Week 03 William Blake and Mary Robinson

Insofar as there is one theme running through this course, it is that romantic and Victorian poets lived through a “crisis of authority” and examined its political, cultural, and religious consequences. Imagination was the central power of the romantic era: great claims are made for it as an almost godlike agent of creation, of remaking the world anew and uniting the broken shards of self and community. We may find the Victorians more circumspect about such radical claims for imagination and the individual, but the romantics do not necessarily set them forth naively—that is a charge made partly by the Victorians themselves, and partly by twentieth-century critics. Nothing shows the complexity of romantic poetics more fully than reading William Blake.

On God and Free Expression:

1) We shouldn't assume rigidly either that God is a powerful authority figure outside of us, or that God "resides [only] in the human breast." Both of these positions have negative consequences, intended or otherwise. We either cringe before a mysterious external authority, or we become arrogant and turn "Imagination" into a God with all the baggage of Blake's white-bearded old God, "Nobodaddy" (a cipher who nevertheless wields the power of collective human barbarity). Instead, it would be best to say that "God" has to do with imaginative process—that the emphasis should lie on the necessity to externalize God in image and text and, even as we do so, to be constantly tearing our constructions down so they don't become abstractions, parts of a rigid system of oppression. The building up and tearing down are one and the same act—just look at the many strategems Blake invents to keep his texts from sounding like The Last Word on anything: outrageous "comic-book-style" parodic humor, self-parody, nearly constant self-referentiality with regard to the creative process, workings-out of the impossibility of beginning or ending texts, character-voices that seem to be privileged (like the Devil in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell) and then turn out to be just as flawed as other voices, and so forth.

2) Blake believes in free expression of all kinds, but the point of such expression isn't to shore up a conception of the self as isolated from others. Expression should bring people together, not keep them apart. He may be an eccentric, but he isn't a "cowboy" in the Spaghetti Western sense. So the charge of "solipsism" (being wrapped up in one's own head) is hardly something that would make sense with regard to Blake.

Songs of Innocence and of Experience

Songs of Innocence was published in 1789, the year of the French Revolution. The Songs of Experience came out in 1794. They are separate but related works. Blake’s philosophy developed into what we see in Experience. But there is already a kind of “experienced” quality to the Songs of Innocence, as the ambivalent preposition “of” suggests. They are not childish or simple.

The title of Blake's poems, Songs of Innocence & Experience, reminds us of the Christian “Fall” and its notion of a prelapsarian and a postlapsarian state. But Blake’s terms are not the same because he isn't setting forth a vision of the human condition before the Fall and then the human condition after the Fall. You can’t get back to prelapsarian “innocence”; you can, however, regard the concepts of innocence and experience as being in dynamic tension, with each commenting on the other. Even at birth, I think Blake would say, we have already entered into a state of experience. The important thing is not be be subsumed and hardened by our awareness of that fact into cynicism and barren systemic thought.

Much of the action in Blake's poetry has to do with what happens when characters get trapped by the production of their own minds or the productions of other people's minds, right up to the level of society-wide practices and beliefs (religion, political economy, monarchism, etc.). As one of his characters says, "I must create my own system" to avoid being "enslaved" by anyone else's. This does not mean that one should set up one's own system and live by it as a rigid code—when Blake makes his characters address the creation of idea-systems, I believe we should understand him to mean that we are always simultaneously building up and destroying these "systems" of thought. The critical thing is that the imaginative process of creation and destruction seem to be one and the same imaginative act—they are not separate and successive acts, but one.

