Finally, Berlin’s own approach to acquiring knowledge of human beings has its roots in the anti-rationalist rebellion. He insists on the variety of types of knowledge and of their irreducibility to a single standard, and exposes the harm done by the blind application of a model successful in one area of experience to every aspect of human existence. He makes clear that unthinking imposition upon humans of abstract schemas drawn from alien disciplines has been both the greatest stumbling-block to human self-understanding and one of the greatest sources of suffering. In true empiricist fashion he subjects the Enlightenment tradition to the most devastating test available, namely the ferocious and continuing reaction against it. Here history is the equivalent of the scientist’s laboratory. There is no better method for exposing flaws in rationalistic constructions. Wherever these appear to break down before the onslaught, Berlin concedes that the Enlightenment must give ground. Moreover, he wants it to make a virtue of necessity by enriching such key notions as ‘man’, ‘society’, ‘culture’, ‘history’, ‘knowledge’ in the light of its defeats. The result is a net increase in our knowledge of what human beings are and can be. His project, therefore, is continuous in spirit with that of the Enlightenment, whatever radical breaks he may make with some of its more rigidly unempirical assumptions.
In particular, it is to the Counter-Enlightenment thinkers that we may trace Berlin’s acute sense of those exclusively human forms of knowledge and insight which comprise the greatest and most valued part of our human lives. He has traced the earliest origins of this movement, and worked out some of its most radical conclusions and their relevance to our day. In this sense, is he not both a genealogist and a consummator of that elusive but long-awaited ‘Newtonian revolution’ in the human studies desiderated by Kant and the thinkers of the Enlightenment? Is it too fanciful to see him as representing the summation of a series of developments which began in the late eighteenth century, passed through the hands of a chain of subsequent thinkers, principally in the German world, and have now come to their richest and most balanced fruition? This process has set upon secure foundations the rational study of man, not just as a physical animal, viewed essentially from outside in naturalistic terms (an approach whose astounding success within its own limits Berlin has often warmly applauded), but as a free, autonomous, unpredictably creative, self-interpreting and self-transforming species, whose proper element is history, and whose nature is revealed, not timelessly once and for all, but in his most basic, all-informing, evolving – and sometimes violently transformed and clashing – concepts and categories. This makes the human studies as autonomous and rationally transparent as they can ever be made, and raises a large arena for human freedom and dignity clear of the destructive incursions of science and technology, and levelling universalist principles generally. That this advance has taken a form inconceivable by the Enlightenment thinkers themselves is just one of the many paradoxes in the history of ideas.
Unlike most political theorists Berlin is not directly engaged in normative political theory, and the attempt to see in him a coherent ideological figure with views on all the issues of his time is misleading. He is not a preacher or a prescriber, a creator or a constructor. He peddles no simple doctrines, and gave up his chair in political theory partly because he felt he had none to purvey. Rather the opposite: he is an observer, an analyst, a describer. His ambition is to know. In this respect, many of his personal views on a whole range of issues are incidental to his major preoccupations. The object of his investigations is the almost endless plurality of total views of the world, and this precludes his espousing any exclusive vision of man and his condition. This is of a piece with his remarkable capacity to deploy a cool impersonality combined with a warm responsiveness, both towards the great, stable visions of the human condition, and to idiosyncrasies of feeling and temperament on the part of individuals. That is the secret of his mental constitution: the intellectual core has the hard clarity of a diamond, while the periphery flames and sparkles with that intense engagement that makes his essays on people so irresistible. His ‘Conversations with Akhmatova and Pasternak’ and the pieces on Churchill and Roosevelt need no commentary, and will probably lead the reader to want to devour whole his celebrated book of ‘personal impressions’.
At the same time Berlin’s ideas do carry normative implications. We have seen that he rules out the notion of Utopia as such: this has consequences most movingly stated in ‘The Pursuit of the Ideal’, and explains the great attraction for Berlin of the nineteenth-century Russian radical Alexander Herzen. In an age stiff with narrow dogmas, Herzen stood out in his belief that the basic, perennial human problems have no solutions. We can only do our best in the situations in which we find ourselves, with no guarantee of success. Indeed, we transform ourselves through the efforts we make to solve the problems of our age and culture, and so create new kinds of humans and new problems. Future problems and needs cannot, in principle, be predicted, still less provided for in advance; in each generation political arrangements must give the fullest possible scope to free choice and creative effort, the opening up of new, unpredictable paths to fulfilment. In Berlin’s view there is a form of social and political organisation which has, historically, proved able to provide both the positive social framework for the maximum flourishing of individuals in this sense, as well as the best context for trade-offs between values, and that is the New Deal of Roosevelt. Berlin has always been an enthusiastic New Dealer – a natural allegiance, surely, for an objective pluralist.
