Abstract
Leo Strauss ends his Socrates and Aristophanes with a pregnant assertion: the best account of the Socratic turn is offered by al-Razi in his The Philosophical Way of Life. Al-Razi’s account thus provides two invaluable opportunities: to gain some insight into Strauss’s unique understanding of Socrates, and the chance to examine the problem of Socrates from a nontraditional vantage point. Taking advantage of these opportunities reveals an oft-overlooked moment in the history of political philosophy: Socrates’s discovery of the regime. This essay examines al-Razi’s account while also casting a new light on Strauss’s own scholarship.
By his own admission, Leo Strauss’s focus in his book Socrates and Aristophanes is the profound change Socrates underwent as his fervent interests in nature, so aptly caricatured in Aristophanes’s Clouds, shift profoundly to questions of the good, the just, and the noble for which he is immortally known. 1 For those willing to grant even the slightest credence to Aristophanes’s portrait, Strauss’s focus is indeed important: were there reasons theoretical rather than idiosyncratic that led the once passionate student of nature to concern himself in an equally passionate way with political life? 2 Certainly the status of moral and political matters is at issue in Socrates’s turn, to say nothing of the distinction itself between nature and convention.
Political theorists especially would do well to consider Socrates’s turn as does Strauss, for implied therein is a question central to the history of political thought: what is political philosophy? 3 Following Strauss’s approach in this matter is not altogether easy, however. Despite his focus on Socrates, the theme of Socrates and Aristophanes is poetry’s quarrel with philosophy, and Strauss’s method is to interpret comprehensively Aristophanes’s extant corpus. In one sense, Strauss’s approach is understandable; Aristophanes’s poetry—especially his Clouds—provides the earliest evidence of the manner in which Socrates lived before his turn to political philosophy. But in another sense, Strauss’s approach seems odd; of Aristophanes’s eleven surviving plays, only in Clouds does Socrates figure prominently, and that prominence is negative, that is, his philosophizing is the subject of a caricature. By turning to Aristophanes’s corpus as a whole, Strauss makes poetry rather than philosophy his concern as such. To that end, Strauss seems intent on taking seriously poetry’s claim to wisdom. 4
Regardless of whatever else it may mean, Strauss’s approach requires thinking poetically about philosophy as the condition for understanding political philosophy. It may also imply that, whatever their deeper disagreements, poetry and political philosophy agree in this fundamental respect: both are of a mind as to the character of “pre”-Socratic philosophy. Strauss gives some indication that this is in fact his view; he ends Socrates and Aristophanes with an unremarkable though pregnant assertion: the best account of Socrates’s turn to political philosophy, and presumably the one he bases his interpretation upon, is offered by the ninth-century Persian philosopher al-Razi in his The Philosophical Way of Life. 5 As did Aristophanes, al-Razi shows the “early” Socrates to be an ascetic student of nature; the mature Socrates, according to al-Razi, was a good citizen if not a gentleman (p. 228). 6 Whereas philosophy disregards political life, poetry and political philosophy regard it with the utmost importance; whereas philosophy attends to the question of nature, poetry and political philosophy are attentive to the nature of politics. Strauss’s reference to al-Razi in his interpretation of Aristophanes thus suggests this important aspect of political philosophy: political life was originally hidden from philosophy and therefore had to be discovered in its quest for nature.
The key to Strauss’s understanding of political philosophy is then his understanding of Aristophanes, which itself relies on his understanding of al-Razi’s Socrates. Lest this circularity be mistaken for a mere game, Strauss’s approach emphasizes the notion of hiding or being hidden as the fundamental discovery associated with the Socratic turn. To state Strauss’s conclusion rather succinctly, it is the politeia—the regime—that hides itself, and thus whose nature must be discovered. As guarded and laborious as it might otherwise appear, Strauss’s approach reflects his understanding of the Socratic turn as a discovery; hiding his own discovery of the regime allows Strauss to imitate the conditions that originally hid political philosophy as a possibility from Socrates. Taking seriously al-Razi’s account thus provides us with two unique opportunities: to gain some insight into Strauss’s curious understanding of the Socratic turn, and hence his rather controversial approach to political philosophy, as well as the chance to see the problem of Socrates from a nontraditional vantage point, thereby providing a new and otherwise unexplored method of interpretation. 7
The Mistaken Assumption of Pre-Socratic Philosophy
To be sure, the emphasis Strauss places on al-Razi’s account of the Socratic turn seems a bit odd. After all, Strauss’s mention of the Persian physician-philosopher in the last line of Socrates and Aristophanes is only one of two references in all of his oeuvre. 8 Moreover, the importance Strauss attached to al-Razi’s account is in contrast to the philosophical standing accorded al-Razi by classical Muslim and Jewish thinkers. 9 For instance, al-Kirmani, a tenth-century Persian theologian, said of al-Razi that “he is a proud reporter who relates from others what he does not himself know.” 10 This sentiment was later echoed by Maimonides—an author with whom Strauss had more than a passing acquaintance—who said of al-Razi’s work that it “is of no value because its author is nothing but a physician, that is, he is qualified to speak about that subject and no other.” 11 The consensus that comes down to us regarding al-Razi’s philosophical importance is then opposed to the importance Strauss assigns to him, which suggests Strauss must have found something that was either hidden from al-Razi’s critics or that was incorporated by these critics in their very conclusions. 12
However that may be, al-Razi’s philosophical acumen can be judged on its own terms by the account he gives of Socrates, who al-Razi credits as his own imam (p. 227). 13 This account, which includes a discussion of the Socratic turn, is itself part of a greater apology to al-Razi’s own critics, those who, as he says, have “criticized us and found fault with us claiming that we were turning away from the life of philosophers, especially the life led by our leader, Socrates” (p. 227). His apology has three parts, the first and third of which confront the accusations against him directly, while the second is a digression on the benefits of philosophy, presumably linking one and three together into a coherent whole by way of a discussion of the good. Indeed, that the Socratic turn forms the basis of his reply to his critics suggests that al-Razi’s account will be an important part of how he will make his own defense, as well as why he will write about the turn as he does.