Why is that so? Well, I think it is because Blake has an uncanny insight into the way any product of human imagination, any practice, quickly becomes a trap—something that comes from us but that seems to have been imposed by some external authority figure, call it "God" or whatever you will. But further, it isn't enough just to say, as a character says in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, that "all deities reside in the human breast." That kind of statement quickly leads to arrogant solipsism (as in, "I am God" or "I need not regard the ideas and needs of others") or outright nihilism ("why believe anything if there are no external absolutes and everything is only a product of the imagination?"). Such a state of affairs is just as bad as setting up an external authority figure and then cowering under its dread pronouncements, its endless litany of "Thou shalt nots." A tyrant in the human breast is just as bad as one on Mount Olympus or anywhere else. A central image in Blake is the human figure who has created an image or an idea from which he or she then shrinks back in mystified horror or awe.

Blake is profoundly spiritual and seems to have known the Bible almost by heart, but he doesn’t seem comfortable with the linear time scheme of Christian narrative. For Blake, the Fall is always happening, and so is Redemption, and his vision of Heaven is something he calls “intellectual conversation,” which is not lamblike bliss but rather intellect and emotion, reason and energy, existing together. That view is fully articulated in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. I think that in his view, to posit a one-time "Fall" that occurred some thousands of years ago in a certain garden would be a profound mistake--just the kind of narratival trap he wants to avoid.

Romantic Imagination and Childhood: So in Songs, while we are tempted to view “childhood” as pristine innocence, we should be careful. The Fall is essentially a drop into material reality, and since children are creatures of material reality, they are in the world of experience, too. Still, perhaps they can offer a perspective that will help adults break out of the stalest, deadened perceptions of themselves and the world in which they live, lest those perceptions become a trap. Children possess an abundance of imagination, and they seem less aware than are adults of the limitations placed upon them by physical reality, cultural strictures, repression of various kinds – fetters upon the human mind. In his poem “London,” he uses the apt phrase “mind-forged manacles.” Children at least trust that they can find a way out, and they are able to offer a spiritual, even optimistic, perspective on the fallen reality into which they have been cast. But this childlike state of optimism must pass through the fires of experience – the world will not leave it alone; purification is fiery, energy is vital. "Without contraries is no progression": terms like body and soul, reason and energy, are not mutually exclusive; we must put them into dynamic conversation. Otherwise, you just end up “negating” both rather than marrying them in a fruitful union that moves human spirit forward. We must put innocence and experience together as a married pair of states. Blake never "gets around" intellectual difficulties—he confronts them head-on, putting seemingly contradictory terms right alongside each other and dealing with the implications and potentialities of such "marriages."

Purpose of Songs of Innocence: It isn’t to tell us that we can simply become innocent again; but Blake will not violate Christ’s claim that to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, one must become “like a little child.” We must remain open to the possibility of Redemption, of the Eternal and the Infinite. We must be able to interpret the physical reality around us in a spiritual way. For Blake, Jesus is the Principle of Imagination and most perfectly realized imaginative existence. The philosophies of the adult world, Blake finds, are French rationalism, with its arrogant reliance on the self-sufficient power of Reason, and British empiricism, with its insistence that the mind is a passive recipient of sensory data and therefore mechanically “bound” to the natural world. Such philosophies lead us only to atheism and barren cynicism. The world of harsh reality and repression will become the grave of the adult’s spirit. I recall an idea from Jewish theology: philosopher Benjamin reminds us that for Jews, each moment is a portal through which the Messiah may enter. I find Blake’s view of redemption similar. Perhaps openness to that possibility is what Blake finds attractive about childhood: the capacity to imagine and feel one’s way out of the mind’s and the world’s snares. A child is at least in part capable of “looking thro’ the eye and not with it.” We are not reducible to fallen material reality, and not confinable to fallen temporal schemes – we are more than they allow us, and we must understand that fact. "Here and now" is our fallen medium; we must look into it through the eye and perceive the infinite and the eternal. To be in a fallen condition and not interpret our condition spiritually is to compound and perpetuate human error.