Berlin’s value pluralism is one of the boldest and most hopeful doctrines to emerge in the recent history of Western thought. It poses a considerable intellectual and imaginative challenge, and this, combined with its refusal of easy answers – its demand, indeed, for a degree of renunciation – may (despite his doubts) make it peculiarly captivating to the moral idealism of the young. It is an outlook at once generous, sober and humane, in whose dry light life is seen to be something enormously worth living despite the absence of absolute guarantees. Permeated by a sense of moral pathos and personal responsibility, it has the potential to fill the vacuum created by the demise of traditional religion and of secular ideologies such as Marxism. It is a powerful promoter of tolerance, understanding and sanity, both among individuals and peoples, and, if its truth must sooner or later be borne in on all societies that have reached a certain level of maturity, we may perhaps entertain the guarded hope that it will come more and more to shape the life of civilised countries everywhere.
However this may be, Berlin has probably given us the most mature reading of human history, and of human nature and its most abiding and fundamental attributes and needs, as well as of the deep changes these undergo through time, that we possess. His thought seems to accord with the actual character of that portion of the world that matters most to us, the entire human realm of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, actions and sufferings. Recent history has afforded abundant confirmation of Berlin’s central vision and the concepts and categories that permeate and support it. It will not be surprising if he comes increasingly to be regarded as one of the most significant thinkers of his time.
THE PURSUIT OF THE IDEAL
I
THERE ARE, IN my view, two factors that, above all others, have shaped human history in the twentieth century. One is the development of the natural sciences and technology, certainly the greatest success story of our time – to this, great and mounting attention has been paid from all quarters. The other, without doubt, consists in the great ideological storms that have altered the lives of virtually all mankind: the Russian Revolution and its aftermath – totalitarian tyrannies of both right and left and the explosions of nationalism, racism and, in places, religious bigotry which, interestingly enough, not one among the most perceptive social thinkers of the nineteenth century had ever predicted.
When our descendants, in two or three centuries’ time (if mankind survives until then), come to look at our age, it is these t
wo phenomena that will, I think, be held to be the outstanding characteristics of our century – the most demanding of explanation and analysis. But it is as well to realise that these great movements began with ideas in people’s heads: ideas about what relations between men have been, are, might be and should be; and to realise how they came to be transformed in the name of a vision of some supreme goal in the minds of the leaders, above all of the prophets with armies at their backs. Such ideas are the substance of ethics. Ethical thought consists of the systematic examination of the relations of human beings to each other, the conceptions, interests and ideals from which human ways of treating one another spring, and the systems of value on which such ends of life are based. These beliefs about how life should be lived, what men and women should be and do, are objects of moral enquiry; and when applied to groups and nations, and, indeed, mankind as a whole, are called political philosophy, which is but ethics applied to society.
If we are to hope to understand the often violent world in which we live (and unless we try to understand it, we cannot expect to be able to act rationally in it and on it), we cannot confine our attention to the great impersonal forces, natural and man-made, which act upon us. The goals and motives that guide human action must be looked at in the light of all that we know and understand; their roots and growth, their essence, and above all their validity, must be critically examined with every intellectual resource that we have. This urgent need, apart from the intrinsic value of the discovery of truth about human relationships, makes ethics a field of primary importance. Only barbarians are not curious about where they come from, how they came to be where they are, where they appear to be going, whether they wish to go there, and if so, why, and if not, why not.
The study of the variety of ideas about the views of life that embody such values and such ends is something that I have spent forty years of my long life in trying to make clear to myself. I should like to say something about how I came to become absorbed by this topic, and particularly about a turning-point which altered my thoughts about the heart of it. This will, to some degree, inevitably turn out to be somewhat autobiographical – for this I offer my apologies, but I do not know how else to give an account of it.
II
When I was young I read War and Peace by Tolstoy, much too early. The real impact on me of this great novel came only later, together with that of other Russian writers, both novelists and social thinkers, of the mid-nineteenth century. These writers did much to shape my outlook. It seemed to me, and still does, that the purpose of these writers was not principally to give realistic accounts of the lives and relationships to one another of individuals or social groups or classes, not psychological or social analysis for its own sake – although, of course, the best of them achieved precisely this, incomparably. Their approach seemed to me essentially moral: they were concerned most deeply with what was responsible for injustice, oppression, falsity in human relations, imprisonment whether by stone walls or conformism – unprotesting submission to man-made yokes – moral blindness, egoism, cruelty, humiliation, servility, poverty, helplessness, bitter indignation, despair on the part of so many. In short, they were concerned with the nature of these experiences and their roots in the human condition: the condition of Russia in the first place, but, by implication, of all mankind. And conversely they wished to know what would bring about the opposite of this, a reign of truth, love, honesty, justice, security, personal relations based on the possibility of human dignity, decency, independence, freedom, spiritual fulfilment.
Some, like Tolstoy, found this in the outlook of simple people, unspoiled by civilisation; like Rousseau, he wished to believe that the moral universe of peasants was not unlike that of children, not distorted by the conventions and institutions of civilisation, which sprang from human vices – greed, egoism, spiritual blindness; that the world could be saved if only men saw the truth that lay at their feet; if they but looked, it was to be found in the Christian gospels, the Sermon on the Mount. Others among these Russians put their faith in scientific rationalism, or in social and political revolution founded on a true theory of historical change. Others again looked for answers in the teachings of the Orthodox theology, or in liberal Western democracy, or in a return to ancient Slav values, obscured by the reforms of Peter the Great and his successors.