Al-Razi’s learned appropriation of Socratic wisdom is on display from the beginning as he recounts what is at issue in his case. He and his followers have been criticized for not being true to the way of life lived by their model, Socrates; they live a life of gentlemanly leisure that engages with the world, whereas Socrates, according to these critics,
did not call upon kings but made light of them when they called upon him, did not eat pleasant food, did not wear fine clothing, did not build, did not acquire, did not beget, did not eat flesh, did not drink wine, and did not attend festivities. Instead, he confined himself to eating vegetables, wrapping himself in a ragged garment, and lodging in a cask in the desert. Moreover, he did not practice dissimulation either with the common people or with those in authority. Instead, he confronted them with what was truth according to him in the most explicit and clear utterances. (p. 227)
14
Al-Razi’s critics accuse him and his disciples of being hypocrites; their speech does not meet their deeds, especially as they fail to follow the life lived by Socrates. Yet, those same critics, according to al-Razi, also fault Socrates for his own deeds, suggesting that his life “goes against the course of nature and provision for cultivation and begetting and leads to the ruination of the world and the perdition of people and their destruction” (p. 227). The life Socrates led was in fact an unnatural one, which means that al-Razi and his disciples live naturally if not well by following Socrates’s speeches and not deeds. The critics’ incongruent accusations against al-Razi amount to an indictment that he and his followers live and act in bad faith; they say one thing while doing another, or put another way, they live ironically.
Al-Razi notes that his accusers draw attention to Socrates’s frank and blunt language, suggesting through their own subtleties that al-Razi and his followers are known for their practice of dissimulation. When al-Razi answers the charges relating to Socrates’s unnatural asceticism by pointing out the important differences that characterize Socrates before and after his famous turn, however, he fails to list Socrates’s manner of speech as having undergone any change (p. 228). Either Socrates remained frank and blunt his entire life or the change he underwent also entailed a different manner of speaking, where what he said differed from what he meant. For al-Razi to admit, albeit subtly, this latter possibility amounts to speaking ironically about frankness, which itself confirms his accusers’ charge that he dissimulates. This practice of dissimulation, then, is an essential part of the Socratic turn, a practice al-Razi himself evinces from the very beginning. 15
But what of Socrates’s turn in particular? True, al-Razi acknowledges that many of the things said of Socrates were accurate, at least insofar as that characterization extends only to the “early” part of Socrates’s life. 16 So passionate was Socrates for philosophy that “he was the way he was at the very outset because of his great amazement over philosophy, his love for it, his desire to devote to it the time otherwise dedicated to passions and pleasures” (p. 228). Among the normal passions and pleasures Socrates disregarded were those associated with good food and drink, fine garments and housing, sexuality, wealth, and the respect and esteem of others. Socrates’s great passion for philosophy was so intense that those things without which most men would think a good life impossible were for the philosopher matters of contempt: “his nature being inclined to it (philosophy) rather than to that, and his making light of and looking down on those who did not view philosophy in the way it deserves and who preferred what was baser than it” (p. 228). 17 Scornful of those who could not or would not share his passion for philosophy, Socrates disavowed the ways of everyday life, thereby obtaining in the process the stigma of asceticism. Nevertheless, according to al-Razi, Socrates’s passion gave way with time, tempering itself such that once “he penetrates them deeply and the matters become firmly settled in him, the excessiveness about them declines and he returns to moderation” (p. 228).