E212 Week 3 02/17/05 William Blake Additional Post: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

The Fall. The Fall of Satan and then of Adam and Eve should not simply be condemned, much less considered one-time events. Just as you can't return to a state of innocence prior to experience, so you can't return to some mythic state of prelapsarian ("before the fall") life in the earthly paradise or (in Satan's case) heaven. Heaven and Hell are contraries—they are perspective-states that require each other. The Angels tend to be creatures of reason, and the devils creatures of passion or energy—notice how Blake's Devil describes the intimate relationship between the two qualities: "reason is the outward bound or circumference of energy."

Emanuel Swedenborg. Delightful as his Memorable Relations are, Swedenborg the mystic resorts to mutually exclusive opposites in dealing with the eternal realms, and doesn't grasp Blake's notion of "contraries." (A contrary like reason/energy is what it is because both sides of the term have something going for them and can be put in a meaningful relationship with their partner term. The interaction or marriage of contraries poses a challenge to the mind and works against passivity.) Blake's narrator says that Swedenborg talked only to angels, so his visions came out one-sided. Blake, by contrast, doesn't turn away from thoughts of Hell or conversations with "Satans" as Swedenborg does. But Swedenborg still has the right idea—he seeks to engage in conversation about the fundamental things, even if he comes up short. I think Blake makes his narrator underestimate Swedenborg somewhat; the narrator seems cocky in saying that Swedenborg talked second-rate rubbish. Blake's own view probably differs—after all, why honor one's predecessor with such parody? Any press is good press, we might say, and the C18 prophet is in good company, with the Unholy Trinity of Bacon, Newton & Locke, and, of course, Milton.

Digression. Blake dislikes Bacon and Newton because of their scientific mindset, and Locke because of his mechanical "tabula rasa" or blank slate conception of the mind. Locke, that is, says we get our ideas from sensory perception; simple perceptions are combined into ever more complex and abstract clusters called ideas and concepts, and finally these are used to grind out whole philosophical systems and world views. To Blake, this seems like atheism and a complete failure to understand the power of human imagination. And as for poor old John Milton, he has real genius but has somehow managed to turn the Bible upside down—his God is a vacuous, nattering patriarch, and his Devil has the self-respect to try to take him down. (Shelley reads Milton much the same way—see his "Essay on the Devil and Devils." This is on the most obvious level a misreading of Paradise Lost, but it is what Harold Bloom would call a "strong misreading"—a misinterpretation that is necessary to overcome the "anxiety of influence" besetting romantic poets writing in the wake of such a towering pre-romantic "godfather" as Milton.)

Emanuel Swedenborg. One thing that Blake must have liked about Swedenborg is the exuberance of this religious enthusiast—see, for example, the outrageous snorts and declarations of the satan or adversary in Swedenborg's Fifth Memorable Relation. The Devil sends up pious views about heaven and hell—well, so do Blake's narrator and his own devils. Swedenborg's methods and perspective may be limited, but at times the attitude of characters in his visions is right on target. Moreover, characters in Swedenborg—at least the satans—keep being reminded of things and then forgetting them because the things they are told don't suit their nature. They just can't retain the corrected perspective offered them by the angels and the narrator. Again, this is insightful on Swedenborg's part, and I suppose Blake adapts the back-and-forth motions of intellect and spirit we find in Swedenborgian devils and in his visions' very structure. What might be interpreted as a flaw in perspective—the fact that Swedenborg's satans can't arrive at a "true" contrarian view with which to oppose his angels--must be turned into a strength, an display of the need for contraries and perpetual conversation. Swedenborg's characters are too facile and fall too easily back into their erroneous views, which are something like "default buttons" for them. They confront and are confronted, but the results don't really stick, so they go back to square one. Swedenborg's devils and angels do not come together in genuine conversation; there is no play of contrary perspectives, and thus "no progression."

