III. TIME AND INTERPRETATION

§1. Interpretation and Representation

• 1. The Path of Discovery
• 2. The Path of Invention
  • a. The Philosopher's Soliloquy
  • b. Maximalist Invention
  • c. Minimalist Invention
• 3. The Path of Interpretation
• 4. The Dilemma of Idealization

§2. Time and shared understanding

• A. Physical Time and Social Time
• B. Four Principles of Moral Interpretation
  • 1. The First Principle: The Long View
  • 2. The Second Principle: The Cycle
  • 3. The Third Principle: The Very Long View
  • 4. The Fourth Principle: Tradition Reflexivity
    • a. Reinterpretation
    • b. Coherence
    • c. Invention ex vetere

Walzer’s empirical approach to morality might lift ethics on a par with the modern standard of knowledge. Yet, some questions about his methodology remain to be answered. Even if we accept the proposition that there exists a moral world, we still have to ask how we could approach this moral world in an objective way. Walzer’s proposal is interpretation. We can interpret the existing moral world and find out its moral ideals, he says. But critics have doubts about his thesis. Joseph Raz once asked Walzer: “What kind of interpretation is involved in moral argument?” Many activities are said to be interpretive: language translation, music performance, history writing, literary criticism, dream analysis, scientific modelling, legal deliberation. All those involved—interpreters, musicians, historians, literary critics, psychoanalysts, scientists, and lawyers—use different techniques, and are guided by different criteria. “Without knowing what kind of interpretation moral argument is meant to be,” Raz says, “it is difficult to evaluate the thesis that it is interpretative.”^{1J. Raz, Morality as Interpretation, in Ethics 101 (1991) 392-405, p. 394.} Raz’s concern is the nature of moral interpretation, and he is dissatisfied with Walzer’s explanation in the Interpretation and Social Criticism. Another line of attack is directed at the subjective aspect of moral interpretation. People give diverse interpretations to the same object. The plurality of interpretations is esteemed as originality in art and literature, but it is met with suspicion and repression in disciplines, such as science and ethics, that look for unanimity as a basic requirement. Since interpretation is highly dependent on the interpreter, it may carry with it his personal bias. Hence the critics suspect that Walzer’s interpretation is probably subjective. This suspicion has already been raised and expressed in various fashions. The typical form is coined by Joshua Cohen as the “simple communitarian dilemma.”^{2J. Cohen, Review of M. Walzer, Spheres, p. 464.} Its basic tenet is that communitarian ideal and radical reform are two incompatible commitments since the former is local and internal, and thus uncritical, while the latter requires the critical examination of the shared values. This intrinsic contradiction can only be resolved in two ways: either (1) you choose to be a communitarian and you remain uncritical, or (2) you renounce the communitarian methodology and commit yourself to social reform, only then will you be truly critical of the status quo. Now the Spheres, according to Cohen, invokes communal values and is critical, that is, Walzer has put two incompatible things together. This can only be possible if Walzer’s interpretation is an “arbitrary and tendentious” description of the shared values.

In a sense, Raz is correct that Walzer’s elucidation of the essence of moral interpretation in the small book Interpretation is insufficient. Walzer, for most of the time, is talking about the method of interpretation indirectly. Only in the first chapter can one find an explicit reference, but still it is explained by using the analogy of legal interpretation. Apparently, Raz, who is a law scholar, is not content with this analogy. Later, Walzer is prompted to give an overall defence of his moral theory in the Thick and Thin, which contains a more explicit explication of moral interpretation. I do not know Raz’s response to that book, but it does give important clues to Walzer’s interpretive methodology. If we arrange the material in the Thick and Thin together with those found in other works systematically, we can give a preliminary answer to Raz’s question. Moreover, Walzer’s moral interpretation reveals itself to be reconcilable with commitments to tradition and social reform, even the radical one.

§1. Interpretation and representation

In the Western tradition, there are three main types of moral philosophy. Walzer labels them as discovery, invention, and interpretation. Discovery morality assumes that there exists an external moral order independent of human creation. Man can discover this natural order by using his reason. A typical example of discovery is the natural law theory. Alongside this path is the interpretive morality. Both of them have existed for a long time. Moral interpretation can virtually be found in every society. We find its highly developed form in religious ethics. In Judaism as well as in Christianity, for instance, moral rules come from interpretation of the sacred texts. Some interpretations may later become the objects of interpretation themselves. One interpreted version is then followed by another, with the preceding ones serving as the bases of the subsequent ones. The whole ideational webs form an interpretive complex. The advent of modernity, however, has eclipsed moral discovery and interpretation. Modern men and women have, in a bold move, given up revelation and interpretation. They now see themselves as the author of their own history. “Autonomy” is their catchword. How should we as free and autonomous individuals live with each other? As liberated men and women, we have to redesign the social order from scratch, with the aim to create a new world which is fair to everybody. Political theorists thus proceed to make a universal social contract that no rational being will refuse to sign. This path of moral invention is a child of modernity.

Walzer does not deny the possibility of pursuing any one of these three paths. Nonetheless, he doubts, judging on the evidence of their writings, whether the present discoverers or inventors are really doing what they claim to do. He wants to argue that morality here and now has certain continuity with the past, and that its comprehension inescapably involves interpretation.

1. The path of discovery

The path of discovery, Walzer reminds us, is best known in the history of religion, where God is seen as the creator of both the physical and the social world. Just as the physical world is put into order by divine decree, God regulates the social world by another set of commandments. It is man’s duty to find out God’s will and to seek his kingdom. Discovery needs the aid of revelation. A seer must climb up the mountain, go into the desert, or shut himself up in the inner room, earnestly seeking God out, and finally brings back God’s commands.

Most religious narratives would present the prophet holding God’s commandments over his head as if the social order were established once and for all. Walzer argues that this is not the case. The divine decrees are commonly transmitted in the form of written text—the sacred book. Like any other text, the sacred book needs interpretation. And there will always be a gap between the decrees and the actual life. No set of laws can encompass all human circumstances. Even if there were such a set of encompassing laws for a simple community, the laws might sometimes come into conflict themselves. Consequently we need to interpret the divine laws in order to apply them, and to resolve their contradictions.

One of the main advantages of revelation, according to Walzer, is that the divine commands are highly critical—if they have already been known, they are not revelation. Yet this critical edge is short-lived. Once we accept these decrees and structure our life accordingly, we are what god wants us to be, and thus, the critical edge is lost. Of course, any revelation that has already been discovered can always be re-discovered. Nevertheless, rediscovery takes another path. It does not wait upon revelation. Rather it employs historical methods to dig up the original revelation. After that, interpretation will be needed.

Religious morality has as its counterpart, the secular morality. If people can receive religious truth, why can’t they perceive natural truth as well? Whenever “a philosopher,” Walzer says, “who reports to us on the existence of natural law, say, or natural rights or any set of objective moral truths has walked the path of discovery.”^{3Interpretation, p. 5.} To walk this path of discovery, the philosopher has to step back and go into solitary—a detachment not only from society but also from the self. He undergoes a journey of mental purification until every bit of his particularity is washed away. Then, he can look at the world from “no particular point of view,” as Thomas Nagel puts it.^{4T. Nagel, The Limits of Objectivity, in S. M. McMurrin (ed.), The Tanner Lectures on Human Values, Vol. I, Salt Lake City, UT, 1980, 75-139, p. 83. Walzer uses Nagel as an example of the traditional way of philosophical discovery (Interpretation, p. 5).} “No particular point of view,” Walzer comments, “is somewhere on the way to God’s point of view, and what the philosopher sees from there is something like objective value.”^{5Interpretation, p.5.} Since the value is objective, it is applicable to all beings like him.

Walzer does not deny the experience of stepping back, but he doubts the possibility of stepping back to the point of nowhere. Besides, there is another limitation. The object of reflection is in the world here and now. We are all confined in a particular world. Even if the philosopher could actually go somewhere to look at the world, he is still looking at a particular world though he may see it with special clarity. What he discovers is already in the world, for he cannot find anything that is not there. This is a general truth in secular moral discoveries.

Walzer further identifies two types of philosophical discoverers: “the owl at dusk” and “the eagle at daybreak.”^{6Interpretation, p. 8.} The owl is the philosopher who is gifted with the ability to see in twilight. He sees in the dark and discovers some moral laws. However, Walzer is not impressed by the discoveries. These principles, he says, are not new. In fact, they are familiar to us. Except their abstract philosophical forms, what they try to say is what we already know or have practised. Nagel, for instance, has deduced an objective moral principle: “that we should not be indifferent to the suffering of other people.”^{7The principle is formulated by Walzer. Nagel has not explicitly stated the principle. He only argues that pleasure and pain have objective values, and that it is reasonable of wanting to relieve the pain of others. Cf. Interpretation, p. 6; T. Nagel, The Limits, pp. 107-110.} We may acknowledge this principle but miss the excitement of its discovery, Walzer remarks. This principle has been known for many centuries. There is nothing new in it. What is involved in it is something like “a dis-incorporation of moral principles.”^{8Interpretation, p. 6.} It is extracted from and taken out of our complex moral world so that we may see it afresh without particular interests and prejudices. It is merely a revamp in philosophical language. Worse still, the philosophical reformulation lacks the critical force of religious decree. “Do not be indifferent” is comparatively weaker than “Love thy neighbour as thyself.” What the owl at dusk can do is to highlight some important moral principles already existing in our world. His work is actually a kind of interpretation.

The other type of philosophers is not content with the mere dis-incorporation of moral principles. This kind is much more ambitious. The philosopher wants to go deeper, to penetrate into the very heart of the truth. He is the eagle at daybreak. With the keenness of the eagle’s eyes, he believes he can see beyond the phenomenon. Though the surroundings are scarcely visible, he is optimistic—he thinks he is at daybreak (instead of at dusk), and he believes he can discover the hidden truth. Like a physicist who isolates an atom and breaks it down into different components, he claims to have penetrated the human psyche and found the deepest truth. Utilitarianism, according to Walzer, is probably discovered in this way. The utilitarians declare that they have discovered the deepest truth of human desire, and think that they are able to construct a new morality based on scientific methodology. Indeed, utilitarianism is marked by its novelty. But this novelty is so bizarre that it more often than not shocks our common moral sense. And utilitarians have to use various corrective means to bring the outcomes closer to our moral sensitivity. The wisdom of the eagle at daybreak may be an alternative to the wisdom of the owl at dusk, but Walzer finds it “more frightening than attractive.”^{9Interpretation, p. 8.}

2. The path of invention

a. The philosopher’s soliloquy

Some philosophers are not convinced of either the wisdom of the owl or that of the eagle. They have been enlightened and transported to another plane where man is the master of all. They now stand on their own free from the constraints of tradition or God, and they have to create a moral world of their own. The philosopher who commits himself to this venture is the moral inventor. He imitates God’s creation rather than discovers God’s commands as the seer does, Walzer says. Enlightened and living in an era of cultural pluralism, the philosopher sees no external moral standard. To him, every moral decision is but a personal choice or preference. He denies all external sources that his fore-fathers relied upon: God was dead, and there is no moral meaning either in nature or in humanity. Morality is then seen as a human project—a social contract that allows human beings to live a civilized life. The inventor, moreover, is not content with the enterprise left by his ancestors. He thinks that the existing moral world is not coherent and fair enough because it comes about through long historical processes of quarrels, arguments, coercion, and political compromises. Such a world tends to be contradictory, and no rational individual would expect to find consistence, unity, or purpose in it. Hence the inventor must himself invent a more perfect world.

Descartes, according to Walzer, is a forerunner of the inventors. His project is self-reformation: “to reform my own thoughts and to build on a foundation wholly my own.”^{10R. Descartes, quoted in Interpretation, p. 9. Cf. R. Descartes, Discourse on the Method of Conducting One’s Reason Well and of Seeking the Truth in the Sciences. A Bilingual Edition and an Interpretation of René Descartes’ Philosophy of Method, trans. G. Heffernan, Notre Dame, IN, 1994, p. 31.} Descartes’s ambition is not confined to the reformation of the self; he also wants to be the architect of the social world. The reform of the self is but the stepping stone to the reform of the world:^{11R. Descartes, quoted in Interpretation, pp. 9-10. Cf. R. Descartes, Discourse, pp. 27-29.}

Descartes has no faith in moral evolution because it tends to diverge rather than to converge. He is preoccupied with the beauty and the efficiency of a coherent system, and nothing but a wise designer and a logically consistent social plan can satisfy him. Descartes’s reform, Walzer remarks, is a typical example of invention. The inventor’s dream is to invent a moral world that tends to a single end, whether it be justice, fairness, virtue, happiness, or other basic value that he wants to realize.

So, the inventor sets out to design a moral world from no particular design. He desires no help either from revelation, or nature, or tradition. How could he begin? The first problem facing him is legitimacy. The inventor naturally wants people to accept his design. Without the authority of God, nature, or tradition to appeal to, the only thing left is the consent of the people to whom he wants to apply the new moral law. How can he secure the public approval? This can be done in two ways: either the designer is to be authorized by all the people, or all the people have to gather together and vote for the best design. In both cases, we can neither arrange such an incredible gathering nor expect a unanimous agreement, let alone the complication of future generations. The only alternative is to invent a universal procedure that will generate the new moral law. The inventor, like Descartes, has to begin with a discourse on method. “A design of a design procedure,” Walzer says.^{12Interpretation, p. 10.}

Philosophers have designed some design procedures. John Rawls’s veil of ignorance and Jürgen Habermas’s ideal discourse are the best known ones. Though their approaches are dissimilar, there is, according to Walzer, one central characteristic common to both: they both forge their arguments after the model of a planned philosophical conversation.^{13Cf. M. Walzer, A Critique of Philosophical Conversation, in The Philosophical Forum 21 (1989-1990) 182-196.} The construction of this kind of conversation is based on the assumptions that truth can come out as a result of a debate, and that it can also be accepted unanimously by all the participants. A typical philosophical conversation has the following form: a group of protagonists gather together to discuss a certain issue. Each of them is given an equal chance to voice his opinion. After that, a debate is conducted, and in the end, the principles that everybody consents to will become the truths.

The construction of conversation, Walzer points out, is actually not a modern project; rather it is an old trade in philosophy, and maybe the original one. But he is highly suspicious of philosophy being directly presented in dialogical genre, or indirectly modelled on conversation. Dialogical philosophy claims to be able to, or gives the wrong impression that they can, find out an agreement, if not truth, by following a certain procedure. The resultant truth/agreement comes out as a product of the collective effort of the participants and the readers, and thus it should be universally binding for all. Walzer thinks that the procedure is a philosophical rhetoric.

The oldest form of philosophical conversation is dialogue. The plot of this philosophical genre usually begins with contention, and ends with agreement. There are, of course, other dialogues that end with inconclusive endings, such as David Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.^{14D. Hume, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. J. V. Price, Oxford, 1976.} They come close to real dialogue but they can rarely be found in philosophical writings. The common philosophical interlocution pretends to be a dialogue between philosophers, but is in fact a mere monologue of the philosopher himself. At the end, the antagonists will be portrayed as captives of the philosopher. They, in the metaphor used by Walzer, fall on their “verbal knees, desperately searching for new ways to say yes.”^{15Philosophical Conversation, p. 183.} We can find ample examples in Plato’s dialogues. Glaucon, for instance, sings the affirmation chorus to a succession of arguments pronounced by Socrates in the Republic:^{16Plato, quoted in Philosophical Conversation, p. 183.}

Walzer remarks that these affirmations serve to add force to the philosophical argument. The acquiescent interlocutor is the representative of the readers. He speaks not only for himself but also for the readers. In a way, Plato cleverly builds our agreement into his dialogues. Such representation is, however, a distortion of reality. “Real talk,” Walzer says, “even if it is only imagined, makes for disagreement as often as for agreement, and neither one is anything more than temporary.”^{17Philosophical Conversation, p. 184.} Furthermore, the motive for disagreement is as doubtful as the motive for agreement. If disagreement is caused by, as the moral inventors would say, bias such as self-interest, pride and aversion, agreement can also be reached through flattery, weakness, fear, or ignorance. Agreement in a debate, even a unanimous one, is no proof of truthfulness or genuineness.