Al-Razi’s own defense against his critics amounts to a nuanced defense of Socrates, suggesting that their accusations miss the mark by willfully misrepresenting the most important part of Socrates’s life. In fact, by drawing attention to the manner of his early life, al-Razi’s critics intentionally misconstrue Socrates’s later life, the one al-Razi and his disciples in fact model themselves after; “they ignore other things and refrain from mentioning them so intent are they on forcing a proof against us” (p. 227–28). After his profound reorientation of temperament and hence disposition, Socrates engaged in the things of the world, dying having left daughters, having fought for his city, and having enjoyed refinements and entertainment (p. 228). In this way, Socrates after the turn was something of a gentleman, someone who, because of his new-found appreciation for the finer things in human life, became a model of emulation for mankind. 18
Al-Razi’s description of the Socratic turn suggests that it was a simple matter of age and thus natural maturation. That is to say, at some point, Socrates grew up, leaving behind his wild though ultimately futile boyhood passion in lieu of the more responsible life of the gentleman. Al-Razi’s description of Socrates’s turn is not unlike the way Cephalus recounts the poet Sophocles’s own experience of eros in Plato’s Republic—as a mad beast whose burdens, once lifted, usher in a welcome reprieve. Philosophy is the sport of young men, to be engaged in vigorously in one’s youth, though unbecoming of a man of some age. 19 The lacuna of al-Razi’s argument here is clear, however; it is in defense of his own philosophizing that al-Razi drew attention to the Socratic turn, that is, to that event, so construed, that would seemingly discredit al-Razi’s defense. Al-Razi suggests that the issue is a matter of “quantity, not quality,” although even that claim is made problematic when, in the next paragraph, he suggests that “it is not necessary that not to be like that is to be mired in the passions” (p. 228). Although al-Razi obscures his wording, the meaning is clear enough: Socrates could still gratify his passion for philosophy while engaged with his fellow citizens. 20 Socrates’s turn was not then idiosyncratic; the birth of political philosophy was occasioned not by a diminution of passion but instead by a continuity if not intensification of Socrates’s desire to know. Yet, that means the importance of politics was originally hidden from Socrates, and that because the nature of political life was hidden from Socrates. The discovery of political philosophy—the crux of the Socratic turn—amounted to an insight into the nature of things. 21
But what could have hidden nature from one so desirous to know? Al-Razi’s curious description of Socrates’s life before and after the turn provides a clue, for if after the turn Socrates became not simply a dutiful citizen, but in fact a gentleman, then before the turn he must have had little or no appreciation for politics, to say nothing of gentlemanly ways. Al-Razi implicitly denies Socrates’s turn consisted in a similar experience to that of Sophocles; rather, the Socrates with whom we are familiar underwent his profound reorientation when his own questioning turned inward, that is, when the object being penetrated deeply was his own self-understanding. 22 And if Socrates’s lesson is itself decisively represented in the manner of al-Razi’s account, then that lesson has the character of a double story—one conventional in nature while the other presumably more controversial. Socrates’s turn to political philosophy implies the practice of dissimulation in a paradigmatic way. 23 Whereas the early Socrates scorned political life, the later Socrates must have learned something fundamental about politics, especially as it concerned his philosophizing. And if the early and later Socrates differ not with regard to their erotic intensity but rather the depth of their introspection, then Socrates’s philosophizing must have led him to question how he interacted, or in this instance did not interact, with others.
What failed to interest Socrates before becomes, after the turn, the key to his philosophizing. The early Socrates, according to al-Razi’s depiction, could disregard political life only by first deeming it superfluous; for Socrates, politics obscures important matters, acting as an obstacle to wisdom. Socrates’s early philosophizing shunned political life for the sake of a “bird’s-eye view” from whence to gaze at things in an unobstructed way. In fact, if the clarity of the view is a function of the viewer’s respective distance, then Socrates’s inhuman asceticism is attributable to his passion for philosophizing. As al-Razi’s own opponents were quick to point out, however, Socrates’s inhuman asceticism was not only supremely indifferent to its own bodily maintenance, but in principle also unnatural. Al-Razi’s agreement with his critics on this point is instructive; Socrates’s early philosophizing was in fact comic, at least in the sense that his lack of self-understanding was a natural subject for comedy. 24 Al-Razi follows Socrates’s lead in rejecting this original “idea” of philosophy not simply as a matter of prudence, but rather as critical matter of self-reflective scrutiny, one whose inner-core begs for explication. 25
If Socrates’s “early” manner of philosophizing was unnatural, according to al-Razi, then his later approach must have been in accordance with nature. Yet Socrates’s later approach embraced convention, which is conventional only in light of nature. The Socratic turn, in other words, consisted in a wholly new understanding of political life; politics is neither superfluous nor an obstacle to wisdom. Instead, it is a serious or important matter, and that because it is philosophically indispensable. This means, of course, that the way Socrates understood nature also changed; Socrates’s turn to political philosophy assumes that the distinction between nature and convention presupposed by pre-Socratic thought had become questionable. To be sure, raising such a question implies the distinction is itself problematic or, better yet, that it points toward a more fundamental problem. 26 Given how drastically the early and later Socrates differ in his account, al-Razi suggests that the problem implicit in pre-Socratic thought was its original goal: nature.