Blake a True Poet and Therefore of the Devil's Party? Anyhow, Blake reads the dialogue in Swedenborg and sees that while the Angels say the universe is spiritual and comes from God, and the Devils that it is reducible to nature (nature is its own author), we should accept neither of these positions as they stand—they must be put into conflict, "married," as it were. The one side overemphasizes spirit at the expense of the body and nature, while the other makes the same mistake in reverse. But to make matters more complex, I should think that we are not to accept even the Blakean Devil's view that "there is no spirit distinct from body." It's easy to see that he's against simple-minded dualism (body/soul; mind/matter, etc.), but it's also possible to see that assertions like "spirit and body are the same" can be set forth too easily. Wouldn't getting rid of one of the terms put an end to the very idea that there must be conflict and not just reconciliation? You can't have "contraries" without terms that don't simply amount to the same thing. Blake knows this, but I'm not sure his devil does. The trick is not to let the terms wander off into mutually exclusive territory—saying body and soul are an undifferentiated unity might not be any better than privileging soul over body or body over soul. Either way, we would be letting abstract concepts tyrranize over us and paralyze us—"name your poison," as they say.

In general, Blake's Devil must think himself dreadfully clever with his Proverbs of Hell—it’s a kind of wisdom literature as in the Old Testament. But the Devil is perhaps too fond of having the last well-rounded word. He offers something like paradox, which certainly challenges the mind, but I'm not sure we are to trust his motives in challenging us. Blake's narrator may be too close to him—I don't know.

Infernal Suggestion. The way to read Blake is to "argue" with him, not to accept his words as making up a system of thought. If you're not challenging his "diabolical" readings, then you're probably going to arrive at mistaken views. I think the Devil's voice has a certain priority in MHH, but it isn't the last word. There isn't any last word, so far as I can understand. For example, isn't the idea of "corroding fires" that reveal the infinite contradictory? How can you invoke a medium (writing) and then say it opens out like a "cleansed" door of perception to the infinite? I think Blake knew well that the concept of a medium—even a clear one—always entails barriers to perception of the infinite and absolute. He struggles against this, but to say you can ever do away with the struggle would be simplistic. So we can't entirely trust his narrator when he pictures himself propounding the Bible of Hell as if it were the genuine new article and the way to read everything. We have to realize that Blake is not his narrator—there are affinities between the Devils and narrator and Blake, but they don't reduce to one another. The ending of the Marriage of Heaven and Hell goes against this reconciliation—Jesus, the principle of imagination, thrives on perpetual intellectual conflict—not reconciliation into undifferentiated unity and spineless agreement.

Writing with Corroding Fires. (See the interesting web article An Inquiry into Blake's Method of Color Printing.) Since Blake comments on his own medium in MHH, we should realize that he never really trusted to any one medium. He is not strictly a writer, but a visionary who worked was apprenticed as an engraver—engraving or etching is a highly skilled endeavor that is sort of like painting on metal and sort of like writing. The word isn't just "a word on paper," but something etched with the assistance of acid, etc. This isn't to say Blake believed he was transcending the very concept of "a necessary medium." In fact, the communication between his figures and the etched words adds another dimension of complexity to what only appears as a "poem" when it's printed in something like the Norton Anthology. What we really have is an argument between various media—not reconciliation into a perfect and transparent medium. Blake has that strange capacity to be both exuberant and cautious at the same time: as he is when he says "I stain'd the water clear" in the opening plate of Innocence. Does that mean that he is staining with his pen-reed something that was clear, though still an opaque medium as water is? Is writing not only revelation but also at the same time pollution? Those who dismiss such media-related problems and put all their eggs in one basket are fooling themselves, Blake would probably insist. The question is, what is the relationship between thought, language (written or spoken), image, and imagination?

Consider the relationship between engraved text and the accompanying images. The very first plate of MHH shows that the images can't simply be "explanations" of the words. Otherwise, I suppose we would be treated to an image of Rintrah and the hungry clouds "swagging" on the deep, or successive images showing the developmental stages to which the words refer. (to swag = to sway from side to side, sink down, vacillate, etc.) But we don't get that at all.