Finding solutions to these difficulties is a major enterprise in contemporary moral and political philosophy. Many philosophers believe that these human weaknesses can be overcome by detachment or by empowerment. The Rawlsian device—the veil of ignorance, in Walzer’s opinion, is the most elegant one.^{18Cf. Interpretation, p. 11; Philosophical Conversation, 185-186; Philosophy, 389.} Rawls proposes fairness as the central criterion in the course of choosing a just social charter. His intention is to overcome the difficulties of self-interest and bias, and to filter out the enlightened preferences of people. Only under such a fair condition could people select a just social charter that would be acceptable to everyone. And only in this way, would they establish with one another a fair social contract. In order to eliminate people’s self-interest and bias, Rawls innovates a special device called a veil of ignorance, which is assumed to block people from knowing something, but at the same time allowing them to know other things. People should pretend to know nothing about their social status, their inclinations, and their talents. This guarantees their uncertainty of their possible future social positions. On the other hand, they should have general knowledge of all the facts and theories that will affect their choice of a just social charter. The required knowledge ensures that they have the necessary data and theories for making rational decision. People under the veil of ignorance are called the persons in the original position.^{19J. Rawls, A Theory, pp. 102-105.} The persons in the original position are people without identities. They do not know who they are, and what they will become. Persons as such become indistinguishable. They are each equally ignorant of their self-identity, equally knowledgeable of their society, and equally rational. Hence their number is immaterial. They think in unison, and no dialogue is needed between them. If there is dialogue, it will be no more than a soliloquy of their own thinking. A person in the original position is not a human individual but a rational mind (or a super computer?) capable of making fair and optimal choices. It is a representative of all men and women, and its decision is the decision for all.

Habermas’s proposed solution, according to Walzer, is more cumbersome.^{20Interpretation, p. 11.} It requires us to imagine a hypothetical conversation in circumstances free of ideological conflict. The participants have to accept some regulations of speech as the prerequisite for entering into an ideal dialogue. In the course of conversation, only those norms that have the assent of all participants are to be declared valid. To achieve this aim, Habermas puts forward a set of criteria so as to facilitate an undistorted communication. First, we have to choose a setting. This setting cannot be any real social and political environment because it can never be the right place for genuine dialogue. An ideal conversation has to be conducted in an asocial space where there is no coercion and external interference. Next, we have to make the speakers ideal, that is, they must be rendered into one another’s equals. To achieve this end, they have to get rid of their memory of social status, pride, and humility, and to speak as if all relationships of subordination have been abolished. Needless to say, the speakers must also be equally knowledgeable. They are equally informed by a single best set of information about the world. Lastly, the speakers have to be empowered so that they have the capability to detach themselves from their own interests and particular values.^{21Philosophical Conversation, pp. 185-186; cf. J. Habermas, Discourse Ethics: Notes on a Program of Philosophical Justification, in Moral Consciousness and Communicative Action. Translated by C. Lenhardt and S. W. Nicholsen. Introduction by T. McCarthy, Oxford, 1990, p. 89.} To correct Rawls’s monological character of the original position, Habermas leaves the speakers to their own selves. They are allowed to retain the knowledge of their self-interest and particular values.^{22Cf. G. Warnke, Justice, p. 92.} Nevertheless he binds them to the Kantian universalizing principle whereby they all commit themselves to speak only those interests or values that can be universalized.^{23J. Habermas, Morality and Ethical Life: Does Hegel’s Critique of Kant Apply to Discourse Ethics?, in Moral Consciousness, 195-215, p. 197.}

Walzer points out a dilemma in Habermas’s ideal discourse. He says that if these criteria are all applied strictly, then only a limited number of things can be discussed. Yet these things can probably be said by the philosopher himself without any other participant. It seems that we will not have any real chance to voice our opinions.^{24R. Geuss has pointed out that Habermas’s “ideal conditions of communication” is not a real free environment for dialogue. The agents involved are subjected to the coercion of what Habermas calls “the peculiar compulsion of the better argument.” This compulsion presupposes an ideological world-picture which legitimizes the interests of some particular social groups (R. Geuss, The Idea of a Critical Theory. Habermas and the Frankfort School, Cambridge, 1981, pp. 72-75).} If, however, the criteria are loosely applied, the ideal speech will become a democratic debate, and the participants will be allowed to say almost anything. The situation will then be out of control, and it is possible that some settlements will turn out to be contrary to good morals.^{25Interpretation, p. 11, n. 9.}

One reason behind Walzer’s harsh critique of philosophical conversation is that this philosophical form blurs the line between philosophy and democracy.^{26Philosophy.} The traditional task of philosophy is to search for truth. Contemporary political philosophers have a tendency to translate this motive into the search for an amalgam of truth and agreement by using a sophisticated design of representation. This design claims to represent all the people, but at the same time it justifies a decision-making procedure on behave of all by the wisest man or the group of wisest men. A step further, we may infer that philosophy is a better instrument than democracy in the delivering of justice, and that it is sometimes good for philosophy to correct or to limit democratic decision. Walzer discerns that this is a real trend in the works of a group of law professors in the United States.^{27Philosophy, p. 387.} If the judge comes to see himself as the philosopher-judge, this certainly poses a real threat to democracy. Legislation and judiciary are distinct political institutions in the Western democratic society, where law is legislated through democratic debate, and judges are only arbitrators, not legislators. Conversational philosophy may lead or mislead the judge to believe that he is the (real) legislator, even the wiser one. Philosophically informed, the judge may think that it is sometimes good to the society as a whole for him to interpret democratic decision in line with philosophical truth. This poses a dangerous tendency in substituting democratic decision with philosophical truth. For Walzer, this is an intrusion of philosophy into the sphere of democracy. He says: “Democracy has no claims in the philosophical realm, and philosophers have no special rights in the political community. In the world of opinion, truth is indeed another opinion, and the philosopher is only another opinion-maker.”^{28Philosophy, p. 397.} The two should remain separate and distinct. The claim of representation in inventive moral and political philosophy can lead to a privatization of public opinions in the hands of philosophers or philosophically instructed judges or aristocrats. The inventive philosopher claims to know the truth, or the enlightened opinion of the people. But in reality, the designer of a design procedure represents no one but himself. To an “unreconstructed democrat” like Walzer, inventive representation is objectionable, while inventive truth/agreement is contestable.^{29M. Walzer, Radical Principles. Reflections of an Unreconstructed Democrat, New York, NY, 1980.}

b. Maximalist invention

Walzer has distinguished two types of invention: one is maximalist, and the other minimalist. The maximalist legislator is more ambitious: he asserts that his created order is universal. The minimalist, in contrast, tends to be less venturous: he is satisfied with the invention specifically applicable to his own society; he wants to create not the best possible society, but only the best society for themselves.

The maximalist philosopher-legislator is not so naïve as to be unaware of the fact that morality exists as a social reality. There are moral values and practices before his conscious existence. Few of the philosophers will deny that moral norms are embedded in culture. They are only dissatisfied with the imperfection of the existing morality. The aim of the maximalist inventors, Walzer says, “is to provide what God and nature do not provide, a universal corrective for all the different social moralities.” “But,” he immediately asks, “why should we bow to universal correction? What exactly is the critical force of the philosopher’s invention?”^{30Interpretation, p. 13.} Instead of answering these questions directly, Walzer composes his argument in the form of a story and let the reader draw out the implications himself.

The story begins with some strangers meeting at a neutral space:^{31Interpretation, p. 14.}

Walzer asks, “What principles of cooperation would they adopt?” And he makes the concession that “there is a single answer to this question and that the principles given in that answer properly govern their life together in the space they now occupy.”

Our adventurers (in a satellite colony) plan to construct an accommodation for themselves. What should they build? What principle should they rely on? Perhaps, after some discussions and arguments, they come up with the idea of a Rawlsian Hilton Hotel:^{32Interpretation, p. 15.}

Obviously, this story is a caricature of Rawls’s original position and the difference principle. Walzer openly apologizes for using Rawls’s theory as an example of maximalist inventive morality. He knows that this position was no longer defended by Rawls himself.^{33Cf. Interpretation, p. 13; J. Rawls, Justice as Fairness. Political not Metaphysical, in Philosophy and Public Affairs 14 (1985) 223-251.} But some of Rawls’s epigones still uphold it and use Rawls’s argument to propagate the maximalist view. Walzer targets at them rather than at Rawls himself.

The story of the hotel room shows that under certain circumstances, people will give up their own particularities in order to construct a set of neutral rules that govern their common life. For instance, travellers of different nationalities and cultures who meet in some neutral space such as the moon will probably act like that. They are away from home, the local cultures have loosened their grip on them, and they have to co-operate with each other. Their situation comes close to Rawls’s original position, and his procedure will become useful for them. The neutral space is, however, only hypothetical; it is nowhere to be found in reality. Is it then appropriate to invent moral principles from imaginary circumstances, and use them to correct our real social life? Is the imposition of speculative moral rules on people not a violation of their will and a dangerous act? Rawls’s abstract modelling is a typical method of modernity. Yet we can still question its validity, especially when it is applied to the study of the human realm: can abstract modelling adequately express our moral experience? In late modernity, this paradigm is being increasingly criticized as a kind of reductionism.

To expose the irrelevance of the maximalist inventive morality, Walzer pretends to go along with the maximalists, and accept the assumption that there indeed exists a neutral space. People of different cultures meet at that particular space. They invent an impartial language and build a common hotel-home on the basis of the difference principle. But once the travellers return home and each of them re-acquires his own identity, would they continue to speak the common language? Would they build a hotel-home on earth? We have serious doubt about that. Even if they did, the adventurers would still have no sufficiently convincing reason to ask their fellow countrymen to give up their old way of living and to take up the novel one.

In a pictorial way, the story of the hotel room illustrates Walzer’s idea of thick and thin. The hotel is a thin design whereas home is a thick heritage decorated with memory-laden objects. Though sometimes a hotel can give some conveniences to travellers, it can never substitute home. Apparently, the maximalist inventors have confused home with hotel. As Walzer puts it, “It is as if we were to take a hotel room or an accommodation apartment or a safe house as the ideal model of a human home.”^{34Interpretation, pp. 14-15.} Here, Walzer has made a distinction between liveability and life. Liveability is the minimal living conditions, but life is a product of the interplay between humans and environment. Philosophers can invent ideal liveability, but they can never invent life. For life is infinitely thicker and complexer than the imagination of any philosopher. Notwithstanding the possibility of the invention of moral principle/agreement, it is simply unwise to use it to re-orient our complex relationships in our thick historical context. Contrary to the claim of maximalist ethicists, inventive morality has neither moral compulsion nor critical force. If it happens to be able to criticize reality, it is because there are many sojourners in the world who are deprived of their own home. For them, a shelter or a resting place is something of prime importance.

c. Minimalist invention

In comparison with the maximalist, the minimalist inventor is more pragmatic. Surrendering the grandiose mission of building the ideal home for mankind, the minimalist philosopher turns to renovate his own home. He acknowledges that there is no other starting point in moral reflection except the ground where we are standing. Let us then assume that the existing moral world has already incorporated valuable moral principles, he says. Whether the principles come from divine inspiration or nature or human invention is not important. Our major concern is to perfect it. Rawls’s enterprise should, perhaps, be seen from this perspective.^{35Interpretation, pp. 16-18.}

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, these ideas are widely accepted as the fundamental intuitive concepts of modern society. Rawls translates them into “a fair system of cooperation between citizens as free and equal persons.”^{36J. Rawls, Justice, p. 238.} Now, the existing society of the United States, the acclaimed emblem of democracy, cannot yet be said to be a fair (or fair enough) system of cooperation because the citizens are not perfectly equal. Notwithstanding the fact that the United States has a relatively well-developed democratic system, not all its citizens have the same degree of representation in the determination of the social system. The difference is the consequence of “bargaining advantages.”^{37J. Rawls, Justice, p. 236.} Due to the cumulative effect of time, it is inevitable that some people in a society will have more bargaining advantages than the others. And these privileged citizens will probably secure a social system in favour of themselves. This bias cannot be eliminated by democratic procedure because the rich and the poor have unequal standing. Thus the resultant social contract is not absolutely fair. To correct it, we need critical principles derived from ideal conditions. Now the problem facing us is twofold: first, we have to fashion free and equal persons; second, those free and equal persons have to filter out the impurities from the existing moral mixture and to crystallize critical moral principles.

Rawls proposes to solve these problems by re-explaining the original position as a “device of representation.” He says, “In sum, the original position is simply a device of representation: it describes the parties, each of whom are responsible for the essential interests of a free and equal person, as fairly situated and as reaching an agreement subject to appropriate restrictions on what are to count as good reasons.”^{38J. Rawls, Justice, p. 237.} Rawls assumes that it would be a good reason for all representatives of free and equal persons to give up a conception of justice that favours their own social positions. The veil of ignorance conceived metaphorically blocks their access to the knowledge of their social positions and connections. But they may retain the common values that they share among themselves. The overall aim is to remove all personal ambitions or advantages. After that, the representatives start proposing arguments with good reasons. Rawls suggests them to follow this procedure: first, to reflect upon their own moral convictions and judgements and to construct a model out of them; next, to compare the model with the moral judgements and to revise either the model or the judgements; further, to repeat the process of reflection and revision by moving back and forth between model and judgements until no discrepancy can be found between them. This final state is known as the “reflective equilibrium.”^{39J. Rawls, Justice, p. 228; A Theory, p. 18.}

Walzer’s comment to this minimalist moral inventiveness is that it is a “more plausible way of thinking about the process of moral invention.”^{40Interpretation, p. 16.} Nevertheless, the enterprise of the minimalist is not invention de novo but the transformation of the existing morality into an ideal type. Its purpose is to construct a model of the existing morality that will give us a clear view of its critical edge, free of personal interests and prejudice. The way of modelling or idealizing relies on materials already in existence. The philosopher must concede that there are some given moral values before he can reflect upon them. And reflection on existing values inescapably involves interpretation. Thus, the minimalist enterprise is less inventive than interpretive. This comes close to the path of interpretation.

3. The path of interpretation

Interpretation, as demonstrated by Walzer, is involved in the process of deducing a plausible moral principle or theory. More than that, he actually puts forward the strong statement that “philosophical discovery and invention … are disguised interpretations; there is really only one path in moral philosophy”—that is, the path of interpretation.^{41Interpretation, p. 21.} Since law and morality are closely linked, Walzer uses the analogy of law to demonstrate his argument. He says that the three paths in moral philosophy can be compared to the three branches of government: executive, legislative, and judicial. The moral discoverer works like the executive official. He does not invent moral principles. Instead, he discovers them and is obliged to enforce them. Although law enforcement is unlikely to be a task for philosophers, the burden of discovery or revelation itself compels the discoverer to enforce what he has discovered. Because he knows something that others don’t, he believes that he has the obligation to teach them to the people and to see to their observance. Moses is one of these figures. He is sometimes reluctant to be the teacher and judge of the Israelites. But since he is the (only) one who receives God’s commandments, he has to take up this duty against his own will. Plato’s philosopher-king is the philosophical counterpart. He discovers the truth, and with the same reluctance, he has to implement it. The utilitarians and the Marxists are the latter-day reluctant law-enforcers.^{42Interpretation, pp. 18-32.}

Discovery is not the source of authority. It appeals to some higher hierarchy, which can be God or nature. When men and women become sufficiently powerful, knowledgeable, and confident, they want to replace the higher authority with their own: vox populi as a whole resembles vox dei, as it were. Invention is legislative in nature. The philosophical inventor constructs a set of moral principles, and vests them with the force of law. That is why the philosopher-legislator has to design a device of representation for all men and women. Any one of us can take part in the philosopher’s design procedure, and comes up with the same conclusion and the same endorsement. There are, however, two types of invention and two corresponding legislations. Maximalist invention is like constitutional legislation. Since the lawmaker invents moral law from nothing and for everyone, his representation must be accountable to all men and women everywhere, and to their children, and to their children’s children. By contrast, the minimalist invention resembles law codification. Here, the lawmaker is not confronted with invention de novo but the task of codifying the existing beliefs and practices. The representation is specifically for a group of people here and now. The minimalist inventive philosopher, interpreting the morality of his society, can claim the right of representation.^{43Interpretation, p. 19.}

Between legislation and execution comes the work of arbitration, the work of judges and lawyers. Laws are made by legislators, but their implementation and enforcement are the work of executives. Before putting them into effect, laws need interpretation, which is inevitable because it is difficult to decide how to apply the laws to real cases, or because the laws themselves may come into conflict. The interpretation of laws entails the profession of lawyers. When a case is brought before the court, judges and lawyers, having neither the privilege of philosophers nor universal corrective principles to guide their judgement, have to sort through a morass of conflicting laws and precedents. They interpret the laws, and try to figure out the best interpretation for the case. There is, however, no definite answer to the case. Contesting parties have to present their arguments, and let the judge or the jury decide which interpretation accords best with the laws. Moral interpretation treads a similar path. We don’t have a moral authority issuing the right answer to every issue from his throne in Zion or Athens. What we have are moral traditions. Publicists, philosophers, theologians, as well as ordinary men and women argue among themselves. Each of them tries to convince the others that his opinion leads to a better way of life. There is no ordained judge or jury, and people have to make their own choices.