To draw a philosophical distinction between nature and convention assumes there are two classes of phenomena that are not only distinguishable but also in tension with one another. Conventional things are those that owe their origin to human activity or are the product of human design; natural things, in contrast, are those for which human beings are not the cause and hence come to be through a process guided by something other than human forethought. 27 This distinction between nature and convention also entails the process of discovery, and therefore the act of hiding as well. Nature must be sought out and found because it is hidden, which means there is something dangerous about exposing nature. 28 Obviously, it is convention that hides nature; convention hides nature because nature is a threat to convention, especially to the way convention understands itself. Conventions do not wish to understand themselves as conventional; convention wishes to be important, whereas nature shows it to be superfluous. The early Socrates disregarded those things having human origins as the necessary condition of philosophizing about important things, that is, about nature. Not surprisingly, al-Razi points toward the radical aspects of Socrates’s early philosophizing while distancing himself from those aspects.
According to al-Razi’s account of the later Socrates, however, the sufficient condition of philosophy required rethinking that disregard. 29 The very idea of convention presupposes some notion of nature, for it assumes a more fundamental commonality among every community, political or otherwise. What is most important about any community is not what makes it distinctive, but rather what it shares in likeness with every other community. Convention is then the natural genus of which politics is but a species. And if every convention is natural because convention as such is natural, then everything is natural. But if everything is natural, then nothing is natural; if all conventions have a nature, then all natural things are in fact conventions, or can be the product of human design. 30 Socrates came to see that there was a theoretical impasse with regard to pre-Socratic philosophy, one that threatened the very idea of nature itself. For that reason, the starting point of pre-Socratic philosophy ultimately posed a threat to itself, that is, to the possibility of philosophy as such.
To reiterate, al-Razi indicates that at some point in his life, Socrates recognized the original distinction between nature and convention he had assumed was fundamentally untenable. Perhaps more importantly, Socrates was forced to reconsider both nature and convention in such a way that the possibility of each was preserved. Socrates came to see that there were meaningful distinctions to be drawn within convention and that the cause of these distinctions was not convention itself, but rather nature. 31 For that reason, politics can be thought to reveal nature, which means politics shows differences that are essential rather than accidental, or important rather than superfluous. 32 There are different types of political communities, and the differences between them are not intelligible on the basis of what they have in common. More specifically, politics reveals differences that are essential to men; only in political life can different types of men be who they truly are, and thus only through political life is the nature of man fully disclosed. 33
The intelligible differences that constitute the nature of things are revealed in and through political life, rather than in opposition to it; the later Socrates, according to al-Razi, took an interest in politics not in spite of but because of his desire for wisdom. This does not mean, of course, that every political community, by virtue of its status within the nature of things, is already an instance of natural law, of laws that are by nature. It is not the particular laws of any political community that have a natural character and hence are of interest to philosophy. Instead, it is the distinctiveness of each political community that reveals the manifold diversity of nature as such. Put another way, the existence of different political communities reveals that there are different claims to rule, and in each city the claim that rules does so because it is authoritative, that is, dispositive. 34 The origin of political philosophy lies in this discovery of the irreducible claims to rule characteristic of political life. But how did Socrates become aware of this fundamental lacuna in his own thinking, and what were the reasons for that lacuna?
With regard to these questions, al-Razi provides only hints and intimations of what brought Socrates to question his own original stance toward politics. 35 For instance, al-Razi presents Socrates as largely indifferent to political life before the turn, which suggests the philosopher had to learn something crucial about politics before understanding philosophy’s relationship to politics. Yet, al-Razi is at pains to make clear that Socrates’s indifference is not quite complete; although himself unmolested as an ascetic, Socrates was nevertheless contemptuousness of those who did not practice asceticism (p. 228). By emphasizing the early Socrates’s blunt frankness, al-Razi demonstrates how everyday interactions are ruled by forms of discourse not quite so open and honest. This does not suffice, however, to determine why Socrates would be contemptuous of those who do not philosophize; why, after all, would someone moved purely by the desire to know nature care about the ways of those who do not?