Week 02 Barbauld, Smith, Burke, Wollstonecraft, Paine

The French Revolution is a good place to start in studying romanticism—this was the central event of the age, and anyone with a claim to the title of poet or philosopher or statesman had to take up an attitude towards it. Is this a new dawn for humanity? Can we radically and rapidly transform our institutions to match our individual and collective aspirations? Or are such democratic, creative and imaginative experiments dangerous and doomed to failure, while older, more stable, principles respecting rank and order are bound to reassert themselves? All of the romantic poets wrestled with this issue, and most subsequent commentary on "romanticism" has seen the French Revolution as vital to an understanding of romantic poetics. The French Revolution brings to the fore basic questions about human nature and "the good society," optimism and pessimism, reason and imagination and passion, the individual and the collective, love of innovation versus reverence for tradition. Next week, when we discuss mostly Blake, we will see him both exalting imaginative process and yet realizing that it has its dangers, too—so how best to deal with the dangers?

Edmund Burke Notes

122. Notice that Edmund Burke sees the revolution as something monstrous, chaotic and unpredictable. From the outset, for the terror has not yet begun, Burke sees this revolution has a field day for lower class rascals and crazy ideologues. He says that ignorant and selfish people most favor sudden, radical innovation. He defines nature as "wisdom without reflection, and above it." It becomes clear that for Burke, following nature means following the laws of property and respecting the imperative of family and ancestry. Tradition is the human version of nature, and it must be respected, or the result will be violent instability. He dislikes all brands of absolutism—whether it be the Hobbesian type that favors absolute monarchism, or the French Revolution's claims about Reason and Democracy.

123. Again, Burke says that we inherit our liberties and need not come up with philosophical abstractions to get behind this principle of inheritance. He insists that it is in our nature "to revere individual men" because of their age, and we should hold our civil institutions in similar reverence. Isn't he suggesting, therefore, that Great Britain should be a government of men, and not of laws? The point is that laws, and civil institutions, for Burke, do not deserve reverence because they are the glorious products of reason, but rather because they are honored by time and observance. We will find Wollstonecraft and Thomas Paine mocking Burke because they say he turns this principle of reverence for tradition into an absolute in its own right.

Notice the phrase "conformity to nature in our artificial institutions." Burke says that civil institutions are in a sense artificial, man-made, but that we should not consider them simply the products of rational schemes. Evidently, since Burke supported the American Revolution in 1776, he believed the Americans somewhat respected the imperatives of tradition and were not trying to set up a crazy radical experiment in the New World. Little did he know…. Anyhow, the French revolutionaries, in his view, are trying to impose completely artificial notions derived from an arrogant exercise of reason upon an ancient and well-established, if by no means perfect, way of life. He sees the French revolution as "reason gone wild." It would be too easy to say Burke has simply dismissed the French Enlightenment with its optimistic claims about the power of reason – most of the Enlightenment philosophers wrote and talked a good deal about the necessary role of the passions, our emotional side, in everyday life and society. He is probably arguing instead that the revolutionaries overemphasize the power of reason and think they can radically alter human civilization to suit the dictates of reason. They are, in a word, unbalanced in their view of humanity's key elements. Notice that at the middle of the page, it would be easy enough to translate what Burke says into Sigmund Freud's later conception of the superego – the parental figure that is always looking over our shoulder and keeping us from doing shameful things. For Burke, tradition takes on this role, and we should not set up against it our juvenile faith in "feeble contrivances of our reason."

Towards the bottom of the page, Burke insists that he is not against change; he is saying that change should come about organically, over time rather than overnight. The French revolutionaries have set up what he calls "false claims of right" and then demanded instantaneous social change. So much for immediate demands in favor of "liberty, egality, and fraternity."

124. "All men have equal rights; but not to equal things." Burke has the same antipathy to French claims for equality of status and for social justice (as we would call it today) as Americans in the middle of the 20^th century had for communist assertions that property should be held in common.