After establishing the parallels between moral philosophy and governance, Walzer immediately overturns the analogy by pointing out that there is a substantial difference between morality and politics. He says, “Morality, unlike politics, does not require executive authority or systematic legislation.” That means: “neither discovery nor invention is necessary because we already possess what they pretend to provide.” In reality, we already inherit moral rules and practices. We are their bearers, practitioners, and executives all at the same time. It is both unnecessary and undesirable to install moral enforcement officers. Likewise, there is no need to invent moral laws to replace the existing ones. Besides, codification is neither a good method of interpretation nor a proper form of expression. Walzer says that the inherited moral world, which grows in interactions with changing circumstances over many generations, has a “lived-in quality.”^{44Some philosophers challenge Walzer by pointing out that this is now no longer the case in modernity. In the past, tradition, culture, or shared understanding did play a role in moral deliberation. People in modern times have forfeited particular cultures, and built a universal one. This universalist culture is invented on the basis of rationality alone, and its understanding does not require historical background or knowledge of a particular culture. For example, natural science or mathematics has a history of development. But it has developed in such a way that a student does not need to study its history before mastering its theories. Science and the history of science have become two separate subjects. Indeed many students are instructed in science without knowing its history. Apparently, these students can apply their scientific knowledge as well as those who know the history of science. Walzer concedes that this may be true in some cases. He cites The Declaration of Human Rights as an example in humanity. But he immediately calls to our attention that someone who has the Jewish or the Christian idea of imago dei may have a fuller understanding of human rights. Moreover, human rights cannot cover all the complexities of a moral life. Whenever human rights are elaborated into specifics that have the shape of a way of life—a life that is not only liveable but also desirable and enjoyable, we can always spot some cultural particulars in them. Not all attempted elaborations, however, are plausible. A plausible elaboration involves nothing less than interpretation. (See the dialogues between Herman De Dijn, Arnold Burms, and Walzer, in Seminar with Michael Walzer, in Ethical Perspectives 6 (1999) 220-242, pp. 225-227.)} Though human-made, it evolves without a blueprint or a central planner. What are we supposed to do with it? “Thick description,” in the opinion of Walzer, is a more appropriate way to handle it than “abstract modelling.”^{45Interpretation, pp. 19-20.}

4. The dilemma of idealization

Walzer’s refutation of moral discovery and invention, and his argument for interpretation are general and sketchy. Followers of Rawls or Habermas are ready to point out his mis-readings here and there.^{46Cf. G. Warnke, Rawls, Habermas, and Real Talk. A Reply to Walzer, in The Philosophical Forum 21 (1989-1990) 197-203; B. Barry, Social Criticism.} Walzer is not insensitive to his vulnerability. Indeed, he concedes that his criticism may not fully account for the complexity and sophistication in the discovery or inventive theories.^{47Philosophical Conversation, p. 185; Interpretation, p. 13.} This incompleteness, I think, mirrors his virtue of trying to be persuasive without being victorious. He has no intention to present a knockdown argument against his opponents. What he is doing is to contrast the differences between his interpretive methodology with the other two types of methodologies. In this way, he exposes the main weaknesses of some common moral and political theories. Is his proposal a better alternative then? This question is open to the reader. Nonetheless, Walzer has made some important points that we have to take heed of. Below I will give a brief review of them.

I think Walzer is certainly right that “the eagle at daybreak” is a kind of dangerous moral discoverer. People with good sense will naturally be suspicious of the person who claims that he has exclusive access to the Truth and is sent by the Truth. Someone may be quick to correct me by saying that Moses, Jesus, Mohammad, and Buddha are either gods or men of god. Many people believe in them, and they have had many followers throughout history. One easy response is to attribute these facts to the blindness or the religious feelings of the masses who easily fall prey to the manipulation of the priests or the prophets. But this explanation is just too simplistic to explain why people believe in religion. The rationale for believing in religion is complex. Surely, it is much more complex than the Marxist explanation. Even in the matter of revelation, we can see the rationality of the believers at work. To explain it, let me first distinguish two types of revelation: the immanent and the distant. By immanent I mean the kind of apocalypse here and now, that is, a man among us claims to be god or the prophet of god, and that everyone is obliged to follow him. This type of god-man usually polarizes the population, and causes strife and bloodshed. The Moses-led exodus is an example. These figures are sometimes frightening. Revelational religion depends on them. Believers, on the one hand, are attached to them, and on the other, tend to confine their discovered truths as distant facts. The visions and the teachings of a god-man are recorded, preserved, and zealously studied, but the re-appearance or the re-incarnation of a god-man is controlled or terminated. There is only one Moses in Judaism, one Jesus in Christianity, and one Mohammad in Islam. Although there are latter prophets, buddhas, saints, or vicars of Christ, their power and authority are incomparable to that of the original ones. The consequences are that believers believe in god and his revelation, but that the god is no longer palpable, and the revelation becomes a fixed and distant document. What the believers possess now is a sacred text, which is open to rational discussion. The frightening of immanent revelation is tamed by reason and is transformed into a milder form by the interpretation of revelation.^{48There are many ways to understand revelation as a continual process. In any case, the present forms of revelation are much weaker and less compelling than the original immanent revelation.}

Scientific discovery is a modern version of religious revelation. The scientists claim to have discovered truth not from the revelation of God but from nature or humanity itself. Parallel to religious revelation, scientific discovery has one weak version and one strong version. The weak version is a project that attempts to look for rational philosophical arguments for what we are practising. It is a kind of disguised interpretation. The strong version, such as Marxism and utilitarianism, claims to be a genuine scientific discovery. It brings excitement and great hope together with disaster. Marxism, which was deemed as the scientific gospel for the oppressed, was first received with enthusiasm. But in the end, it exhausted people’s life as well as their faith, and became bankrupt like any other apocalyptic cult. Marxism is bizarre and terrifying. So does utilitarianism. Had it been strictly applied without correction, it could also have generated the same kind of terror as Marxism. It is well-known that the utilitarian calculus of utility can be a horrifying formula: it is not a question of who satisfies or who suffers, and neither is the reason a concern; the only thing that matters is the marginal happiness. Imagine a poor man living in a slum or a refugee camp of a war-torn under-developed country in Africa, South America, or central Asia. He has hardly enough to sustain his life. He has no happiness of any kind, in fact, no hope at all. He is waiting either to die from starvation or to be killed by a bullet or bomb coming from nowhere. Should we invite him to live in the wealthiest country for a period, say one year, and then terminate him painlessly without his knowing, and utilize his organs, tissues, bones, and skin to save some other lives of that country, the total amount of utility will probably be maximized. Certainly, this act will shock our conscience. It is in complete contradiction with our moral sense. We find the calculus of utility, which allows one person’s happiness to compensate for another’s misery, unacceptable. What saves utilitarianism from practising brutal terror is the reversion to moral intuition coupled with the technique of reflective equilibrium.

Despite the fact that utilitarianism is still popular among Anglo-American ethicists, it seems to have lost its ground. Utilitarians become shy of claiming their methodology as scientific discovery. Barry, who is a severe critic of Walzer, argues that we can find a foundation for utilitarianism in the popular beliefs. He suggests that utilitarianism has two sources: “One is the idea, which roots in Stoicism and the monotheistic religions, that everyone’s life is equally valuable. Utilitarianism develops this idea by suggesting that the fairest way of treating everyone equally is to count everyone for one in an aggregative calculus. The other source is the virtue of benevolence, universally recognized and perhaps especially prized in the eighteenth century ... Building on the virtue of benevolence, utilitarianism invites us to commit ourselves to the good of the social whole.”^{49B. Barry, Liberty, p. 19.} That is why utilitarianism was the working political morality in Victorian England. Barry is probably right that utilitarianism has its root in the English culture. He thus testifies that utilitarianism is in fact an interpretation of culture and not a novel invention. This is exactly what Walzer tries to prove. Utilitarianism comes from an English root, but it is presented as if it were rootless, as if it were universal just like any other scientific discovery. Or better still, it acknowledges its root but it claims to have transcended its particularity and become universal. This belief, however, is a bad faith. If utilitarianism is transcendent, why does its calculus sometimes deviate greatly from good morals? Why do utilitarians not press for their shocking deductions? What prevents them from so doing and what assists them in correcting their outlandish calculations is the existing morality. Utilitarianism may be transplanted to other soil even if it has an English root. But it cannot live without soil.

The problems of utilitarianism have been noted since its appearance. Starting from the 1930s, some welfare economic thinkers have abandoned utilitarianism and sought for an alternative method in decision-making.^{50Philip Pettit supplies the link from utilitarianism to Rawls’s theory of justice. The following paragraphs are based on his book Judging Justice, pp. 143-155.} The first candidate they considered was Vilfredo Pareto, a late nineteenth century Italian economist and sociologist. According to Pareto’s theory, if everyone in a society is indifferent to either of the two policies offered, the society, as a whole, ought to be indifferent to either of them too; but if there is a person who prefers a particular policy, while the others are indifferent, then the society ought to prefer that particular policy. For example, a government has to choose between two policies A and B. It asks its citizens to express their preference. All citizens except one are indifferent to either policy, while the one citizen prefers B. Then the government should choose B. The Pareto criterion seems neat and easy to apply. Yet this theory has one serious drawback: incompleteness. Once under the circumstances of conflicting preferences, the theory will become indecisive. Suppose there is another citizen who is not indifferent but has a strong preference for A. Then society as a whole does not know which policy to prefer. The Pareto theory is unable to deal with conflicting claims. In reality, almost all policies have contenders. The Pareto case is rare, if not nonexistent. The theory is not of much use.

The second candidate was the majoritarianism. It is an attempt to translate democracy into decision-making by using a democratic ranking procedure. Public administrators first draft or collect some proposals for an issue, and they announce the alternatives to the public. People are then asked to rank the options. When votes are collected and calculated, the victor goes to the one that has the highest vote. The best social option, according to majoritarianism, is the most popular one. This procedure not only pays equal respect to each person but also avoids the complicated utilitarian calculus. It nevertheless has its own flaws. In the early 1950s, the American economist Kenneth Arrow showed in his impossibility theorem that the majoritarian principle will produce contradictory result in cases that exceeds two options.^{51For an explanation of the impossibility theorem, see P. Pettit, Judging Justice, pp. 145-146.} Majoritarianism is also incomplete; it is also indecisive in some cases. But its more serious problem is the tyranny of the majority. Although majoritarianism remedies the awkwardness of the utilitarian calculation, its voting procedure guarantees that the majority can always win. As a result, the minority will consistently be discriminated and suffer under the oppression of the majority. And this is likely to happen in most cases.

In the recent stage of development, Rawls’s theory of justice emerges as the natural successor of majoritarianism. The majoritarian ranking procedure registers the most popular vote, but is unable to reconcile it with the conception of justice. Although the recorded preference is fair to the majority, it can be unfair to the minority. To make the selecting procedure fair to everyone, Rawls introduces the idea of the “enlightened preference.” He attempts to filter out self-interest and bias in the recorded preference by using the veil of ignorance. Under such enlightened condition and the guidance of reason, Rawls believes, people will select a social charter that is fair to everyone, and thus they can make a genuine and just social contract with each other.

Rawls’s solution is the most elegant one but it is not without problems either. The major charge is the metaphysical character of his original position: there is simply no such person in the original position. The proposition is unrealistic and can in no way be applied to real political decision-making. Habermas’s ideal discourse may be seen as a correction to this weakness. He intends to construct a dialogue with real persons, while at the same time filter out the bias of the parties by imposing certain rules. Instead of proposing some principles of justice, Habermas constructs an ideal environment to resolve conflicts.^{52Cf. G. Warnke, Justice, Chapter V Habermas and the Conflict of Interpretations, pp. 87-110.}

Walzer’s criticism of inventive morality may be summarized as the dilemma of idealization. Traditionally, the typical task of philosophers is to search for ideals. Since the world is inherently contingent, it can hardly give us ideal knowledge. One way to cope with the erratic nature of the world is to detach from it and to use our mental capacity to shape an ideal world. Applying this method to ethics, the moralist will try to extract one idealized covering principle or a set of principles from the existing imperfect moral norms. He then uses it to correct the existing moral world. This is what and how the moralist is supposed to do in philosophy. But the tide has turned: people nowadays become more sceptical about the accuracy and the validity of idealization. We prefer, for good reason, to use empirical findings to correct conceptions rather than vice versa. Still, the majority of the moral and political philosophers engage themselves in idealizing. Walzer challenges that this-worldly justice is better comprehended by describing its complexity rather than reducing it to an idealized or a metaphysical form. Rawls (and Habermas also) seems to agree that justice is not a metaphysical speculation. Indeed, he clarifies his position by declaring that the original position is not metaphysical but political.^{53Cf. J. Rawls, Justice as Fairness.} Given that we accept Rawls’s apology, another problem arises, namely, this-worldly justice renders his methodology inadequate. The traditional philosophical methodology—the Principle of Prior Simplicity or abstract modelling—is designed to search for metaphysical justice. When it is used to interpret and to express this-worldly justice, it is strained to its limits, and reveals its disability to circumscribe complexity. How can the simple encompass the complex?

The situation calls for a radical change. Habermas’s ideal speech is one of the attempts. But in the opinion of Walzer, Habermas’s design is cumbersome. He tries hard to construct an ideal environment for real talk, but real talk in idealized conditions is not real anymore, not the one we commonly encounter in real life. He wants to filter out his participants’ biases and weaknesses, but he ends up imposing his own criteria on them. Walzer thinks that any idealization or abstraction is an escape from reality. Politics is politics, and people are what they are; they cannot be transformed into a mind-game. There is no ideal representative or ideal conversational environment. Philosophy cannot substitute politics. Walzer’s emphasis is correct. Even philosophers are taking part in an ongoing political process. They have their own cultural traditions, their own bases, their own financial sources, and their own organs or channels to promulgate their own positions. How can they be impartial or idealized? The existing moral world is just too complex to be adequately represented by abstract modelling. This-worldly justice demands a more radical change in methodology. Walzer’s suggestion is to replace the “reduction to the simple” by the “thick description of the complex.”

“Thick description” is not an accurate description of Walzer’s methodology: his moral arguments are thick but only partly descriptive; some of them are not descriptive at all. “Thick description” is best understood as an interpretation that gives full expression of the existing morality. It is “a kind of argument,” in Walzer’s own words, “that is itself ‘thick’—richly referential, culturally resonant, locked into a locally established symbolic system or network of meanings.” Thick morality can be theorized, but the theorizing should be interpretive in nature, and the product should be acknowledged as a local theory. Besides, “it is a good thing,” Walzer says, “if the interpreter is able to tell a story, making his critical argument from within a tradition, acknowledging the significance of historical events and proper names even as he reaches for the appropriate theoretical terms.”^{54M. Walzer, Maximalism and the Social Critic, in Thick and Thin. Moral Argument at Home and Abroad, Notre Dame, IN – London, 1994, 41-61., p. 50.} In this sense, his three books, Just and Unjust Wars, Spheres of Justice, and The Company of Critics, are examples of thick descriptions.

Walzer’s claim of thick description is a moderate one. On the one hand, the theorizing of the existing morality is mostly interpretive, and on the other, it is only good “to tell a story” and to mention “historical events and proper names.” He seems to say that a moral theory is acceptable insofar as it is done mostly in an interpretive mode. You prefer storytelling, and I like abstract modelling. Since interpretation is essentially incomplete, there is no criterion to determine which interpretation is better. Rawls’s interpretation may be as good as Walzer’s. Indeed, some scholars such as Miller and Warnke propose that Walzer’s Spheres is one among many equally plausible interpretations, which include Robert Nozick’s minimal state.^{55D. Miller, Introduction, in Pluralism, 1-16, p. 10; G. Warnke, Justice, pp. 30-31.}

I appreciate their scholarly hypothesizing and assent to their suggested possibility, but I do not concur with their suggestion that the minimal state is as good an interpretation of the United States as the spheres of justice. For incompleteness does not mean totally undeterminate. Somehow, we can still compare different interpretations. Complexity or subtleness can be one criterion. The difference between Walzer’s theory of justice and those of the others is not merely in form but also in substance. Their difference is not only in representation but also in the method of interpretation. Abstract modelling employs a quite intuitive and crude interpretive technique of reflective equilibrium, whereas thick description requires and makes room for a more nuanced interpretive methodology. Walzer himself does not make this stronger claim. He nonetheless elaborates his interpretive methodology in his later works. One distinct feature of this methodology is the incorporation of the multiple facets of time. This can improve the accuracy in reading of the existing morality. Perhaps, Walzer’s interpretation may not be better, but his interpretive methodology is, that is for sure.