By drawing attention to these early dispositions, al-Razi suggests that the early Socrates thought whatever differences existed between himself and nonphilosophers were the effect of convention rather than nature. For that reason, those differences are not essential, but accidental. In being accidental, and thereby also unimportant, they are subject to change, change that could be guided by philosophical forethought. How so? The rationale seems to be something like the following: to possess knowledge not simply of some things, nor even of all things, but of nature as a whole is to know that nature is either the best simply or may be perfected by virtue of being made the best, that is, by virtue of being completed by knowledge of nature. 36 Nature as a whole, and hence all of its many parts, are such as to be, in the final instance, good, and thus the knowledge of nature possessed by the one dedicated to acquiring such knowledge is ipso facto good. Socrates’s blunt and contemptuous manner, especially with regard to kings and those in authority, suggests at the same time both his belief in the ultimate superiority of philosophy and his dissatisfaction at its hitherto political impotence. Al-Razi depicts the early Socrates as one who despises the rule of nonphilosophers and thus who thinks the best possible world is one in which only the wise rule. 37
Socrates’s decision to discontinue his sternly ascetic life in lieu of a more gentlemanly one meant that his theoretical orientation was met with some decisive counterfactual—something that forced Socrates to reconsider the ultimate superiority of wisdom, especially in relation to political life. 38 Whatever this was revealed its recalcitrance to reason, and therefore was not open to being “corrected.” Given al-Razi’s comically droll depiction, one can already surmise that it was Socrates’s fellow citizens who themselves were recalcitrant to his philosophizing. If Socratic philosophy implied the knowledge of what it is for all things to be at their best, then the city not in possession of such knowledge—the city not ruled by such knowledge—is by definition lacking and in need of this divine art, which of necessity is also the political art par excellence. Put another way, either Socrates alone was fully a human being, or all human beings need take heed in being more than merely human.
The recalcitrance that showed itself over and against this divine philosophizing, however, was precisely the city that was not open to this philosophy, and hence not capable of receiving its divine commandments. 39 Rather than wishing to be ruled by philosophers, political life saw itself as already possessing some measure of wisdom; politics assumes its own importance, which means it denies the need to be something other than itself. Socrates’s philosophizing was thrown back on itself when it was forced to deal with a phenomenon that disproved the rule—that argued for the supremacy of one’s own rather than the good. And if not open to philosophy, then political life disproves the very rule, most fundamentally the final superiority of philosophy. 40 The Socratic turn thus consisted in what every scholar has always known to be true—that Socrates reoriented his focus toward the concerns of political life. But the reason for that turn, otherwise generally overlooked or held to be idiosyncratic, is the rejection of the ultimate supremacy of philosophy in the world of politics. Socrates did become the philosopher of eros par excellence, but only because he came to know the limits of eros by coming to understand the nature of eros. Socrates discovered eros as it is only when he discovered its essential opposite—thumos. 41
Al-Razi’s entire account of the Socratic turn, which is couched within his own defense against his apparently important though ignorant critics, begins to fall into place once it is followed to its theoretical core. If political life differs from philosophy in that it does not yearn for knowledge, or if it cannot be made to see the true object of its yearnings, then the possibility of the wise ruling becomes a matter of chance, to say nothing of luck. That is, philosophers are unlikely to become kings, and kings are even less likely to philosophize. 42 Moreover, the exceedingly unlikely occasion of philosopher-kings in practice presents a theoretical problem for philosophy, for what bearings are left to the philosopher who must now doubt and consider the implications of doubting the supremacy of philosophy? Al-Razi’s emphasis on his gentlemanly behavior after the turn can only suggest theoretically that in reassessing his position, Socrates questioned why he had taken his original stance toward political life, and therein found something decisive.
Obviously, given the nature of the turn, it was Socrates’s early idea or notion that one could stand apart from convention as if from a philosophical Archimedean point. To question this fully, though, requires asking where the notion came from; what was powerful enough to teach Socrates such an important assumption without making it clear he was being taught? So important in fact was this assumption that not until he met with its decisive refutation in practice was Socrates made aware of its deficiency in theory. Although he is unwilling to say so publicly for reasons having to do with the very nature of his own defense, al-Razi’s clues all point in the same direction: political life itself. 43
Unmasking the Hidden Regime
Socrates’s original stance toward political life, according to al-Razi, implied not only the denial of politics but also the position or the detachment to do so. His “naturalistic” orientation suggested that political life was neither essential nor important; instead, it was an illusion apt to conceal and hence was an obstacle to be overcome or an imperfection to be corrected. Socrates’s contempt for political life remained undeterred only as long as there was no challenge to that contempt and, hence, to his own self-understanding. The authoritative character of political life remained hidden from Socrates’s questioning only because it shared in a deeper agreement with that questioning. Socrates’s first discovery as a political philosopher was that pre-Socratic philosophy shared in its ultimate aims with political life itself. But what does this mean, exactly?