What was common to all these outlooks was the belief that solutions to the central problems existed, that one could discover them, and, with sufficient selfless effort, realise them on earth. They all believed that the essence of human beings was to be able to choose how to live: societies could be transformed in the light of true ideals believed in with enough fervour and dedication. If, like Tolstoy, they sometimes thought that man was not truly free but determined by factors outside his control, they knew well enough, as he did, that if freedom was an illusion it was one without which one could not live or think. None of this was part of my school curriculum, which consisted of Greek and Latin authors, but it remained with me.
When I became a student at the University of Oxford, I began to read the works of the great philosophers, and found that the major figures, especially in the field of ethical and political thought, believed this too. Socrates thought that if certainty could be established in our knowledge of the external world by rational methods (had not Anaxagoras arrived at the truth that the moon was many times larger than the Peloponnese, however small it looked in the sky?) the same methods would surely yield equal certainty in the field of human behaviour – how to live, what to be. This could be achieved by rational argument. Plato thought that an élite of sages who arrived at such certainty should be given the power of governing others intellectually less well endowed, in obedience to patterns dictated by the correct solutions to personal and social problems. The Stoics thought that the attainment of these solutions was in the power of any man who set himself to live according to reason. Jews, Christians, Muslims (I knew too little about Buddhism) believed that the true answers had been revealed by God to his chosen prophets and saints, and accepted the interpretation of these revealed truths by qualified teachers and the traditions to which they belonged.
The rationalists of the seventeenth century thought that the answers could be found by a species of metaphysical insight, a special application of the light of reason with which all men were endowed. The empiricists of the eighteenth century, impressed by the vast new realms of knowledge opened by the natural sciences based on mathematical techniques, which had driven out so much error, superstition, dogmatic nonsense, asked themselves, like Socrates, why the same methods should not succeed in establishing similar irrefutable laws in the realm of human affairs. With the new methods discovered by natural science, order could be introduced into the social sphere as well – uniformities could be observed, hypotheses formulated and tested by experiment; laws could be based on them, and then laws in specific regions of experience could be seen to be entailed by wider laws; and these in turn to be entailed by still wider laws, and so on upwards, until a great harmonious system, connected by unbreakable logical links and capable of being formulated in precise – that is, mathematical – terms, could be established.
The rational reorganisation of society would put an end to spiritual and intellectual confusion, the reign of prejudice and superstition, blind obedience to unexamined dogmas, and the stupidities and cruelties of the oppressive regimes which such intellectual darkness bred and promoted. All that was wanted was the identification of the principal human needs and discovery of the means of satisfying them. This would create the happy, free, just, virtuous, harmonious world which Condorcet so movingly predicted in his prison cell in 1794. This view lay at the basis of all progressive thought in the nineteenth century, and was at the heart of much of the critical empiricism which I imbibed in Oxford as a student.
III
At some point I realised that what all these views had in common was a Platonic ideal: in the first place that, as in the sciences, all genuine questions
must have one true answer and one only, all the rest being necessarily errors; in the second place that there must be a dependable path towards the discovery of these truths; in the third place that the true answers, when found, must necessarily be compatible with one another and form a single whole, for one truth cannot be incompatible with another – that we knew a priori. This kind of omniscience was the solution of the cosmic jigsaw puzzle. In the case of morals, we could then conceive what the perfect life must be, founded as it would be on a correct understanding of the rules that governed the universe.
True, we might never get to this condition of perfect knowledge – we may be too feeble-witted, or too weak or corrupt or sinful, to achieve this. The obstacles, both intellectual and those of external nature, may be too many. Moreover, opinions, as I say, had widely differed about the right path to pursue – some found it in Churches, some in laboratories; some believed in intuition, others in experiment, or in mystical visions, or in mathematical calculation. But even if we could not ourselves reach these true answers, or indeed, the final system that interweaves them all, the answers must exist – else the questions were not real. The answers must be known to someone: perhaps Adam in Paradise knew; perhaps we shall only reach them at the end of days; if men cannot know them, perhaps the angels know; and if not the angels, then God knows. The timeless truths must in principle be knowable.
Some nineteenth-century thinkers – Hegel, Marx – thought it was not quite so simple. There were no timeless truths. There was historical development, continuous change; human horizons altered with each new step in the evolutionary ladder; history was a drama with many acts; it was moved by conflicts of forces, sometimes called dialectical, in the realms of both ideas and reality – conflicts which took the form of wars, revolutions, violent upheavals of nations, classes, cultures, movements. Yet after inevitable setbacks, failures, relapses, returns to barbarism, Condorcet’s dream would come true. The drama would have a happy ending – man’s reason had achieved triumphs in the past, it could not be held back for ever. Men would no longer be victims of nature or of their own largely irrational societies: reason would triumph; universal harmonious co-operation, true history, would at last begin.
The Proper Study of Mankind Page 4