§2. Time and shared understanding

A. Physical time and social time

The interpretation of shared understandings not only offers a viable entrance to the moral world, it simultaneously prescribes its own method of interpretation. The proper way of interpreting shared understanding is related to and to a large extent determined by its properties. Translating one language into another, playing musical compositions, interpreting historical events, reading poems, analysing dreams, conceptualizing experimental data, and interpreting law, all these are different kinds of interpretation, which require different methods and skills. The difference is due partly to the essence of the object of interpretation and partly to its tradition of interpretation. Now, what does shared understanding require of its interpretation that best suits its nature? Maybe, there are many equally cogent methods of interpretation, but it is not my purpose to explore them here. In response to Walzer’s claim in the Spheres that his theory draws in part upon history, I prefer to attend to the historical dimension of shared understanding.

An underlying principle of history is the concept of time. Time plays an important role in all historical processes. It seems to have control over history, and looks as if it imposed restriction on human activities and possibilities. In the case of shared understanding, a variation of duration can be observed: some of it seemingly remain unchanged over thousands of years, some last for hundreds of years, some stay for tens of years or even shorter, some appear just once, some recur again and again. How are we to understand the patterns of change? The second aspect of history that concerns us is the idea of cause and effect. Consecutive historical events can be perceived as existing in a cause and effect relationship. A previous event causes the happening of the next or a series of events. Historical events are seen as chain reactions, which can be taken as either deterministic or probabilistic. The deterministic view of history is an extension of the mechanistic determinism in physics. In Newton’s classical theory of motion or Einstein’s theory of relativity, a projectile or motion is completely predictable if its initial conditions are known. Conceivably, all happenings in the universe can be reduced to movements of particles. If the universe starts with a big bang, then the subsequent cosmos is the result of the interactions of particles. Particles condense to form atoms, and atoms knock into shape of molecules, and molecules combine to produce physical objects and living organisms; and all human activities can be regarded as a small part of the continual movements after the big bang. Once the initial conditions of the big bang and the laws of the universe are known, we can comprehend all human actions, past, present, and future. Of course, our present knowledge of the universe is still insufficient for us to predict the complicated movements of living organisms. Perhaps, we can never fully understand the cosmos and can never explain human activities in terms of physical laws. Nevertheless, we can still grasp the picture that the universe is created, or that it initiates itself, once and for all. This is the belief held by many scientists, though few historians adopt it. Historians tend to take historical causality in a probabilistic way: one event causes the other. Yet, that cause does not necessarily lead to a certain consequence. There are many possible consequences, and it is uncertain which one will take place. The best we can know is the probabilities of the possibilities. This probabilistic view of history makes room for human decision-making and creativity. Until now, I have raised some hard questions that cannot be dealt with adequately in this project. I can only present briefly some scientific notions of time as an introduction to the social conceptions of time.

The concept of time has become indispensable in natural sciences since Galileo ushered in the dimension of time in his formulation of the physical law. But it is Newton who formulates the classic modern view of time. In his Principia Mathematica, Newton argues that time is a non-material, absolute reality of the universe, and that absolute time and absolute space together form the grid of the universe, in which all material bodies move around. He says that time or duration is absolute and has no relation with anything external. Absolute time flows equably by itself. It can neither be sensed nor measured. We can only experience and measure its relative duration by the motion of material bodies or by any mechanical device, and express it in terms of hour, day, month, or year.^{56I. Newton, Sir Isaac Newton’s Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy and His System of the World, Vol. I: The Motion of Bodies, trans. A. Motte & F. Cajori, Berkeley, CA, 1966, pp. 6-8.}

Newton’s ideas of absolute time and absolute space come more from his religious conviction than his empirical observation. Absolute time and absolute space are his way of theologizing. He assumes that time and space are the two attributes of God through which God acts upon the world. The belief in absolute space, as pointed out by Stephen Hawking, is in fact contradictory to the implication of Newton’s own theory.^{57S. W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time. From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London, 1989, p. 18.} Nonetheless, Newton refuses to accept a relative space. It is not until Einstein who takes Newton’s theory seriously, and shows in his special theory of relativity that not only space but also time is relative. Experiments confirm that Einstein’s theory is correct. A clock in a high-speed spacecraft moves slower relative to a clock on earth. As if the relativity of time were not startling or perplexing enough, Einstein goes on to incorporate time into space or to geometrize time. Time and space now become space-time. In this new configuration of space-time, “the distinction between past, present and future,” Einstein tells his friend, “is an illusion, although a persistent one.”^{58A. Einstein, quoted in I. Prigogine, The End, p. 165.} His verdict is that the irreversibility of time is an illusion. This conception of time is in total discordance with our common experience of time. It sounds more like science fiction, yet it comes from the mouth of one of the greatest scientists of the twentieth century. Hitherto, Einstein’s theory is still predominant in the science world, but he is not without challengers.

Notably, Ilya Prigogine has pleaded for the “arrow of time” and “uncertainty.”^{59I. Prigogine and I. Stengers, Order; I. Prigogine, The End.} His argument is based on the findings of two fields: thermodynamics and quantum mechanics. To state simply, in a complex chemical system as well as in the subatomic system, there exist some processes whose paths of change are irreversible and cannot be predicted with certainty. Hence, Prigogine proposes that time is irreversible, and that the irreversible time is part of the structure of the universe. Everything in the universe is drifted forward to an uncertain future by the current of time. This idea of the arrow of time, in a sense, is a reverse to Newton’s absolute time except that the world perceived by Prigogine is most often non-symmetric and irreversible—Newton’s conception of symmetric and reversible motion is valid only in a simple system, and thus can rarely be found in the universe. Newton puts two irreconcilable ideas into his physics: either time is absolute, or the motion of bodies is symmetric and reversible; they cannot both be true. Einstein takes up the latter notion and relativizes time. But Prigogine opts for the former and affirms the irreversibility of time.

Is time an illusion, or is it a reality that imposes its irreversibility on everything in the world? This is a question still under debate, and we could not expect to have a definite answer in the near future. Right now, we, as bystanders of natural science, are not sure which notion is a more consistent description of the physical world. (Though I think Prigogine is probably correct.) In any event, it is possible for us to experience timelessness and the arrow of time in the system called “society.” For instance, the institution of family has existed for so long and appeared to be so important that it seems it will continue to exist as long as there are human beings. This kind of seemingly universal social structures attracts the attention of some social scientists. There are also some seemingly universal human values, usually expressed in the form of prohibitions such as “thou shalt not steal” and “thou shalt not kill,” which are the subject of study for the ethicists. Besides timelessness, we can also experience the arrow of time in our everyday life. We know that something once happened cannot be undone. Past, present, and future impose an invisible barrier on us. We cannot move between them. Instead, we are carried along by the current of time. This experience of time is conceptualized by the historians in their writings. They commonly take a historical event as instantaneous or as occupying a short period. Then, each historical event is located on a linear progressive time line, one after the other. It never makes (historical) sense to reverse the order. Besides these two conceptions of time, we have the social experience of cycle. The Buddhist teaching of reincarnation gives us a glimpse of this notion. One might argue that reincarnation is a belief rather than a reality. Yet, the fluctuation of market price is an undeniable fact, as anyone who has experienced its burn will know it. Economists have to study the cyclical trend, and companies have to hedge against the fluctuation of price. There is moreover another social conception of time, which is named by Fernand Braudel as the longue durée.^{60F. Braudel, Histoire et Sciences sociales. La longue durée, in Annales. Économies, sociétés, civilisations 13 (1958) 725-753.} This long-term or structural time has previously been mentioned by some economists and historians, but it was not studied seriously. Braudel brings this conception of time anew to the attention of historians and sociologists. This notion is based on the fact that some social structure has existed over hundreds or thousands of years. Dynasty or party in power may change, but the form of government lingers on. This cannot be treated as a short-term event or a cyclical trend. It comes closer to the timeless or very long-term structure. Nevertheless, it will collapse, and another structure will take over its place. Braudel suggests that this is the core concept of time in the study of history. All the other concepts should be subordinated to it.

We have just mentioned four social concepts of time: the short-term, the very long-term (or timelessness), and in between, the cycle and the long-term. Detached of their context, they are contradictory and incompatible. But Braudel tells us to conceive them as the plurality or multiplicity (pluralité or multiplicité) of social time.^{61F. Braudel, Histoire, pp. 726-727.} They are indispensable to the formation of a common methodology in social science. Unlike the natural scientists, Braudel does not argue for one true description of time. Rather, he affirms the four experiences of time as four different social realities. A proper application of them is crucial to a comprehensive understanding of history.

Shared understanding, a product of historical processes, displays the various properties of time. There is clear evidence that Walzer is conscious of its multiplicity. In his interpretation of shared understandings, he has explicitly applied three of the four concepts—the short-term, the cycle, and the long-term. Later I will show that the cyclical and the long-term perspectives constitute two major interpretive principles in Walzer’s methodology. There is a third interpretive principle which makes use of the very long-term perspective. Although Walzer does not explicitly refer to it, his just-war theory and his idea of a universal minimal code can reasonably be understood from the perspective of the very long-term. The above three temporal interpretive principles will render moral interpretation too deterministic. Since Walzer is an advocate of social reform and human creativity, these three alone cannot adequately represent his enterprise. A fourth interpretive principle is thus needed to complete the methodology. I call it tradition reflexivity. It is an attitude that holds tradition in high regard, but at the same time remains critical towards it. This attitude can be objectified in various ways of reflective interpretation that opens up tradition to dialogue with the ever-changing social conditions. These reflective activities originate from within the boundaries of time and tradition, but sometimes they may break open the boundaries, and bring forth some values that are forward-looking and untraditional.

It is not my claim that Walzer consistently uses the four interpretive principles in his social and ethical writings. My aim is to point out that they are present in Walzer’s works, and that they are important in moral interpretation. In the course of systematizing Walzer’s interpretive methodology, I run the risk of imposing my own scheme on him. Whether I have over-systematized Walzer or not, I leave it to the good judgement of the reader.

B. Four principles of moral interpretation

1. The first principle: the long view

The most explicitly explained concept of time in Walzer’s writings is what he calls “the long view.” Walzer observes that at a particular moment and place, there may exist conflicting ideas of how a particular good should be distributed. And there seems to have no theoretical way of resolving the differences. Often it has to be settled by politics. This is certainly the case if we confine ourselves to a very short-term view. If, however, we take a longer view, things will appear differently. We shall discover that the social meaning of an important good usually remains in dominance for a long period of time, perhaps for hundreds or thousands of years. During its life time, rival meanings may arise and challenge the old one. The dominant one may retreat, but only for a while. It will surely return, dressed perhaps in a new form with rejuvenated vigour. Of course, a dominant social meaning will not last forever. At the end of its life, it is replaced by another social meaning, which then prevails for another long period. We are not certain at which moment the social meaning is taken over by another. The best we can say is that the dominant social meaning stays for a long period, and is then succeeded by another social meaning. In between these two epochs lies a transition period. If we put a social good within this time frame, we shall know its overall social meaning and the gross structure of its distribution.

This kind of experience and conception of time is not peculiar to social meaning. Indeed, some economists and sociologists have noticed them long ago, but they have not paid it the due attention. Fernand Braudel draws our attention to it. He coins it “la longue durée,” which is commonly translated as the “long view,” the “long-term trend” or the “structural time.” For the observer of society, the longue durée refers to the social coherence and stable relationships between the masses and social realities over a long period. Such long-term structures, according to Braudel, can distort the effect of time, like stretching the time scale to a longer length.^{62F. Braudel, Histoire, pp. 731-734.} That means they reveal another reality of social time, which is different from the ordinarily experienced time as momentary consecutive events situated on a linear straight line. The longue durée appears to be slow-moving, and sometimes even practically static. This effect is produced by the stable structures, which maintain themselves by supporting the status quo, and at the same time impede the infiltration of alternative ideas or structures. The thought paradigm of the reduction to the simple is one good example, which has reigned over two thousand years in the West. It meets its challenges only in recent times and in limited areas. Whether these challenges should be seen as irregular disturbances or successors of the old paradigm is still undecided. But there are signs that we are in the transition period.

Another example given by Braudel is the mercantile capitalism in Western Europe from the fourteenth to the nineteenth century. Despite fluctuations and crises, certain features of this economic system remain stable. To name but a few: major economic activity supported by mobile populations; main trade routes dominated by water and ship; commercial growth took place along coastal cities; merchants became influential; precious metals, such as gold, silver, and copper, became the medium of exchange.^{63F. Braudel, Histoire, p. 733.} We can never properly understand the history of this period without identifying the dominant mercantile capitalist system. Once we recognize the stable characteristics of the system, irregular events and cyclical changes will become readily comprehensible.

To show, on the one hand, that my interpretation of Walzer’s “long view” by the longue durée is not arbitrary, and on the other, how the concept of structural time helps us recognize the dominant social meaning, I am going to present Walzer’s own argument. The passage that explicitly mentions the ideas of time can be found in the article Distributive Justice as a Maximalist Morality:^{64M. Walzer, Distributive Justice as a Maximalist Morality, in Thick and Thin. Moral Argument at Home and Abroad, Notre Dame, IN – London, 1994, 21-39, p. 28. Italics added.}

In the above passage, the first thing mentioned by Walzer is that the social meanings of important social goods are both “deep and long lasting.” I take “deep” to mean deeply embedded in the social life and intricately woven into the social fabric. Whether consciously or unconsciously, and in one way or another, members of any society are shaped by social meanings in the process of socialization. In their daily social interaction, and especially in their complaints of their neighbours, they articulate and reinforce the social meanings. Because of this “deepness,” social meanings support a way of life peculiar to that society and deter changes. Consequently, social meanings change slowly and last for many generations. The recognition of the slowness of social meaning is of foremost importance. Walzer says, “We will never grasp the idea of social meaning unless we get its horizons right.” The right horizons, I think, begin with seeing social meaning as slow-moving. To study the slack social meaning, it is necessary to take the long view. If we concentrate our attention only on the immediate and local arguments, we will never know which of these competing social meanings is the deep and long-lasting social meaning, nor will we notice our position in the lifespan of the social meaning, that is, whether we are at its rise, on its summit, or in the transition period.

Philosophers also realize the fact that the short view cannot resolve moral conflicts. But unlike Walzer, they commonly take the eternal view. In contrast to the long view, the eternal view sees things as static. The movements and changes, though perceived, are treated as illusions, and are explained away as the limitation of human cognition. The Truth is out there, changeless and timeless. Only human beings on their part need strenuous collective effort to approach the Truth. Even then, we can never be sure what exactly the Truth is. Nevertheless, we believe that it exists. Some philosophers may no longer accept the existence of the external Truth, but they still tend to treat things as timeless or in the eternal time. When there are disagreements on a certain issue, it is not uncommon among the philosophers to resolve the conflict by searching for the right answer, either selecting the best one from the competing claims, or forming a conglomerate of them, or better still, inventing a new one by the philosopher himself.

Walzer’s suggestion is to take the long view. An important social meaning is deeply embedded in daily life, and thus enduring. In order to understand it properly, we have to look at it from the perspective of the long view: What is its origin? How does it grow? Why does it decay? What does it transform into? Consider the social meaning of medicine. Walzer uses it as an example to explain the long view.^{65Distributive Justice, pp. 28-31. See also Spheres, pp. 86-91.} In order to underline the successive turning points of its life, I will not follow his argument strictly but will present it with a slight elaboration on the historical development of medicine. If we look at medicine from the perspective of the long view, the first point that catches our attention is its transition period. It is not difficult to notice that between the nineteenth and the early twentieth century, medicine was being institutionalized into the public life. Since then, doctors have become a prominent social class. There is a change in the meaning of medicine. In order to fix the present meaning, we have to go back to the origin.

The practice of medicine is an ancient trade. The earliest professional medical body in the West is usually ascribed to the Hippocratic guild. Doctors at that time served chiefly the wealthy who could afford to pay for the service. When ordinary Greeks were sick, they treated the illness in their traditional way. If they could not recover, they might go, as a last resort, to the temple of Aeclepius, and wait for the healing of the god. Apparently, medicine was not so central in the mind and in the life of the people in the ancient Greece.