Al-Razi’s subtle emphasis on Socrates’s contemptuousness suggests that the would-be political philosopher had first to learn that his disregard for political life was itself a decisively political act. 44 The illusory freedom Socrates sought from political life was possible because, in seeing himself as separate and apart from politics, he was already assuming the implicit self-understanding of political life. Yet this implies that political life bears within it the tendency to think of political differences as being accidental rather than essential. This connection between philosophy and politics means, according to al-Razi, that the authoritative claim to rule in every political community must have a tendency to think of itself as the claim to rule, as the best simply, or as the standard against which all other inferior, impure claims are but partial adumbrations. 45 In Socrates’s case, the political community was Athens, which judged all other cities in light of its own self-understanding and necessarily found them lacking. Like every political community, Athens bore within it the inclination to reject as accidental the differences that exist between cities, and hence to attempt to perfect those cities by remaking each in its likeness. 46
Socrates realized this only by mounting an attack on Athenian universalism through his own spurious claim. 47 Put another way, Socrates could only have learned the essential role thumos plays in nature by provoking its ire, by challenging the claim of the city’s sham universalism through his own. 48 Socrates provoked the city by challenging its claim just as those who had failed to recognize the superiority of Socrates’s philosophizing had provoked his harsh contemptuousness. Moreover, the city’s recalcitrance must also have shown the would-be founder of political philosophy that by assuming the fundamental stance of the city even when attempting to be free of it, he was also most importantly asserting a claim to rule just as it does. The spurious universalism of the city masks or hides its true nature—that in a particular city a particular part is authoritative. Each city answers the question of who rules by virtue of what it holds dear—what it looks up to, but especially that class or segment of men within it whose voice is deemed dispositive. And it is in the nature of each city to hide this authoritative voice in one form of universalism or another. 49 When Socrates, however unaware, asserted his own claim to rule by asserting the supremacy of wisdom, the angry reaction of the city’s authoritative voice forced him to rethink the final supremacy of philosophy. 50 It was this hostile confrontation with the city that marks the definitive moment in Socrates’s philosophical life, for it is at this point that he discovers what no one had before understood—the regime. 51 To that end, al-Razi’s own apology, which depends decisively upon Socrates’s discovery of the regime, is itself political at its core. 52
This link between the reach of the idea of the regime and the grasp of a regime’s own self-understanding remains a fertile and untapped source for scholarly investigation. 53 Be that as it may, al-Razi’s depiction of Socrates suggests that both philosopher and city alike thought the actual world of politics could be dispensed with because it could be remade into another world in which there were no alternative claims to rule. 54 But while both were animated by the same spirit, Socrates’s dedication to the supremacy of philosophy contradicted the very idea of Athenian universalism. The best regime of the philosophers is one in which all are wise or at the very least where the authoritative voice is the voice of the wise, undiluted by any admixture of ignorance. Athenian democracy, however, was premised on the absolute superiority of the Athenian regime—of the ultimate freedom and supremacy of the Athenian demos—which is not the same as the rule of the wise. By highlighting this tension between philosophy and politics, al-Razi acknowledges Socrates’s way of life could not but pose a direct threat to Athens, to say nothing of Athenian hegemony. Socrates’s discovery of the regime also brought with it the recognition that his activities constituted a direct challenge to the regime’s claim to rule that would be met at best by derision and ridicule if not indifference, and at worst by a spirited response provoked by challenging the legitimacy of the regime’s self-understanding.
The discovery of the thumotic regime—the discovery upon which al-Razi’s account of the Socratic turn itself turns—is the discovery of soul’s assertion of itself and its own self-worth, its wish to maintain itself as it is rather than becoming something more or at least other than itself. Socrates’s discovery of the regime is thus the discovery of the recalcitrant in man, which is itself a fundamental aspect of the soul. For Socrates, this presented a dilemma, however: the thumotic aspect of the soul is the key to understanding the nature of things, for the soul is the part of nature both open and closed to the whole. 55 But how does one investigate that which remains or at least wishes to remain, inviolable? The problems are obvious: to investigate that which asserts itself, and which does not wish to have its sanctity questioned, ushers forth conflict. This requires a method whereby the philosopher can engage with his fellow citizens safely, allowing him access to what he seeks while protecting him from the anger that results when the soul’s sanctity is questioned. 56 This second and longest part of al-Razi’s apology, which otherwise appears as a digression in his defense, illustrates the utility of the pleasure–pain principle. 57 The benefit of this principle to the philosopher links the first and third part by unifying theory and practice into a complete whole.
The Rational Nomos of the Philosophers
Al-Razi’s digression into what can be called the rational laws that must govern the philosopher’s relations with his community has two parts: a theology that unifies knowledge and justice, as well as an ethic that applies the pleasure–pain principle with a view to that theology. 58 His earlier discussion of Socrates’s unique, unbridled, and for that reason admirable passion made it clear that philosophical eros, if properly directed, constitutes the greatest striving and thus the highest way of life. He moves in the second part to solidify this position on theoretical as well as practical grounds. Theoretically, al-Razi lays out six principles that constitute the horizon of demands God makes of man, and which orient him toward the acquisition of knowledge and the practice of justice (p. 229). Man’s seemingly divine teleology implies a qualitative hierarchy of actions whose culmination is contemplation and whose practice is justice. al-Razi makes use of the pleasure–pain principle as a means of putting into practice this divine teleology. According to al-Razi, no action that issues in a pleasure that would otherwise obstruct us from an even greater pleasure should be undertaken (p. 229). Likewise, all pain is hateful to God, which is why no pain should ever be borne, nor any pleasure whose enjoyment would also issue in a pain quantitatively greater than the pleasure itself. It is thus God’s will that man engage in the greatest pleasure—contemplation—and his judgment that the greatest pain—divine punishment—will befall those who fall qualitatively short of their natural end.