Burke accepts that there will be inequality amongst people in terms of rank and wealth, so he has no patience with long lists of claims based upon what he considers a bogus and completely artificial theory of "natural right." If you were to say to him that such distinctions are not fair because they are not reasonable, he would say the basis of society is not reason in the first place. As JFK is reputed to have said, "so who said life is fair?" So it isn't only conservatives who accept that it is impractical to demand absolute equality for everyone. Burke does not come right out and say it, but property rights and, in our time, the demands of capitalism, mean that there will be winners and losers – anyone who claims to support the principle of aristocracy or the capitalist order must confront that simple fact. If you weren't born into the nobility, too bad; if you have no capital and can't afford the finer things in life, too bad. Social and economic systems tend to generate inequalities, and even seem to require them to thrive. You cannot have order, Burke suggests, if you insist upon absolute equality.

Burke considers natural rights a fantastical concept -- it derives from reason gone wild. In other words, the very conception of "Nature" in the hands of French revolutionaries is the most artificial construction of all. It is okay to say that the law should treat people fairly in the courts – that is a glorious English custom, after all – but evidently he thinks it an entirely different thing to start talking about our innate or God-derived abstract rights as human beings.

124-25. Burke provides a tableau contrasting the vicious ruffians who assaulted the king and queen of France with the nobility and grace of those two personages. This is obviously an emotional appeal – we are expected to be outraged at this insult to civility and the bygone age of chivalry. What takes the place of the nobility as governors? Why evidently, ruffians, sophistical speakers, economists, and the lower orders in general – a mishmash of contradictory impulses and desires. This is a recipe for chaos, in Burke's opinion. It can never lead to stability.

126. This is where Burke propounds his doctrine of "this mixed system of opinion and sentiment" originating in the feudal period. What did chivalry provide? Well, it provided "the decent drapery of life" that our new proponents of the "Empire of light and reason" would strip away, leading human society naked and therefore obscene. Essentially, feudalism made the strong submit to regular forms and even added a touch of elegance and grace to and otherwise harsh way of life, in Burke's view." Without force, or opposition, it subdued the fierceness of pride and power." Burke therefore is not supporting tyranny or the divine right of kings – he is after all, at least early in his career, coming from the Whig tradition, which by no means wants to give absolute power to the monarch. I think Burke is suggesting that chivalry may have been something of a fiction, but it was a fiction hallowed by time and that led to a workable way of life for the English people. As he says at the bottom of 126, the French revolution can lead to nothing but a mechanical kind of society in which there is no human connection between one person and another. There will be no "love, veneration, admiration, or attachment." Only an isolated group of people pursuing their own individualistic, selfish, incompatible goals. This is the basic contrast in metaphors between Edmund Burke and the radical members of the French Enlightenment: the organic entity versus the machine. Understood in this way, we can see that there is a conservative side to what we have come to call romanticism. The early usage of this word generally meant something like "old-fashioned and not very realistic" – something from the age of chivalry. Think of any "romance epic" or a novelistic romance – if you read this sort of thing, you are not looking for realism but rather for excitement, passion. In a sense, therefore, Edmund Burke might be labeled a romantic in his belief that human society must be appreciated as an organic entity. It is not a machine that we may tinker with lightly, but a tree-like organism that should grow slowly until it becomes magnificent and beautiful. But again, Burke would be careful not to offer us a radical and total set of claims about "nature." That would put him on the side of the French revolutionaries who are abhorrent to him. Perhaps he is suggesting that you should use your metaphors carefully and not put too much stock in them. We are creatures of reason and passion, the artificial and the natural, so we should remain humble about the province of both.

127. "Kings will be tyrants from policy when subjects are rebels from principle." Burke accurately predicts, without of course knowing his name, the advent of Napoleon Bonaparte. In the first full paragraph, Burke says "power, of some kind or other, will survive the shock in which manners and opinions perish; and it will find other and worse means for its support." If you destroy the old power structure, what you will get is not liberty and order but a new assertion of power. Napoleon put an end to the period of near anarchy in France, but only by declaring it and empire and taking the country to war with the rest of Europe to support the very ideals it had begun to abuse itself. Remember that Burke published this tract well before the period of terror, which only started in 1792 – so he looks almost like a prophet in this prediction. Rebellious France begot Napoleon, and all Europe paid the price.