Plato even mocked the medical profession and those persons who were obsessive with health and longevity. In the Republic, thus he criticizes Herodicus’ medicine:^{66Plato, Republic 3.406A-406B.}

For Plato, the proper use of medicine is to cure those who are curable, and to apply only to those who can restore to the vigour of life:^{67Plato, Republic 3.406D-406E.}

Plato holds an opposite view of medicine from the way we are practicing now. We are doing what he regards as benefiting neither the patients nor the state. Indeed, he is arguing against an extensive health care programme run by the state. For him, the cure of the body is for the “truly wellborn.” As for those who have defects in the body, “they will suffer to die.” The meaning of “wellborn” applies not only to the body but also to the “soul.” Plato conceives that those who are “evil-natured” and “incurable in soul” will ultimately destroy themselves.^{68Plato, Republic 3.409E-410A.} Underlying Plato’s opinion is his idea of life as pre-given and pre-conditioned. The good will flourish and the evil perish. It is neither appropriate nor effective for man to intervene or to change his destiny. External assistance should only be administered to those who can truly be benefited from the intervention.

The belief of life as incurable in both body and soul is gnawed away by Christianity. The gospel proclaims an eternal life for anyone who follows its salvific regimen with its focus on the purification of the soul. Though the cure of the body was uncertain and often unattainable, the cure of the soul is theoretically within the reach of everyone. Once the idea of eternal life was widely accepted in the Roman Empire, it became a necessity to organize its distribution and administration to everyone in the Christendom. Even the collapse of the Roman Empire had apparently no adverse effect on its permeation and ramifications. During the Medieval Period, the idea of eternal life was in its full bloom. It was probably the most important idea in organizing the life of Christians. Many institutions were established to realize the availability of eternal life. Tithes were collected to finance its administrative institution. Priesthood was regulated by ecclesiastical laws, so did the division of parish and the presence of priest. The Church worked hard to make sure that baptism was received by every newborn, catechism was taught to the children, confession and communion were available to the adults at regular intervals, and extreme unction and funeral were administered to the dying and the death. This whole elaborate system was meant to guarantee that the access to eternal life was distributed to everyone.

By and large, Walzer is correct to call the distribution of eternal life as the “cure of the souls.” Nevertheless, the Church has never ignored the cure of the bodies. It has a long tradition of caring for the sick, partly because of charity and partly because of its conception of life. Christians tend to value the body more than the ancient Greeks do. The resurrection of the bodies is the central message of the gospel, though one may argue that the resurrected body is different from this worldly body, and that the belief in the resurrection of the bodies does not entail the care of the earthly bodies. Nevertheless it constitutes a significant change in the conception of life—the Greeks believed only in the immortality of the soul. This belief has, together with charity, compelled Christians to pay more attention to the sick. We can find such evidence in the Gospels’ numerous records of the miraculous healing of the body, in the rite of unction, in the establishment of hospital, and in various cults that are fanatically obsessed with the pursuit of miraculous healing. Generally speaking, Christians see life as consisting of body and soul, even in the new heaven and the new earth. They, unlike Plato, are more willing to cure the bodies. The inefficacy of medicine in the ancient time is a possible factor that impedes the development of the health care system.

Noticeably since the sixteenth century, people came to question the effectiveness of the expensive distributive system of eternal life. The consequence was the separation of the Church and the state. In addition, the advancement of science and its rationality has also devalued the idea of eternal life. When more and more people became sceptical of and indifferent to eternal life, they saw no point in spending public funds to support such a huge system. In the meantime, there was a tremendous progress in medicine. It became viable to distribute it to the public. It is not surprising that the emphasis on eternal life was transferred to earthly life, and that the cure of the bodies overshadowed the cure of the souls. Gradually, health care was socialized and pastoral care privatized. Up until the early twentieth century, this process was almost completed in most Western countries.

From the long view, Medicine is tied up with the conception of life. Owing to the lack of means to manipulate either the body or the soul, ancient Greeks showed no interests in organizing the distribution of life, and it was left to the care of individuals and nature. The spread of Christianity set in the second phase, in which eternal life was guaranteed to everyone who followed the Christian way of life. The main characteristics of this dispensation can be summarized as the cure of the souls. It reached its peak in the Middle Ages. Since then, it started to decline, and came to an end at the close of the nineteenth century.^{69The dating is only suggestive. It serves to give a vague idea.} This does not mean that there is no more pastoral care, it means only that the cure of the souls has become the cure of the soul—that is, the cure turns from a public good into a private good. The third phase of the meaning of life begins with modernity, in which people are sceptical about eternal life but have achieved great breakthrough in the manipulation of earthly life. Consequently, the cure of the bodies takes up the place of the cure of the souls.

With this structural understanding of life in mind, we can construct a framework of health care. I think a brief sketch should at least include the following features: medicine is for the care of the body; it is best organized to support a communal life; it should be administered and regulated by the state; it should be available to anyone who needs it. Having said that, it is still undetermined what the actual forms of health care should be. These are open to discussion. Debate on a specific arrangement is unavoidable. Health care systems everywhere are constrained by limited resources, be it a deficit in the budget, a shortage of medical professionals, or a lack of organs for transplantation. Because of scarcity, medical administrators are forced to compromise between principle and actuality. Organ transplantation is a case in point. In principle, any sick person who needs organ transplantation should be given such operation at the time that benefits the patient most. Since the number of organs needed far exceeds that of organs donated, this principle cannot be put into practice. Instead, a medical committee, comprising of doctors and citizens, has to make a list of priorities so that the scarce organs go to the right patients. How the priorities are ordered is unclear. But one thing is for sure, the organs should in no way be auctioned in the market. The details of health care are left to us to decide. “But the gross structure of justice-in-cures,” Walzer says, “is given in advance of these arguments.”^{70Distributive Justice, p. 31.}

2. The second principle: the cycle

The second principle of moral interpretation is related to the concept of cyclical time. This reality of time is readily experienced in the cycles of the sun, the moon, the heavenly bodies, the seasons, and in the life cycle of all living things. This paradigm can also be found in social system. Braudel calls it “la conjoncture,” (literally “the conjuncture”), which means the “cyclical time,” or the “middle-range time.”^{71F. Braudel, Histoire, p. 730.} A typical example is the Kondratieff cycle in economy. Nikolai Kondratev, a Russian economist, argues that economic activity is controlled by the cycle of expansion and contraction. He observes that during a period of 150 years, from 1790 to 1940, there are three cycles of expansion and contraction in the economic production of major European countries. Each cycle has approximately a 50-year lifespan with half for expansion and half for contraction. Thus, he proposes that the capitalistic production comprises of successive life cycles. This experience of recurrence gives rise to the idea that time moves in a circle.

Walzer is unmistakably using the cyclical time to explain the relationship between communitarianism and liberalism in the article The Communitarian Critique of Liberalism. I shall cite below the first paragraph. Despite being expressed in a different terminology, the reader will immediately recognize the concept of cyclical time:^{72Communitarian Critique, p. 6.}

What we speak of as cycle, Walzer calls it “recurrence.” He reminds us that fashions are trendy things. Clothing styles change every season. Some of them emerge, become popular, then fade away, and never appear again. But some of them do reappear recurrently so that we will expect its reappearance in the future. The consecutive appearance and disappearance constitute a cycle. In order to understand them and to live with them, we would conceptualize them by using the cyclical time.

Without giving substantial evidence, Walzer proposes that communitarianism is a kind of intellectual fashion. He only mentions that Karl Marx’s critique of capitalism and the current communitarianism are cycles of the communitarian trend. Beyond that, he says nothing about its frequency or the span of the cycle. However Walzer does not take the communitarian trend as self-evident; rather, he reasons at a deeper level, which we will explore shortly. If communitarianism is cyclical, it has significant implications. I don’t mean we have to give up our stands and follow the trend: turn to communitarianism at its rise, and shift to some other rising –ism at its fall. But once we know the time, it will be more probable for us to choose the right means to pursue our ends, and it will also be more probable that we are the authors rather than the victims of history.

The apprehension and the speculation of social cycle date back to the ancient time. We can find such record in the Sinaean classic Mencius as early as in the fourth century b.c. Once his student Kung-tu Tzu asked Mencius why he was so contentious, Mencius answered that he was not fond of disputation, but he was compelled to do so by his time. Generalizing the history before him, Mencius pointed out to Tzu that the world was proceeding in cycles of chaos and order: a period of chaos was succeeded by a period of order, and then, by another cycle of chaos and order. Now, Mencius was in the time of chaos, which was characterized and caused by heresies and violence. In order to usher in order, he had no choice but to fight against heresies.^{73Cf. Mencius III. B. 9, in D. C. Lau (trans.), Harmondsworth, 1970.} The same conception of time can also be found in the Jewish sacred book Ecclesiastes. Absorbed in the thought of cycles, the preacher, in a gloomier mood, exclaimed: “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun (Ec 1,9).” Although separated by time and space, both authors express the same idea of the iron rule of cyclical time.

If Walzer knew only the cyclical time, he would be no better at understanding social realities than the ancient men. What is special of Walzer is his knowledge of other concepts of time. He is aware of at least three realities of time: the long view, the cycle, and the short view. And he is able to integrate them to interpret social phenomena by incorporating the other concepts of time into the core of the long view. Consequently, his picture is more nuanced.

Take Walzer’s discussion of fashions as an example. He observes that fashions are “short-lived.” This is the “short-term time” or the “episodic history.” From this perspective, things happen one after the other, they pass away, and they never happen again. Each event is viewed as situated in a linear arrow of time. Historians try to explain the cause and effect between consecutive events. In their explanation, they commonly attribute a series of events to a preceding dramatic event. This method can give a coherent view on past events, but it lacks the power to predict the future with confidence. Historians may study a historical event thoroughly, and make extensive connections with subsequent incidents. Nonetheless, the result of this study, strictly speaking, cannot be applied to a future situation because no two social milieux are the same. The social world is in a constant flux, which limits the predictive power of episodic history.

What is more interesting is that some fashions, instead of showing up once, “seem regularly to reappear.” Walzer notices that there is a cyclical pattern in some series of events. It is not to deny that two events can never be the same. Still, we can recognize some identical distinguishing features in the events. No two pleated trousers have the same pleat, and no two short skirts are of the same length. Yet, the “pleat-ness” of trousers or the “shortness” of skirts can be conceived as identical. We observe a cycle, and we expect this cycle to reproduce the same pattern. Now, we can use this pattern to predict the future with more precision. The economic analyst, for instance, is keen on speculating the cycle of price.

It is Walzer’s insight that the phenomenon of recurrence depends on a more stable social structure. The recurrent event is parasitic on the structure, and forms a complementary relationship with the structure. Standing by itself, the fashion is incapable to reappear. Pleated trousers and short skirts reappear regularly because they are the variant features of a certain way of dressing. Pleated trousers are a variation of trousers. And short skirts are a kind of skirts that can only exist in the social milieu that permits the exposure of certain parts of body contours. It is unimaginable that short skirts for women would appear in medieval Europe, in the Arab world, or in ancient China. In a more abstract way, we may say that Walzer has incorporated cyclical time into structural time, that is, cycles are seen as variations of a dominant phenomenon over a long duration. The recurrence of a fashion does not necessarily last forever. It will not appear again if its host structure passes away.

So far, I have mainly talked about clothing fashions. I should perhaps speak something about intellectual fashions as well. Like pleated trousers, the communitarian critique of liberalism is a recurrent intellectual fashion. Thus writes Walzer:^{74Communitarian Critique, p. 6.}

The above-cited passage touches two realities of time: a structural time and a cyclical time within it. The overall logic runs as follows. Modernity is a liberal era. Walzer sees no sign of its transformation or of its replacement by another mode of life in the near future. Furthermore, liberal society has a kind of attractiveness, certainly better than the aristocratic society. So far Walzer does not conceive of any alternative. For this reason, the communitarian critique, no matter how penetrating, cannot defeat liberalism. If communitarian critique appeared only once, we could regard it as an accident. Since it recurs, we should seek its explanation in the phenomenon of liberalism.

Walzer substantiates his claim by pointing out that the present dominant structure is the capitalist economic system.^{75Communitarian Critique, p. 7.} This system is characterized by progress, economic growth, and the endless accumulation of capital. Walzer seems to accept the capitalist system. But he points out that this system brings with it “deracinated social forms,” which all modern social theories try to cope with. Walzer characterizes the deracinated force by “mobility.” The capitalist economy pushes and encourages people to become individuals pursuing all kinds of mobility. As an example, Walzer coins, in the Marxist style of China, the Four Mobilities: Geographic Mobility, Social Mobility, Marital Mobility, and Political Mobility.^{76Communitarian Critique, pp. 11-12.} He argues that in spite of their undesirable effects, people love mobility. Liberalism captures and articulates the people’s aspiration to movement. It endorses and justifies this social reality. In the liberal doctrine, mobility is the realization of liberty and the pursuit of personal happiness. On the other hand, liberals do not, as some communitarians would say, deny social associations or commitments. Rather, they transform all permanent relationships into voluntary and thus temporary ones. We now need to attach ourselves neither to one region, nor to one nation, nor to the social class of our fathers, nor to one spouse, nor to one political party or ideal, nor to one religion.… There are associations, in fact much more than in the past, but the relationships and commitments are ordained by law to be voluntary and temporary. Thus, Walzer reminds us “there is no one out there but separated, rights-bearing, voluntarily associating, freely speaking, liberal selves.”^{77Communitarian Critique, p. 15.} This mode of life has its underside: misery and discontent. Nevertheless, most people embrace it. For those who do not like it, they are obliged to live under its authority. For instance, some Christian churches prohibit or strictly control divorce. But the believers are under the state’s rather than the churches’ jurisdiction. Christians can divorce and remarry if they wish, and they do. Churches do not have effective sanction in their disposal to tie a separating couple together. Hence marriage is a voluntary relationship under a liberal state’s jurisdiction regardless of individual beliefs or convictions.

Although liberalism constitutes the theoretical backbone of modern society and everybody lives under its hegemony, it is not a must that everyone should prostrate before it or embrace it unreservedly. Liberalism has left room for resistance and rebellion in a legitimate way. The acceptance of liberalism is also voluntary. Christians can still cling to their own ideal and criticize the liberal society, for this too is a liberal ideal. If, however, they want their criticism to be heard in the public, they must formulate their argument in terms of the liberal ideals. Otherwise, their voices will remain within their own circles. The communitarian critique has temporarily a wide and loud resonance in the public because it seizes and makes use of the often-neglected side of liberal association and commitment. Liberalism tends to overemphasize individualistic freedom from time to time. The communitarian critique serves to remind the public that they are living in society, and that they have communal obligations. Yet the inability on the part of communitarians to propose a viable political programme demonstrates that the communitarian critique is parasitic on liberalism. In contrast, social democracy has gained a permanent place in society side by side with the mainstream liberalism. Walzer attributes this success to social democrats’ acceptance of the capitalist economic system and the resultant mobility, and to their ability in depicting a feasible alternative. This implies that it is possible to construct a rival social theory provided that it accommodates the main structure of modern life.

3. The third principle: the very long view

We have discussed three concepts of time and now we come to the last one. (The short-term time has been mentioned previously. Since it is not very important in relation to interpretation, we will not give it a separate heading.) In comparison with the other three, the fourth concept of time seems quite strange. Our usual experience of time is that it has movement and direction of flow. This is true either in the long view or in the short view. The cycle has movement and direction too, though it changes its direction constantly along a circular path. We can add the arrow of time into the cycle by assimilating it with the structural time. The resultant time will be a spiral. The fourth idea of time, however, has no movement at all. Perhaps, it should not be called time. We experience it as time not because of itself, but because we have memory of other time-experiences. We experience it as the opposite of time, as timelessness. Imagine time in a geometric way as a straight path without a beginning and an end. People on this path were carried forward by a conveyor belt. They could walk on the belt on both directions, but the speed of the belt was so fast that their efforts were insignificant. This is how we usually experience time. Somehow, a person invented an ultra-speed device, with which he could move to any place on the conveyor belt almost instantly. Now, he could transcend the limitation imposed on him by the motion of the belt, and move as if the belt were motionless. We do possess such a device, which is our mind. With it, we can transcend the flow of time. Starting with all the available historical records, we dive into history and move freely between historical events. We focus our attention only on those patterns or ideas that are perpetual. We then project them back into the unrecorded past and forward to the uncertain future as if there were no time boundary— we affirm them to be invariable always and everywhere.

