beliefs and attitudes, which we have the power to change. We can learn to ‘take care of our souls’ as Socrates put it (from whom the word ‘psychotherapy’ originates) and be ‘doctors to ourselves’ (in Cicero’s phrase). This is the Do-It-Yourself essence of both Socratic and Stoic therapy. We don’t need to kneel to the priests and beg for their benediction. Based on the priests I have met in my life, this strikes me as excellent news (although I have yet to meet Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks).

The Stoic / Socratic insight that we can to some extent heal ourselves of emotional suffering has since been tested out by modern empirical science, and has become the cornerstone of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which has helped thousands, if not millions, of people to overcome emotional disorders. (I should add that CBT was pioneered by two psychotherapists of Jewish descent – Albert Ellis and Aaron Beck – so the cross-fertilisation between Athens and Jerusalem is still yielding fruit). CBT has saved thousands of people from deep emotional suffering, including atheists, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists. I personally think that Socrates and the Stoics deserve some credit for that, even if we don’t accept the Stoic goal of complete detachment from externals.

As for the advantages and disadvantages of believing in a ‘God with a human face’, well, the Chief Rabbi takes the discussion to theological levels well beyond my pay grade. I personally believe in God, and in a transcendent purpose to human existence, although I don’t believe in a personal afterlife or a personal God. The cosmos, alas, seems to me rather indifferent to the suffering of individual lives, although I cling to the hope that there is a benevolent general thrust to evolution.

What I like about the Socratic Tradition is it offers wisdom for both theists and atheists. It is a meeting place both for believers and unbelievers. In that sense, it seems to me a uniquely useful resource for those who want to avoid clashes of civilisation.