Al-Razi’s practical guidance for would-be philosophers not only delineates man’s actions so as to correspond with his divinely given ends but also firmly institutes the superiority of the higher to the lower. Al-Razi further extends the pleasure–pain principle to the realm of action, suggesting that it is against god’s will not only to harm oneself by inflicting greater pain than pleasure but also to harm others, including other men and animals. 59 No pain may be used unless it is done with a view to bringing forth some greater pleasure; rather than as vengeance, all punishment must take the form of education: “it results therefrom that we ought not to cause pain to any sensible being unless it deserves such pain or unless by means of that pain we spare the creature a more intense one” (p. 231). That which is of no use to anyone, such as purely carnivorous animals like wolves or purely hurtful ones like scorpions, may be disposed of for the sake of alleviating pain in the world, thereby issuing forth more pleasure. Men must be treated with compassion, though, so as to improve their souls with a view to the possibility of eternal pleasure, which is given to man alone. Who must necessarily be included in the category of man, however, remains unclear. 60
Al-Razi closes his digression by acknowledging that his pleasure–pain principle can be understood only loosely as a guide to practical actions (p. 232–33). The circumstances in which individuals find themselves are an indispensable part of al-Razi’s ethical calculus, for how much pain any given man will feel is largely a function of those circumstances. For instance, al-Razi points out that a person born into luxury often has a harder time living without refinements than one who was born poor, which suggests that the pleasure–pain principle has both an upper and lower limit that help to determine the wisdom and justice of any action. No man may pain himself such that through his actions he fails to bring about some corresponding pleasure greater either in degree or kind. In this vein, al-Razi is quick to blame the extreme asceticism found in certain Indian, Manichean, Christian, and Muslim practices of self-denial (p. 233). Conversely, any pleasure may be engaged in that will not anger God and thereby offend his reasonableness and justice. These lower and upper bounds circumscribe human life in such a way as to provide the necessary contours that make possible adherence to the pleasure–pain principle.
These boundaries also enjoin al-Razi’s practical guide, which was meant to benefit would-be philosophers in their relations with their fellow men, with his account of the Socratic turn. So as to draw attention to the role circumstance plays in human life, al-Razi makes the rather off-handed remark that it was easier for Socrates to lead a life of self-denial than Plato, because unlike Socrates, Plato was born into a wealthy, aristocratic family (p. 233). 61 As obvious as this may otherwise sound, Socrates’s reengagement with his fellow citizen as a perfect gentleman was a practical comportment given his new philosophical engagement, not a displacement or diminution of erotic desires. That Socrates had children, fought the enemy, and enjoyed refinements does not mean he did so because he wanted or needed them; rather, he did so to fulfill the minimum threshold of engagement with political life. Being of rather lowly birth, the threshold of engagement was lower for him than it was for Plato; someone of Plato’s aristocratic lineage had to engage far more with his fellow men on their terms and according to their expectations so as not to invoke the suspicion if not ire of the city. 62
The regime within which any philosopher lives will thus dictate the specific boundaries of al-Razi’s ethical calculus according to its own authoritative preferences. Every regime is involved in a process of self-forgetting that conceals the partial character of its authoritative voice, which in the case of Athens yielded the innovative mania that attempted to universalize the claims of the regime through empire. Strauss’s frequent remarks to the effect that the mature Socrates and the irreverent Aristophanes would have been of the same political persuasion are decisive here, for both saw the effects Periclean Athens had on its citizens precisely as it embarked on ambitious and innovative new endeavors whose culmination was Athenian imperialism and ultimately its ruinous defeat in the Peloponnesian war. 63 The regime is a sophist of sorts, one that masks physis by nomos for the sake of overcoming physis, or for the sake of hiding the essential differences within physis. Each regime masks the partiality of its authoritative claim—of its partial claim to rule—and thereby implicitly denies the claims of all other regimes, with everything that entails.