Timelessness is only an extrapolation of the opposite of time, a human idealization. I cannot think of anything that is strictly changeless. In reality, things are only seemingly changeless, and time is seemingly timeless. Timeless time moves, though in an extremely slow pace. In comparison with the long view, this conception of time is much much longer, and it may be called the “very long view.” Braudel names it “la très longue durée,” which is translated as the “very long-term,” or the “eternal time.”^{78F. Braudel, Histoire, p. 742.} It is presumed by philosophers and confirmed by scientists. We have ample examples of it in theories of nature and in theories of society. Braudel, for instance, mentions that the system of kinship is a permanently established institution. Though there are many such systems and the practices vary from time to time and from place to place, two rules appear to be constant throughout. The first is consanguinity and the second the prohibition of incest. The reason that kinship is primarily defined by consanguinity is due to the biological nature of human procreation. As for the prohibition of incest, Braudel attributes it to the struggle for survival. In order to increase the chance of survival, either against the odds of nature or against enemy, a small group of men and women must open themselves to the outside world. To achieve this end, different kinds of incestuous rules have taken shape.^{79F. Braudel, Histoire, pp. 746-747.} We notice that both reasons are related to the chance of survival. In a trial and error manner, mankind has laid out the minimal conditions for life. Violation of any one of these basic conditions will certainly bring disaster to the group.

To be more exact, Walzer has never used the term “the very long view.” It is only my suggestion. Nor has he explicitly explicated this concept. Nevertheless, such idea can be found in his works. Apparently, the Just and Unjust Wars is written from the assumed perspective of the very long view, and arguably The Company of Critics also. But I will focus only on the more obvious cases. In the first chapter of the Wars, in which the fundamental argument of the book is laid out, Walzer attempts to show that there exists a moral culture of war, that we can access it through the moral language, and that the language is “sufficiently common and stable” so that people pass the same moral judgement on the same case.^{80Wars, p. 20.} The two words “common and stable” refer to some moral rules of war that can be discovered across all time and space. This is an indication of the idea of the très longue durée involved in Walzer’s conception of the morality of war. An analysis of the arguments in the first chapter confirms my proposition. In his refutation of moral realism, Walzer uses two historical cases: one from the Peloponnesian War, and the other from the battle of Agincourt. The arguments of both cases have the common form that all people in different times and at different places understand the moral issue at stake, and the majority of them share the same judgement.

Take the conquest of Melos in the Peloponnesian War as an example. It is a story recorded by Thucydides about the Melian defender and the Athenian aggressor. The island state of Melos, being a Spartan colony, was drawn into the contest for hegemony between Athens and Sparta. Now, Athenian army approached the city of Melos. Before the actual armed conflict, first came the battle of words. The Athenian generals Cleomedes and Tisias spoke to the magistrates of Melos, and demanded them to surrender. Their argument can be formulated in direct speech as follows: “Don’t speak to us about justice. Don’t say that the Melians have done no harm whatsoever to the Athenians and thus have the right to be neutral. Think about feasibility and necessity. Can you defend yourselves against us? If not, then surrender. Otherwise, the city and all its inhabitants will face severe punishment for defiance. It is not only you that must yield to necessity. We, as aggressors, have to conquer lest we are taken to be lack of strength and invite rebellion and attack.” The general offered a naked intimidation. But the magistrates of Melos did not give in, for they valued liberty above safety and they were ready to risk their lives. They knew it was difficult for them to defend themselves against the military superiority of Athens, and yet they wanted to fight for freedom. They refused to surrender. They bravely turned down the proposal of the generals. Their reply was mixed with practical calculation and an appeal to justice: “… for fortune, we shall be nothing inferior, as having the gods on our side, because we stand innocent against men unjust.” And as for power, they thought that the Spartans would come to their defence. The dialogue ended. The Athenians besieged the city. The Spartans sent no help. After several months of fighting, Melos fell into the hands of the Athenians. The generals imposed, as they promised, severe infliction on the city: “who slew all the men of military age, made slaves of the women and children; and inhabited the place with a colony sent thither afterwards of 500 men of their own.”^{81Wars, pp. 5-6.} The punishment amounts to the destruction of all lives in the city. For those who have resisted or are capable of resistance, they slaughter; and for those who are vulnerable, they enslave.

A cruel war indeed! “Cruelty” is the usual moral judgement of most wars. And precisely because of its usualness, some historians and philosophers want to separate the realm of war from the realm of moral life so that we would not naïvely incur the calamity that the Melians have incurred. War has rules of its own, different from moral ideals. War is driven by a “necessity of nature,” which Thucydides has tried to demonstrate in his History of the Peloponnesian War. Thomas Hobbes later translated Thucydides’ book into English, and revamped its argument into his own Leviathan, in which he argued more generally that by the necessities of nature, all critical decisions were made or should be made without reference to morality. While not denying that necessity plays an important role in the decision-making of war, Walzer insists that morality has its part in the deliberation, and that moral rules are the ultimate yardstick for judging both the reasons and the means of fighting. People always call aggression “unjust,” and the infliction of the innocents “cruel.” “Utility” or “effectiveness” can never clear the names of “injustice” or “cruelty.” To vindicate his claims, Walzer cites examples from different times and places.

The first thing that Walzer calls to our attention is the speech of the generals Cleomedes and Tisias. Their refusal to accept moral argument is not an indication that they do not share an idea of just war with the Melians. On the contrary, they know what a just war is, and understand that their aggression cannot be justified. They just tell the magistrates not to waste their time by trying to convince them because they are not going to be persuaded anyway. Save your time and mine, and surrender, they say. The magistrates of Melos, thus, make no lengthy argument for justice in their reply. They nonetheless appeal to the gods, saying that the Athenians’ aggression is unjust. Some Athenians, Walzer points out, also condemn the war. Euripides pronounced immediate judgement against the slaughter and slavery of the conquest, and predicted a divine retribution in The Trojan Women. And about four hundred years later, the classic critic Dionysius of Halicarnassus of the first century b.c. severely criticized the Athenian generals. He commented that the speech of the generals displayed a kind of “depraved shrewdness” that was “unfit to be spoken by Athenians.”^{82Dionysius of Halicarnassus, quoted in Wars, p. 6.} He mourned that the generals behaved no longer like the Athenians who were the noble defenders of freedom.

Cleomedes, Tisias, Thucydides, and Hobbes are some of those few who hold a realist view on war. How about the Assembly of Athens? They passed the decree of Melos and ordered the attack. Their decision represented the majority will of a people. Thucydides tells us nothing about the debate in the assembly of the Athenians. But Walzer proposes that the argument in the assembly would not be conducted in the same way as on the battlefield of Melos. The debate is not pre-determined by “inevitability” or “a necessity of nature.” In the assembly, arguments of all kinds will be thrown into the ring. We cannot be sure beforehand which argument, whether utilitarian or moral, will have the upper hand. In the Melian debate, the utilitarian one apparently wins. This is, however, not always the case. Moral argument sometimes, if not often, carries the day. Thucydides’ earlier record of the debate on Mytilene illustrates this point well.

In 428 b.c., Mytilene, a former ally of Athens, rebelled and formed an alliance with the Spartans. The Athenians decided to attack the city of Mytilene. The attack could be justified in the Greek terms: the Athenians had the right to suppress the rebellion. The problem was what to do with the punishment after the victory. As usual, the Athenian army besieged the city of Mytilene. After some serious effort of defending, the city finally fell into the hand of the Athenians. The Assembly of Athens passed the same kind of sentence for the Mytilene as for the Melians some years later. They determined “to put to death … all the men of Mytilene that were of age, and to make slaves of the women and children: laying to their charge the revolt itself, in that they revolted not being in subjection as others were …”^{83Thucydides, quoted in Wars, p. 9.} The following day the citizens of Athens felt remorse, and thought that the decree they had passed was greatly cruel. They re-opened the debate. Cleon came to defend the original decree, claiming that the decree was “not cruel,” only “severe.” While Diodotus advocated the revocation of the decree. At last, the assembly accepted Diodotus’ position. The case of Mytilene is similar to that of the Melos. If the Athenians think the punishment of Mytilene is “greatly cruel,” we cannot imagine why the sentence for Melos is not more so, given the innocence of the Melians. To sum up his argument, Walzer writes,^{84Wars, p. 11.}

From the above discussion, it is not difficult to discover that despite the persistence of the moral judgements of “injustice” and “cruelty,” there are inconsistency, hypocrisy, and dissidence. Moral realism has a long tradition. It has its own adherents, like Cleomedes, Tisias, Thucydides, and Hobbes. Some realists may not be as outspoken as Thucydides or Hobbes. Nevertheless, they are genuine believers. They think in the realist terms; in private, they speak in their own language; but in public, they cast their realist calculation in moral argument. Couldn’t we say that moral realism persists alongside moral idealism? Most realists, I think, are best perceived as hypocrites rather than true dissidents. They acknowledge the moral law, and are acted upon by the law. They only argue in the best interest of themselves. Their argument is hypocrisy, which is “the tribute that vice pays to virtue.”^{85Wars, p. xii.} As for professed and consistent realists, they are true dissidents of moral idealism. They have a different conception of the world, and they advocate a different way of life. Such persons, however, are rare. They can at most be treated as recurrent deviants of moral idealism. Persistent behaviour or ideal perceived in the very long view does not exclude accident, inconsistency, hypocrisy, or deviation.

We find here a distinction between the human world and the physical world. Physical law appears to be universal. It reigns everywhere and without exception. If we throw a stone upward (assuming that the speed of the stone is not fast enough to escape the attraction of the earth), it will always fall back to the ground. It is incredible that there was an exception in the past, or there will be an exception in the future. Uniformity and certainty seem to be the norms of the physical world. Yet this kind of observation is only valid for large physical objects. In the molecular and the sub-atomic levels, scientists have discovered some phenomena that cannot be predicted with certainty. Human society comes closer to the molecular or atomic system than to the motion of large bodies. It has even more irregularities, which render the study of society more difficult and the result more inexact and uncertain. Nevertheless, the very long view can help us comprehend part of the human world. Walzer clearly expresses this idea when he writes: “At every point, the judgements we make (the lies we tell) are best accounted for if we regard life and liberty as something like absolute values and then try to understand the moral and political processes through which these values are challenged and defended.” The absoluteness of “life” and “liberty” is not a historical fact. On the contrary, we find the persistence of homicide and oppression in history. How should we explain them? Should we see humanity as intrinsically brutal or moral? Perhaps, it is best to accept both, and see morality as the expression of the desire to control brutality. I think that this is where Walzer stands, when he asks us to regard life and liberty as “something like absolute values,” and then try to understand the historical drama of war.

4. The fourth principle: tradition reflexivity

The above three principles of moral interpretation taken together appear to be quite deterministic, and seem to go against the modern spirit of freedom and autonomy. It is not surprising that a number of critics suspect that Walzer’s theory is nothing but a description of the status quo, and that his theory lacks the critical edge.^{86Cf. R. Dworkin, To Each, p. 5; N. Daniels, Review of M. Walzer, Spheres, pp. 143-144; J. Cohen, Review of M. Walzer, Spheres; L. A. Downing & R. B. Thigpen, Beyond Shared Understandings, in Political Theory 14 (1986) 451-472, p. 455; J. Raz, Morality, p. 397.} Since reflexivity is highly valued in modern times, descriptive and uncritical theory can have at most a secondary standing. To adapt the comment from a review, which ironically is excerpted as a complement and printed on the backcover of the Spheres, Walzer’s political theory is an excellent entrée for students into more critical discussions of justice.^{87“This book is wonderfully stimulating, above all for its rich variety of examples … an excellent entrée for students into more abstract discussions of justice.” This remark of Barrie Paskins is quoted at the backcover of the paperback edition of Spheres of Justice published by Blackwell in 1996. The original text can be found in B. Paskins, Review of M. Walzer, Spheres of Justice (Oxford, 1983), in Philosophy 59 (1984) 413-415, p. 413.} But, anyone who has read Walzer’s writings, I believe, would agree that he is critical. How can a non-critical methodology lead to a critical theory? The logical conclusion, as proposed by nearly the same critics, is that Walzer’s interpretation is “arbitrary and tendentious.”^{88Cf. J. Cohen, Review of M. Walzer, Spheres; D. Miller, Introduction, p. 10; N. Daniels, Review of M. Walzer, Spheres, p. 145; B. Barry, Spherical Justice, p. 78; L. A. Downing and R. B. Thigpen, Beyond Shared Understandings, p. 457.}

This suspicion is not entirely without ground. Reality is full of contradictions and tensions. When one tries to interpret it, one would, Walzer himself confesses, “change some part of the world to bring it into alignment with some other part.”^{89Seminar, p. 229, c. 1.} Which part should be changed, and which part should be magnified? The choices, to a certain degree, are influenced by one’s preferences. Walzer is a social democrat. He plainly states, “So I am an advocate of social change, and often of radical social change.” Judging from his declaration, couldn’t one say that Walzer’s radicalness is a kind of bias, and that his interpretation is infused with a leftist flavour? A leftist or personal flavour, surly. Bias, not necessarily. Walzer’s radical change has two main characteristics: equality and democracy. I will argue that radical change, equality and democracy, all of them are shared understandings of modern society and can be derived from the first principle—the long view. Of course, Walzer’s interpretation contains his own creativity. But this might not be regarded as something biased or undesirable.

Writing on the practice of social criticism, Walzer hints that there may be two ways to create a critical distance from the status quo. Either you look backward to the past like Cato in the Roman time, or you look forward to the future like the progressive Marx. Which way is better? Walzer thinks that there is no definite answer. It all depends on the present condition of a society. He says, “In a passive and decadent society, looking back may well be the best thing to do; in an activist and progressive society, looking forward may be the best.”^{90Interpretation, pp. 49; cf. pp. 60-61.} Walzer does not go on to explain whether the modern society is progressive or decadent. There are two possible interpretations of that passage: (1) A modern society can be decadent or progressive—it depends on the specific conditions of that society; (2) all modern societies are progressive. The first interpretation looks from the short-term view. It would interpret Walzer as saying that a decadent society is like Cato’s Roman Empire, and a progressive one is like Marx’s modern society. The second interpretation takes up the perspective of the long view. It follows that premodern society symbolized by Cato’s Roman society is decadent, and modern society represented by Marx’s is progressive. From the context of the passage, the first interpretation is more likely to be the right one. Even then, it does not exclude the second interpretation: modern society is basically progressive, though it may have momentary or cyclical regression.

I am not sure whether we should look at premodern society as passive or decadent. Modern society, however, is activist and progressive. The evidence of progressiveness can be seen in the scope and the speed of social changes. Few people would doubt that modern society is moving at a high speed unparalleled by any society before. The advancement in knowledge and technology is undeniable, even though it is arguable that humanity is really progressing. Despite the fact that it would be difficult to measure progress in reality, modern men and women have a strong desire for progress. Historians catch this aspiration and epitomize it in the slogan of the French Revolution. Sociologists conceptualize and legitimize it. Economists use it to preach economic development worldwide. Politicians exploit it to solicit popular support. Entrepreneurs translate it into an endless gain of capital. No doubt, progress is the spirit of modernity. At this structural level, Walzer’s inclination to social change can be justified as following the demand of the people.

So, the furtherance of social change can be derived from the first principle of moral interpretation. But how about “radical” social change? Walzer professes that he is often an advocate of radical social change. Wouldn’t his passion for radicalness drive him into tendentious interpretation? The answer to this question, I think, has to be sought empirically in the writings of Walzer. In general, Walzer’s radicalness lies in his demand for the realization of equality and democracy. This is also the demand of the people in the modern age. The liberals also accept equality and democracy. Indeed, they see themselves as the pioneers and defenders of these values. This self-image is, on the whole, correct. Nonetheless, their means of change is different. They want to mediate social change by an expert system. They seem to assume that the masses are emotional, blind, and dangerous. Thus, social change is best controlled by rational and knowledgeable persons. It is at this point that Walzer’s criticism enters. The expert system is a modern form of aristocracy. The expert proclaims himself to be the vanguard of democracy, and in this way, he takes away the sovereignty of the people and puts it into his own custody. Walzer’s radicalness is revealed in his trust in the rationality of the people and in revesting them with power and governance. This radicalness, I suppose, is the meaning of the fundamental constitution of the modern state that sovereignty belongs to the people. Furthermore, Walzer’s radicalness is mediated by the strategy of the inclusion of the excluded. Its method consists of the reflection on history, tradition, and the existing social milieu, and the extension of the privilege enjoyed by a limited number of groups to a larger number of groups. This kind of tradition reflexivity can be carried out in several ways.

a. Reinterpretation

The first way to engage in tradition reflexivity is reinterpretation. The possibility and the necessity of this activity rest on the fact that there are always discrepancies between moral ideals and moral practices. Society professes to honour some ideals, but in reality, we often do not live up to the standards. We usually encounter such experience, Walzer says, in our daily contact with friends. According to the high self-esteem they hold about themselves, our friends tell us who they are and what they believe. We trust them and take them at their word, only to find out later that they are not as good as their words. Walzer calls this shortfall “bad faith.” Similarly, society, like individuals, falls short of the justice it proclaims. Moral interpreters can diagnose this disease of society by scrutinizing the actual social arrangements against the social ideals.^{91Maximalism, pp. 41-43.}

For example, liberal society declares that it is a democratic régime, but its parliament may be under the control of a few privileged groups. An obvious case is the domination of male in politics. Among the Western democratic states, there is a common phenomenon that the members of parliament are predominately male; women members are the scarce species in the house of representatives.^{92Cf. S. M. Okin, Politics and the Complex Inequality of Gender, in Pluralism, 120-143, pp. 123-124.} Consider the United States of America. It claims to be the greatest democracy in the world. But a quick look at the statistics of gender distribution in the state elected office will cast this claim into doubt. Women have traditionally been discriminated in politics. They did not gain a better standing in the new democratic régime initially. Only after a series of hard political struggles, American women won the right to vote in 1920. Ahead of her time, Jeannette Rankin was the first woman elected to the Congress in 1917, three years before the ratification of the nineteenth amendment to the Constitution. Since then, there have been women in the Congress. Nevertheless, their number remains small. Although we see a rising trend in the number of women representatives, the recent ratios of women to men in the House of Representatives or in the Senate are still astonishingly low. In 1995, there were 388 male and 47 female members in the House of Representatives—women members occupied about 11 percent of the seats. They were even more poorly represented in the Senate: there were only 8 female senators out of the 100 seats.^{93No. 469. Members of Congress—Selected Characteristics: 1981 to 1995, U.S. Census Bureau, 1998, p. 14. http://www.census.gov/prod/3/98statab/sasec8.pdf (access 29.01.2001).} Given the roughly equal number of the sexes in the country, it is obvious that the political representation of women is seriously disproportionate to their numbers in the population. Such great disproportion is an indication that the United States is still far from its proclaimed ideals of equality and active political participation for every citizen.