127. During the feudal age, learning went hand in hand with power, argues Burke. Religion supported learning, and learning in turn supported the cause of order. The nobility and the clergy worked together in this regard. If we wanted to relate this passage to a view of literature, I suppose we could say that Burke would fold it back into the concept of learning, in his conservative definition – the arts should not overturn society, in other words, but should rather reflect its most stable values. That is of course a common conservative view of art.

Mary Wollstonecraft Notes

Wollstonecraft considers natural rights to be common sense—not a radical abstraction as Burke would have it. Reason is the natural gift of God, so why shouldn't we use it? And if we look around, see massive injustice that could be fixed with a dash of reason, why not make some rational changes? We make our own institutions based upon God's gift of reason—so we can change what we made to suit the present time. She considers Burke's entire argument irrational, scarcely worthy of the title "argument." She accuses him of being more or less a ranting lackey who will support any tyrant over the dictates of reason. It takes "courage to change," as Bill Clinton would say, and Burke is a blubbering coward. W accuses his reverence for the English fathers as nothing more than love of brute power. Everyone knows that chivalry, with its niceties, was a fraud that covered up what was essentially a society of slaves and masters. Art and social elegance should not serve as beautiful masks for something ugly! (If there must be ugliness, give it to us straight, like whiskey—then we can know where things stand.)

Wollstonecraft assumes that if you give uneducated people freedom, they will know, or at least quickly learn, how to maintain it. But you owe them a chance at self-determination, as she says concerning women in her other great work on The Vindication of Women. Burke, by contrast, apparently sees nothing inherently progressive about democracy. People will just pursue their selfish individual desires. Some modern thinkers such as Matthew Arnold would say much the same thing—right will prevail eventually, but "force till right is ready."

The argument about nature: Wollstonecraft says reason is central to human nature, so why condemn its productions as dangerous fantasy? Why must we think the end result of rational process will be an unnatural monstrosity? But Burke emphasizes rank, gradation, and similar concepts. He trusts in the process that leads to a system of social ranking, and he insists that this process is analogous to nature itself. So he invests social rank -- titles, inherited property, etc. -- with inherent, essential qualities, and will have none of the revolutionaries' absolutizing of such concepts as "nature." We must not govern ourselves by abstract concepts, but rather by traditions. Wollstonecraft says that amounts to advocating slavery, with custom (the dead) as our masters. Which, to her, sounds like outright insanity. "What exactly are conservatives conserving?" she might ask. Paine says the same thing—the past is nothing to us. Wollstonecraft suggests that no matter how cautious Burke tries to sound in his advocacy of custom as "natural," he is an essentialist at heart, investing stale tradition with the power of a living organism. And if there's anything Wollstonecraft can't stand, it's an essentialist—that is what irritates her most about men's opinions concerning women. Men keep telling women what they are rather than listening to them and giving them a chance; here we have Edmund Burke pulling the same shoddy stunt on the whole human race.

Our authors show that both sides—the radical revolutionists and the conservatives—lay claim to key terms like "Reason" and "Nature." Those terms may seem self-evident, and are certainly important, but they are contested terms. Questions crop up along with these terms—should we say that Reason is itself "natural" to us, or that it actually sets us apart from anything in the natural world? Was there ever a "state of nature" for humanity, or were we "always already" social animals who never lived by the simple arrangements animals arrive at by means of evolution and instinct. Or should we say, like Rousseau, that civilization is something artificial that has corrupted our better instincts towards free expression, true cooperation, and regard for our fellows? Any position you take up on such grand matters is likely to be full of problems, and yet it seems necessary to have a position on them.