And though this masking of the regime is the condition of the self-forgetting that fueled Athenian imperialism, the discovery of the regime in its full power is also the condition of the self-remembering implied in the Socratic turn. Socrates realized upon his own self-discovery that the regime did not want to be reminded of itself, of its own particularity. The discovery of thumos is precarious because of what thumos is; the regime that wishes to deny any claim to rule other than its own is by definition not the one that wishes to be reminded of its own essential difference, and thereby the differences of others. For this reason, then, Socrates, Aristophanes, al-Razi, and presumably here Strauss as well all engage in an effort to curb gently this thumos if not hubris with the only tool at their disposal: awe, and therewith, shame. 64
The only tool that can be marshaled against the regime’s reluctance to face its own nature is to disassociate it from the whole of nature by asserting nature’s essential character—as being beyond any particular being. Reasserting nature as a whole asserts a transcendent dimension, which has the effect of diminishing the importance of any essential part. Al-Razi’s entire practical guide is premised on this strategy, for his theology reasserts the transcendent character of the divine over and against any particular regime, allowing for the soul that seeks the whole to be justified or as least protected in light of the awe, reverence, and shame inspired by transcendence. God for al-Razi is the god of the philosophers, and indeed the suspicion he aroused may have been warranted. 65 Nevertheless, al-Razi’s theology attempts to remind the regime of its smallness, impurity, and unworthiness in light of the absolute God who is himself beyond being. This disassociation of the regime from transcendence made possible a transpolitical justification of philosophy, while also permitting the philosophers to structure their activities—otherwise too ascetic to be comprehended by the self-affirming regime—so as to appeal to divine transcendence. 66 Al-Razi counsels well what he learned from the mature Socrates—the nomos, especially the ancestral laws of any particular regime, are the greatest protection given to the philosopher rather than his greatest hindrance. These laws do not counsel against the otherwise ephemeral objects of desire philosophers will not be tempted to pursue; rather, they are a minimal threshold of engagement under which a philosopher must not fall so as to invite more pain from the reaction of his community than the pleasure his activities will produce. The re-association of the law with the new theology puts together as well as can be hoped the qualitatively higher dimension of philosophical eros with the thumotic shame inspired by divine awe.
Conclusion
The third and final section of al-Razi’s apology is by far the shortest of the three sections, consisting in a restatement of his own civic engagement, all done not only for the supreme end that God has set forth for man but also so as to benefit others. Thus, on one hand, al-Razi’s theoretical accomplishments are said to speak for themselves—he was the author of more than two hundred treatises on a range of subjects covering the motion of the heavens to alchemy (p. 234). On the other hand, he was a well-regarded physician who never withheld his advice or counsel from those who sought it. In demonstrating his own comportment through his competences, al-Razi pulls all three sections together into a whole, thereby interlacing his deed—the writing of the text—with his speeches contained within the text. But because one cannot read an account of becoming wise without in some sense becoming wise oneself, al-Razi demonstrates that this, his last work of a life drawing short due to the failings of his body rather than his soul, is in fact his wisest (p. 235).
To that end, Strauss’s recommendation of al-Razi’s account is indeed instructive; the birth of political philosophy is likely to be misunderstood continuously if not neglected outright because of the very phenomenon in question—the self-concealing regime. For Strauss, this insight is as true now as it was for either al-Razi or Socrates; every regime, now as then, wishes not to admit the existence of other claims to rule. Perhaps Strauss’s attempt to hide Socrates’s discovery of the regime within an interpretation of an interpretation is itself an imitation of his own regime’s self-understanding; only by showing what something is not can the same thing be seen as what it truly is. 67 Put another way, Strauss’s own approach to political philosophy, which is often characterized as enigmatic at best, is so because it is itself an imitation of the nature of things. This means, of course, that philosophizing about the regime is always both tenuous and contentious; every regime, regardless of its character, is closed to certain questions and hence essentially thumotic in nature.
And it is certainly no less instructive that Strauss recommends al-Razi only in his book about poetry and philosophy; the discovery of the regime was occasioned by philosophy’s encounter with poetry. 68 More specifically, Strauss indicates that the discovery of the regime would not have happened without Socrates’s turn to self-scrutiny, a turn itself prompted by comic scrutiny. 69 At the very least, Aristophanes knew one thing: how to use ironic imitation in the service of his own wisdom. 70 It is impossible to say whether Strauss’s study of al-Razi led to his focus on Aristophanes, or the opposite. What is clear, however, is that Strauss saw in al-Razi’s apology an account of Socrates that was able to reconcile the immortal citizen-philosopher of Plato and Xenophon with the equally immortal comic caricature of Aristophanes. Strauss’s method suggests that the very presentation of Socrates the citizen-philosopher by Plato and Xenophon owes as much to the poet Aristophanes as to the philosopher Socrates. 71 Those seeking to explore the many facets of what Strauss himself called the “problem of Socrates” would do well to consider, as he had, the theoretical relevance of Socrates’s encounter with comic poetry. 72
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to Sara Henary, James R. Stoner Jr., James W. Ceaser, Harvey C. Mansfield, and the anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments and suggestions.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.