The above example is, of course, too simplistic. It only serves to illustrate the kind of reflexivity involved between beliefs and deeds. In reality, moral argument is more complicated than that. The long history of male domination in politics, even after the official admission of women into public elected office, indicates that there may exist some deep-rooted moral norms legitimizing the rule of the male. Those norms in favour of the male are selected and elaborated into apologetic morality. So, the disproportion in female political representation could be explained away by appealing to procedural justice and competition on the one hand, and by affirming her traditional roles as affection-bearer, helper, child-rearer, and housekeeper on the other. Because of the presence of apologies and ideologies, and other complexities as well, we need reinterpretation more than a straight reading of moral facts.

Walzer is conscious of that: “Interpretation does not commit us to a positivist reading of the actually existing morality, a description of moral facts as if they were immediately available to our understanding. There are moral facts of that sort, but the most interesting parts of the moral world are only in principle factual matters; in practice they have to be ‘read,’ rendered, construed, glossed, elucidated, and not merely described.”^{94Interpretation, p. 29.} A little further, Walzer opines that the best reading of factual moral matters is a reinterpretation rather than a compilation of an anthology of all existing interpretations. He says, in comparing morality with poetry, “Perhaps the best reading is a new reading, seizing upon some previously misunderstood symbol or trope and re-explaining the entire poem.”^{95Interpretation, p. 30.}

Walzer has told us a way of poetry reinterpretation. As to moral reinterpretation, his explanations are even more detailed. The starting point of moral reinterpretation is the existing moral ideals or theories that justify the status quo. How are we going to understand these norms? How can they be values that we commonly treasure, and yet at the same time, work in favour of a limited number of privileged groups? Walzer suggests us to find the first answer in the Marxist idea of ideology.^{96Interpretation, pp. 40-44.}

Marx’s conception of morality is strongly influenced by his social theory. In his analysis of society, he distinguishes an infrastructure and a superstructure. All physical realities belong to the infrastructure, whereas the ideas, which are created a posteriori to legitimize the existing social structure, form the superstructure of society. The infrastructure is primary and the superstructure secondary. Now, the primary reality of society is that it is divided into classes, which are engaged in a continuous class struggle. Whenever a class wins and becomes dominant, its members wish to hold on to power for as long as possible. They know that they cannot achieve this end by physical force alone. Their rule needs public recognition and consent. In short, they have to legitimize their interests. And so their intellectuals elaborate these class interests into an ideology.

“Ruling ideas,” Walzer observes, “are always something more than rationalizations of class interest.”^{97Critics, p. 86.} Marx has already suggested this in his German Ideology: “For each new class which puts itself in the place of the one ruling before it, is compelled, merely in order to carry through its aim, to represent its interest as the common interest of all the members of society.”^{98K. Marx, quoted in Critics, p. 86.} But Marx has not worked out its implication. The Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci, Walzer says, “elaborates on this suggestion: ideas don’t come to rule … unless they expressed in ‘universal’ rather than ‘corporate’ terms….”^{99Critics, p. 86.} Thus every ruling class, Walzer explains, “is compelled to present itself as a universal class.”^{100Interpretation, p. 40.} Self-assertion or hypocrisy is not an effective means of legitimation. The victory must be presented as belonging not only to the ruling class but also to all the people. The ruling class must present itself as transcending all class struggles and its own interests: it is impartial, and it is the rightful guardian of the common interest. To legitimize a universal class, the ideology must contain universal ideals. The intellectuals work out the universalist ideology by universalizing the particular interests of the ruling class and at the same time incorporating the interests of the lower classes. The resultant ideology is thus inherently contradictory, and the contradiction is double: the universalist ideals contradict the particular interests of the ruling class, and the ideals that represent the interests of the lower classes contradict with the ideals that express the interests of the ruling class.

Walzer goes on to elucidate the internal contradiction of ideology in the light of Gramsci. In his analysis of ideology, Gramsci discovers that the hegemonic culture must be a complex political construction, which contains internal contradictions. “The fact of hegemony,” he writes, “presupposes that one takes into account the interests and tendencies of the groups over which hegemony will be exercised, and it also presupposes a certain equilibrium, that is to say that the hegemonic groups will make some sacrifices of a corporate nature.”^{101A. Gramsci, quoted in Interpretation, p. 41.} “Because of these sacrifices,” Walzer infers, “ruling ideas internalize contradictions, and so criticism always has a starting point inside the dominant culture.” Ideology is double-edged: it works for the ruling class and it can also be pushed back to work against the ruling class. It is as dangerous as the high seas, which can buoy a ship and sink the ship as well. We could agitate the water, so to speak, until violent waves were formed to crash the ship. Gramsci has described how the radical critic disturbs the seemingly still water. His work starts with a differentiation in the ideology. By examining the elements of the ideology carefully, the critic gains an understanding of how the contradictory parts are put together to work for the best interest of the ruling classes. A slight shift in emphasis can tilt the balance much in favour of the critic. Indeed, a nascent ideological and theoretical complex can be formed by taking out some “secondary and subordinate” elements from the old ideology and treating them as “primary” to reinterpret the whole system.^{102Interpretation, p. 42.}

Walzer elaborates this reinterpretation by the example of equality. He draws our attention to the fact that this ideal is couched in universalist terms. Apologists are anxious to limit its meaning, but “radical critics delight in ‘exposing’ its limits,” says Walzer. Equality, as conceived by the Marxist, is the ideology of the bourgeoisie. For them, the intended meaning of equality is “carrière ouvert aux talents.” Their concern is not equality for all men and women, though stated as their creed. What they want is an equal standing before the nobility and among themselves. Their explication of equality, Walzer writes in the Marxist vein, “describes (and also conceals) the conditions of the competitive race for wealth and office.” It describes that all men are equal before the law, and that office should be awarded to those who are truly qualified to perform the duties entrusted to them. And it conceals that “all men” actually refer to the proprietors. The proletarians, the colonial subjects, and women are excluded. It also conceals the facts that talents have to be trained before they are qualified for the office, and that formal education and the social skill required in upper-class association are out of reach of ordinary men and women. Equality, however, has “larger meanings,” which are present in the ruling ideology. These larger meanings are concessionary gestures that the bourgeoisie make to the lower classes. We are all equal in principle, they say. But in practice, we have to make all kinds of inegalitarian arrangements. Walzer does not doubt that some of them are sincere in making the gestures. Otherwise, social criticism will have “less bite” than it has now. Reinterpretation begins with the dominant ideal and exploits its larger meanings. This is how social change actually happens. First came the working men fighting for political equality for all men. Then the women joined in the demand for the same right for all human beings. “Equality is the rallying cry of the bourgeoisie; equality reinterpreted is (in the Gramscian story) the rallying cry of the proletariat,” writes Walzer.^{103Interpretation, p. 43.}

The Marxist conception of morality as purely an ideology seems to have gone to the extreme. Suppose simple equality will never be realized in society. Does it mean that morality is ideology for the rulers and opium for those being ruled? Morality, of course, has a function of legitimizing the status quo, but this does not necessarily transform morality into ideology. We can imagine that the working men and women will be content with their conditions in some inegalitarian societies that give genuine opportunities to those who can help themselves to move upwards. Indeed, they are satisfied, as Rawls argues, with the inequality that makes the least advantaged richer than with the equality that makes everyone poorer. Couldn’t we say that this understanding is genuine morality instead of ideology? Marx excludes this possibility. He calls this kind of beliefs on the part of the workers “false consciousness.” Walzer regards false consciousness as one of the fatal flaws in the Marxist theory. He says it is the wilfulness of Marx that leads him to dismiss the common sense of ordinary people. He attributes Marx’s blind spot to the singular conception of equality. Marx defines equality in direct reference to the objective interests of the workers. Insofar as the measurable benefit of a worker is much lower than that of a bourgeois, the two are unequal. Walzer does not think that this position can be satisfactorily defended. The worker may have an incorrect knowledge of the facts about the income differences and the real chances of upward mobility. “But how can they,” Walzer asks, “be wrong about the value and significance of equality in their own lives?” Walzer is most probably right. How can the worker be wrong with his own experience? If we take equality in its strict quantitative sense, this conception will become an oppressive ideology legitimizing one form of utopian social revolution that will never come to realize. It is not difficult to imagine that workers may like to have income differentials among themselves. They may decide to give more material reward to those who are senior, more skilful, or more productive. Only an iron hand from above can impose a singular income scale for all the workers.

The Marxist account of ideology, Walzer opines, is only one version of the moral world. Contemporary philosophers have another version. They prefer to see morality not as the superstructure and the work of the intellectual collaborators of the ruling class but as the artefacts of all men and women. We have a high opinion about ourselves, and we are driven by our strong desire to seek justification. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), we cannot justify ourselves by ourselves, and we need others to affirm us, not to negate us.^{104Interpretation, pp. 46-48.}

Sometimes, we think that only God can justify us because only He truly knows us. Man judges our behaviour. Only God judges our heart. Morality in such case, Walzer suggests, “is likely to take shape as a conversation with God or a speculation on the standards that he might, reasonably or unreasonably, apply to our behaviour.”^{105Interpretation, p. 46.} These, Walzer assures us, will be high standards, and thus highly critical. Saint Augustine’s confessions, I think, show us how a typical divine moral discourse is actually conducted. We sincerely seek God’s will and search our own soul. We then compare God’s will with our acts and thoughts. We discover that we have done something good and something bad, and that among our good deeds, some were done in goodwill and some were not. But at a closer scrutiny, even the few good deeds done with good intention vanish altogether: we discover that we actually do all things for our own sake—to justify and to receive praise, that is, for our pride. In the end, moral conversation turns into a confession, a petition for forgiveness and divine grace. Religious morality that comes out of such kind of divine conversation is highly critical and refractory to manipulation. Powerful men and women may tame it, and produce their own version of interpretation to legitimize their own interests. But their attempt is at most a half success because their interpretation will be strained and clumsy. They live anxiously, constantly worrying that a prophet may pop up somewhere and contradict their version with a new interpretation of the sacred text.

“In a secular age,” Walzer says, “God is replaced by other people.”^{106Interpretation, p. 46.} Human beings can never understand us as fully as God. Nonetheless, we want their approval. This desire is triggered by the existing moral beliefs, and it is also the trigger of moral belief. It is not only the bourgeois who want to justify themselves. We all want to justify our acts. Morality in this case takes on the form of conversation with other people. We argue with a specific person or a group of persons about a specific issue in a particular way. The resultant moral world that comes out of many-people talks will be sufficiently pluralistic and altruistic without tilting in favour of one person or one group of persons. This everyday morality is critical in essence. It justifies certain acts and condemns other acts. We like its justification, though sometimes we also like to do something it condemns. But it is utterly possible to manipulate morality in such a way that it justifies something it condemns. We call this act apologetic. Walzer emphasizes that apologetic interpretation is not a “natural” one, and that a sustained apologetic interpretation is an ideology.^{107Interpretation, p. 48.} Although the existing morality is not an ideology, the apologist can always create one out of the critical morality. But an ideology always carries with it awkwardness and ugliness, like the South African arguments for apartheid. The apologist has to worry about his ideology. A “natural” interpretation of the existing moral world will shatter the lies he tells.

b. Coherence

The second way of tradition reflexivity is related to the coherence of our moral beliefs. The existing moral world conceived either in the Marxist terms as ideology or as many-people-talk is essentially incoherent. There are tensions as well as contradictions in it. Although the world and our life are incoherent, we still prefer a more coherent story of our moral life. If we are asked to choose between two interpretations of our moral world, we will probably select the more coherent one as a better account of our beliefs. Walzer expresses this idea when he is considering the question of better interpretation. He uses Rawls’s difference principle as an example, and asks what we would do with its various interpretations. Walzer thinks that “there is no definitive way of ending the disagreement,” but he suggests: “the best account of the difference principle would be one that rendered it coherent with other American values … and connected it to some plausible view of incentives and productivity.”^{108Interpretation, p. 28.} Coherence, for Walzer, is a criterion in choosing the best interpretation, and it implies that coherence is also the guiding principle of interpretation.

Later when he was questioned about the nature of his moral interpretation, Walzer gave a more explicit explanation:^{109Seminar, p. 229.}

Walzer speaks of the coherence of the interpretation as if it were a consequence of the incoherence of the moral world. Because of the incoherence, we just want to make it more coherent by bringing some parts of it into alignment with some other parts when we try to comprehend our moral life. This is often what social critics do, and how social reforms are actually carried out. Social critics, Walzer says, “hold some other idea or complex set of ideas … over against this idea and its instances.”^{110Objectivity, p. 172.} By holding one principle against another, we plead for the abolishment of the undesirable one. We say that this principle is obsolete and incompatible with that principle, and so we should limit its application to its proper sphere, or do away with it altogether.

Walzer’s Spheres of Justice does not lack such examples. A striking one is found in the discussion on political power. Walzer argues that the economic enterprise exercises its control over its employees in just the same way as the state over its citizens. Although this private government cannot be compared with the state, the influence is serious enough for the employees to consider it as a kind of political power. In a democratic society, political power should be distributed in a democratic way. Now, this principle of democracy is at variance with the principle of propriety, which entitles the owner to exercise his control over what he owns. The principle of propriety, Walzer argues, should not trump the principle of democracy. It is most ridiculous that democratic citizens gain sovereignty from the state only to surrender it to the private governments. Democrats cannot tolerate this incoherence. Thus, Walzer pleads for the separation of ownership and management in the economic enterprise. The shareholders own the company and share the profit, but the workers own the right to manage the company.^{111Spheres. 295-303.}

The above example is hypothetical. It illustrates how we can argue for a more coherent moral life, and that such argument can initiate radical social change. Still we have to wait for its acceptance and implementation. Walzer mentions another example that has actually taken place. Consider the premodern society in which women were regarded as a property of men. Women in this kind of society did not have control over the important things in their lives. As daughter, a woman was under the authority of her father. In marriage, she was transferred to another household with or without her minimal consent. In the new home, her husband became her new lord. After his death, her son would take over the place of her husband. In short, women were dependent on men. They could not plan their own lives. Walzer calls this social construction “women-who-are-objects-of-exchange.” This social construction prevailed over a long period and attained a universal status. We see it fading away with the emergence of another social construction, namely careers-open-to-talents. At a certain point of time, the economy and social institutions enabled or even required some men to plan their lives. Some women seized this opportunity and argued that women need to plan their own lives too. If careers-open-to-talents is so important to men that it warrants the abolition of the hierarchy, men find no reason to refuse women’s demand of repudiating their object status. By holding careers-open-to-talents over against women-who-are-objects-of-exchange, women have won their liberation.^{112Objectivity, pp. 172-176.} Yet the victory is incomplete: there is still hidden discrimination in public places. And women have to carry on the fight. Nevertheless, their struggle shows us how the harmonization of social and moral life can actually proceed.

c. Invention ex vetere

Some critics suggest that the two above-mentioned ways of tradition reflexivity are not critical enough. Sometimes, justice just entails a more radical change, a break from the past, a new beginning. The under-representation of women in politics is a case in point. The United States has a healthy democratic structure and a fair electoral system, but its number of elected female officials has been in serious disproportion since the founding of the union, and there is no sign that the gap will be self-corrected if it is left unattended. This phenomenon indicates that there are some fundamental problems in the American shared understandings. Perhaps the shared understandings as a whole are in favour of the male sex. Or the shared understandings are not really shared but imposed by the more powerful. In order to rectify the inequality between the sexes, we must shake the foundation. This is indeed the opinion held by Susan Okin. She attributes gender inequality in politics to the division of labour between the sexes. Our shared or “imposed” understandings support the gender role of man and woman. The role of gender in personal and domestic life is firmly established in the family, and it multiplies and is reaffirmed in other spheres. The whole thing works together to form a complex inequality that is extremely difficult to break open. Something less than a “revolution” of gender role cannot correct the complex gender inequalities in various spheres.^{113S. M. Okin, Politics, especially pp. 136-143.} If Okin’s argument is expressed in terms of our discussion, she seems to advocate for a moral invention of gender role.

“Moral argument,” Walzer claims, “is most often interpretive in character.”^{114Interpretation, p. 22.} We have to note that it is “most often,” but not “always.” Walzer entertains the possibility of invention or discovery. In fact, he mentions two kinds of moral inventions, and makes a distinction between them. The first one is invention de novo. This kind of invention has its counterpart in science and technology. We can actually see how these inventions transform the way we live and the way we think. The theory of gravity, the atomic fusion, the printing press, the steam engine, the computer, and the contraceptive methods, all of them are great inventions that change our mode of existence. And the thriving genetic engineering might even change the human nature. Can’t we contemplate such invention in morality? There are, Walzer admits, indeed such inventions. The “principle of utility” is one of them. For reasons we have discussed before, Walzer finds it “more frightening than attractive.” Rawls’s difference principle is perhaps another moral invention, and an attractive one. But it does not abruptly change our moral landscape. Walzer has pointed out the impotence of such inventions: “The sorts of … inventions likely to be incorporated into our moral arguments (ignoring for now … inventions that are coercively imposed) are unlikely to have definitive effects upon these arguments.”^{115Interpretation, pp. 26-27.} The inventions are attractive only if they do not disrupt the existing moral arguments? Walzer cites Rawls’s difference principle as an example. There is already a literature developed around Rawls’s theory. It raises questions and discussions, but there are no “definitive and final answers” to the implication of the principle. What we have are interpretations and interpretations of interpretations. And the interpretations that are incorporated into the principle itself are those that render it coherent with the existing American values. There is indeed invention de novo, but such invention is unlikely to change the existing moral world. In short, moral invention is either groundbreaking but frightening or attractive but equivocal.

The comparison of morality to science and technology is inappropriate. Whereas the increase in scientific and technological knowledge has tremendously changed human life, the progress in morality is not so dramatic. “Insofar as we can recognize moral progress,” Walzer says, “it has less to do with the … invention of new principles than with the inclusion under the old principles of previously excluded men and women. And that is more a matter of (workmanlike) social criticism and political struggle than of (paradigm-shattering) philosophical speculation.”^{116Interpretation, p. 27.} Walzer does not deny that there exist some more plausible moral inventions. Maybe, “the rights of man” is one of them. Granted that “the rights of man” is an invention, it is an invention of another sort. Walzer seems to explain it from the perspective of “the inclusion under the old principles of previously excluded men and women,” and to consider it as “a matter of (workmanlike) social criticism and political struggle.” This invention originates and depends on the old stuff. It is similar to a shoot growing out from an underground seed—the plant is different from the soil but it depends on the soil. It has both continuity and discontinuity with the old moral world. To distinguish it from invention de novo, I call it invention ex vetere.

Invention ex vetere is also a kind of tradition reflexivity, though it broaches a new horizon of moral discourse, and brings forward a new social reality. Walzer’s explanation of John Locke’s argumentation for religious toleration offers an example.^{117Interpretation, pp. 52-55.} Locke’s Letter Concerning Toleration is a renowned defence of religious liberty in the modern history. Nobody doubts what he defends or the force of his argument, but some philosophers find his argumentation enigmatic, not that the reasoning is perplexing, but that the form of argument is inappropriate to a pioneer of human rights. In his Two Treatises of Government, Locke attempts to limit the sovereignty of the state over individuals by appealing to the novel idea of natural rights. Then, just a year before the publication of the Two Treatises, the Letter is couched in the traditional theological language. Following the Protestant doctrine that salvation is effected only through personal faith in Christ, Locke argues that religious worship should be left to individual choice. He says:^{118J. Locke, A Letter Concerning Toleration. Introduction by P. Romanell, Indianapolis, IN, 21955, pp. 34-35.}

Salvation by faith, inward sincerity, and conscience are some of the essential elements in Christianity. Augustine and Thomas have appealed to them to resist authority imposed from without. The argument of conscience will not sound strange to theologians or the seventeenth century populace in Europe. The Protestants took “what was previously secondary and subordinate” to be “primary,” and Locke continued the process of elaborating this nucleus into a “new ideological and theoretical complex.” Now, some critics regret that Locke’s argument is not liberal enough and radical enough: he should have spoken about the right to freedom of worship, but he was labouring within the old régime, which renders his Letter void of lasting philosophical importance.^{119Cf. S. Mendus, Locke. Toleration, Morality and Rationality, in J. Horton & S. Mendus (eds.), John Locke. A Letter Concerning Toleration in Focus, London, 1991, 147-162.} Other commentators come to Locke’s defence and explain why he has to consider not the rights of the tolerated but the obligations of the perpetrators of intolerance. Walzer’s explanation, however, runs in another path. He sees Locke’s exposition on Christian conscience as a springboard to natural rights. He says that Locke’s argument suggests “how one might move from old to new,” and “hence Locke’s use of rights language was not a surprise sprung on his contemporaries.”^{120Interpretation, p. 54. Italics added.} Walzer does not go on to explicate the transition from conscience to rights as if the reader would have no difficulty in grasping the connection at all. Understandably, at the time of writing, his focus was not on interpretation but on criticism.

Later, in the article Maximalism and Social Critic, Walzer gives an explicit explanation of how one might move from old to new. Proposing a hypothetical situation in ancient Egypt, Walzer invites us to imagine how social criticism, especially the one that brings forth radical social reform, is conducted. The pharaohs of Egypt claimed to see to it that justice was done, the poor sustained, and widows and orphans protected. Because of these professed commitments, they opened themselves to criticism. The simplest form of criticism was the charge of hypocrisy. An Egyptian scribe might draft a list of injustices, and urged the pharaoh to fulfil his promises. But this is not the only possibility of social criticism. Other bolder attempts can be made. The scribe might say that sustaining the poor with charity was not a solution to poverty; what was needed was to make the poor self-sufficient: a property reform or a redistribution of cultivable land. Or the scribe might argue that, in view of the Egyptian history, no pharaoh could actually live up to his promises; thus a scribal rule would be a better form of government. Walzer’s point is that “if the new vision is to be persuasive … it will have to be connected by arguments to the old one.” And the critics may proceed in the following way: “They start from the existing social idealism and claim that the ideals are … ineffectively enforced by the powers that be, or inadequate in their own terms.”^{121Maximalism, pp. 42-43.} In short, a new social order has to be built on the rubble of a failed government.

The emergence of the ideal of equality or democracy is a real case of invention ex vetere. Walzer observes that the medieval hierarchy is marked by two forms of justification: Christian and feudal. But he wants to focus on the secular ideology only. The feudal system is hierarchical, and its inequality is justified by the myth that the strong defends the weak. The nobles and the gentlemen claimed to serve the ranks below by maintaining justice and providing protection. When the upper classes did not perform their duties or abused their authority, a critic would somehow appear and rebuke the aristocrats. One might reasonably argue that this kind of criticism is part of the hierarchical system. It pretends to provide a transcendent judgement, but in fact it reaffirms the whole system of service and inequality. Walzer admits that this is true from the short-term view. However, he asks us to consider the matter afresh from the long-term view. The criticism of hierarchy has a history, and that history reveals that these privileged men rarely perform the duties their position entails. Hence it proves that the hierarchy is a failed system. No ideology can justify a failed hierarchy, and the system collapses. “The feudal fortress,” Walzer says, “was not stormed from without until it had been undermined from within.” And in his opinion, “the egalitarian doctrine of ‘the rights of man’ was the product of, or was made possible by, this collapse.”^{122Maximalism, pp. 43-45.}

Once again, Walzer does not go on to demonstrate the relationship between the failed hierarchy and the modern democracy, or to speculate on the new and better social order. When a régime fails, what should we do? It seems that Walzer would approve a reform that includes “under the old principles of previously excluded men and women.” I will try to show briefly that the inclusion of the excluded is a prudent principle in the time of structural change.

In his End of Certainty, Ilya Prigogine argues with Newton and Einstein about the predictability of the universe. He proves that reversibility and certainty are only possible in a stable system, which is only the scientists’ idealization that can hardly be found in nature. What we normally find in nature are unstable systems. A stable system is one that will restore itself to its initial equilibrium state after the intervention of an external force. A pendulum is a classical stable system. For an unstable system, especially a chaotic one, a slight perturbation in the initial conditions will multiple itself over the course of time and disturb the whole system. The consequences are nonequilibrium and uncertainty. The so-called “butterfly effect” is a popularized chaotic amplification: a butterfly in Amazonia, by flapping its wings, may affect the weather in the United States.

Arguably, Prigogine’s model can be applied in the study of human society since society is an equally (if not more) complex system, and thus potentially chaotic. If we incorporate the idea of unstable system into the structural time, a social structure can no longer be regarded as a static system throughout its lifetime. Instead, the social structure is seen as a system evolving from nonequilibrium to equilibrium and again to nonequilibrium.^{123Cf. I. Prigogine, The End, pp. 60-71.} During most of its lifetime around the maximal equilibrium state, the social system is at its near-equilibrium, that is, a small change in the system only produces a minor effect. When the system, however, passes through its point of maximal equilibrium and proceeds to the other end of nonequilibrium, the resultant fluctuation increases. At a certain point from the maximal equilibrium, bifurcation occurs, and the near-stable system transforms itself into an unstable one. From then on, a seemingly unimportant social action may induce a significant change in the system. And the emerging social order is unpredictable.

If the above description is applicable to social system, a radical structural change presents both opportunity and catastrophe. Since the result is unpredictable, no one can assure us, though some will attempt to do so, that the change will bring forward a progress and not a regress. An exodus may lead to a land of milk and honey or to hell. We have no time to celebrate revolution because we need to put erratic changes under control. The period of transition opens to novelty and creativity, but there is no guarantee of a desirable outcome. What is the best way to appropriate structural change? Historically, there are various responses. For simplicity’s sake, I stereotype them as the right, the centre, and the left. The rightists are conservatists who think that societal change comes naturally, and that human intervention is unnecessary and undesirable. They wish to maintain the status quo. This effort is in vain during the period of transition because no one can put down all the demands for social reform. You just can’t make the butterflies stop flapping, so to speak. The leftists are radical reformers. They want to change society into its most idealistic and final form. Communism is such an ideal. Between the right and the left lie the centrists or the liberals. They also advocate social change, but only the moderate one. In practice, they mediate changes with an expert system, and the usual strategy they employ to buffer social change is the inclusion of the previously excluded. First the bourgeoisie were co-opted into the ruling class, then some more men, then some more women, .… The liberal society is so structured that it allows a gradual co-option of men and women into the bourgeoisie. In contrast, the aim of the communists appears to be too ambitious. They wish to give every man a “genuine and free development.”^{124K. Marx and F. Engels, The German Ideology, in J. Cohen et al. (eds.), Collected Works, Vol. V, London, 1976, p. 439.} Communist governments, however, did not succeed in actualizing this lofty ideal in the countries under their control, and they relapsed into a new form of hierarchy. When people realized the true nature of the communist régime, they deserted it just as their fathers had deserted the ancien régime. The success and failure bear witness to the facts that society has a history and man has memories. Society cannot simply change in whatever imaginable ways. A failed highflying project can be disastrous. Because social change is unpredictable in the bifurcation period, it is less dangerous to mediate radical change by channelling it to a mode that can be managed by some people. A manageable social change is likely to be one that somehow relates to the old system. The inclusion of the excluded is a strategy that keeps the major functioning parts of the old system, while at the same time ushers in changes.

I have presented systematically the central features of Walzer’s interpretive methodology. (Once again, I do not mean that Walzer follows these interpretive principles strictly or consistently.) Walzer argues that “moral argument is most often interpretive in character.” This statement is forceful. Few persons dare to claim to be the Law Giver. Even Kant, the sometimes revered new Moses, declares that he is neither a moral discoverer nor a moral inventor: “Who would think of introducing a new principle of all morality and making himself as it were the first discoverer of it, as if the world before him were ignorant of what duty was, or had been in thoroughgoing error.”^{125I. Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, in T. K. Abbott (trans.), Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason and Other Works on the Theory of Ethics, London, 61948, p. 93, n. 1.} No sensible person would. Not even Jesus, the Son of God, who says, “Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy but to fulfil (Mt 5,17).”

So, Walzer’s statement is almost self-evident. Why would he defend it as if other ethicists did not know it or their theories were not based on the existing morality? They acknowledge it. They come to explain that their theories are also interpretations, and the interpretive method they use is called the reflective equilibrium. Now, it becomes clear that the crux is not whether moral argument is interpretive in character, but whose interpretation is better.

The moral interpretation thesis is only an introduction to Walzer’s interpretive methodology. In his argumentation, Walzer focuses mainly on the criticalness of his methodology. This is quite defensive. As to the other criteria that may be used to judge moral interpretation, his answer is weak and non-systematic. It seems that he wants to leave the question open so that the reader could have more room to make his own judgement. We may consider Walzer’s response either as a weakness or as a virtue of incompletion.^{126In a book review, titled The Virtue of Incompletion, Walzer praises the author for her “incompletion.” “Incompleteness is a virtue,” he says, “for it leaves room for local self-determination and cultural diversity.” (M. Walzer, The Virtue of Incompletion. Review of A. Heller, Beyond Justice (Oxford, 1987), in Theory and Society 19 (1990) 225-229, p. 225.) Incompleteness, in fact, is a virtue of Walzer himself, who seldom presents an all-embracing knockdown argument. His argument often aims at refining a debate. “What gets better,” to borrow the words of Geertz, “is the precision with which we vex each other.” Walzer’s characteristically Jewish virtue of incompletion leaves room for intellectual diversity.} Since I am a reader and I am not bound by the virtue of the author, I present a stronger version of his methodology. The reflective equilibrium, in my opinion, is a crude mimic of the scientific modelling. At its present stage, it relies too much on intuition, and tends to neglect the vigorous study of the empirical moral world. My objective is to show that the interpretive methodology in Walzer’s thick description is more nuanced than that in abstract modelling. If I am correct, Walzer’s interpretation is probably more accurate. I make no claim that Walzer’s is the best interpretation. The above-mentioned interpretive principles can only be used to determine the gross structure of our moral world. Details have to be filled in through discussion, and details are everything.

Walzer’s interpretation is not the final one, and no one else’s will be. How then, could we distinguish a better one? Walzer has laid out some interpretive principles, and we may use them as guidance. Beyond that, all are left to the exercise of persuasion. Morality involves endless argument, which is part of the process of culture elaboration. It is both impossible and undesirable to stop this process. A Talmudic story recounted by Walzer best illustrates this point:^{127Interpretation, pp. 31-32.}

The story involves a dispute among a group of sages; the subject does not matter. Rabbi Eliezer stood alone, a minority of one, having brought forward every imaginable argument and failed to convince his colleagues. Exasperated, he called for divine help: “If the law is as I say, let this carob tree prove it.” Whereupon the carob tree was lifted a hundred cubits in the air ... Rabbi Joshua spoke for the majority: “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.” Then Rabbi Eliezer said, “If the law is as I say, let this stream of water prove it.” And the stream immediately began to flow backward. But Rabbi Joshua said, “No proof can be brought from a stream of water.” Again Rabbi Eliezer said: “If the law is as I say, let the walls of this schoolhouse prove it.” And the walls began to fall. But Rabbi Joshua rebuked the walls, saying that they had no business interfering in a dispute among scholars over the moral law; and they stopped falling and to this day still stand, though at a sharp angle. And then Rabbi Eliezer called on God himself: “If the law is as I say, let it be proved from heaven.” Whereupon a voice cried out, “Why do you dispute with Rabbi Eliezer? In all matters the law is as he says.” But Rabbi Joshua stood up and exclaimed, “It is not in heaven.”