Download 1 Corruption and the Fatal Power of Envy: Revisiting The Classical

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Corruption and the Fatal Power of Envy: Revisiting The Classical Republican Tradition
Rebecca Fiske
Bard College at Simon’s Rock
June 2012
Civil war ran through the city-states; those it struck later heard what the first cities had
done and far exceeded them in inventing artful means for attack and bizarre forms of
revenge. And they exchanged their usual verbal evaluations of actions for new ones, in
the light of what they thought justified; thus irrational daring (tolrna alogistos) was
considered courage (andreia) and loyalty to one's party (Reeve 441).
At the core of our consideration of corruption must be its definition: the word corruption
needs an accepted meaning, a usual verbal evaluation. As any reasonable person
might expect, the systematic study of corruption ought to begin with a trust worthy
signifier, one that we, as a community, may share. Further, it should be one that meets
the test of applicability across times and political systems. The trouble is, perhaps of all
words, this one - corruption - is the most vulnerable to the slippery nature of meaningmaking. The very act of assigning a definition to a word implies both mutability and
immutability. As the great 19th century linguist Ferdinand de Saussure explained,
though it may appear that we freely choose our words with respect to the ideas they
represent, those words are fixed, not free, because their meanings depend upon the
linguistic community that uses them. However, “the masses have no voice in the
matter…language furnishes the best proof that a law accepted by a community is a
thing that is tolerated and not a rule to which all freely consent”(Saussure 70). All
linguistic communities have a history, and all languages are shot through with the
phonetic past, riddled with the promise of the phonetic future. Our words, and the
meanings associated with them, reflect the ever-changing and systematic nature of
human experience. “Language is a garment covered with patches cut from its own
cloth…the vast majority of words are, in one way or another, new combinations of
phonetic elements torn from older forms…what predominates in all change is the
persistence of the old substance; disregard for the past is only relative. That is why the
principle of change is based on the principle of continuity”(Saussure 94). So when
Thucydides, the Greek historian of the horrific Peloponnesian War, tells us that on the
island of Corcyra, in the year 427 BCE, when faced with civil war and the collapse of
political and moral order, a community of speakers “exchanged their usual verbal
evaluations of actions for new ones” such that irrational daring became courage and
thoughtful appraisal of the future became cowardice, we might be wise to stop and take
notice.
Here, in this ancient text, we have an example of language, corrupted. We have an
example of an exchange, one thing for another, and of a sort of linguistic rent-seeking.
One word was inequitably exchanged for another, cowardice for courage, so that the
coward might profit. But such a corrupt exchange can never be that neat. Something of
the old cowardly carried over into the new courageous, and something of the old
courageous carried over into the new cowardly. “Language…for the very reason that it
always uses old material for its innovations, is remarkably conservative”(Saussure 172).
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Perhaps, if we wish to define corruption, we should look to the Corcyraeans, a people,
Thucydides says, who became masters of the art of corruption, who corrupted even
their chain of signifiers. We might also explore their Athenian hero, Pericles, whom
Thucydides calls “incorruptible.” What might we discover about the nature of corruption,
conserved in the language of Thucydides’ story of one island, and one society, isolated
and crumbling? Without moralizing or romanticizing, without calling on Fate or blaming
the gods, and with steadfast belief in accuracy, “always tried by the most sever and
detailed tests possible,” Thucydides believed he had written a document of the past so
that we, his future, could interpret it, and so that we could recognize ourselves, reflected
there. He offered “an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the interpretation of the
future, which in the course of human things must resemble if it does not reflect it…a
possession for all time” (Thucydides 1). Thucydides, therefore, called upon us to read
his history carefully in order to see our corruption in the Corcyrean mirror.
On the little island of Corcyra (modern Corfu) in the midst of the Peloponnesian War, a
people split into the many and the few, and a revolution ensued. The many, the
commons, were allies of Athens while the few, the oligarchs, desperately needed the
support of the Spartans. The war between Athens and Sparta reached this island in part
because Corinth, Sparta’s ally, released some Corcyrean prisoners, charging them to
convince their fellow citizens to change allegiance and side with Sparta. Dutiful to their
captives, the freed prisoners even brought the civic-leader and Athenian ally, Peithias,
to trial for “enslaving Corcyra to Athens” (Thucydides III). The question was a difficult
one. With whom should they ally: which power offered the most or threatened the least?
Who offered hope and whom should they fear? After much consideration, the question
was put to vote, and the people concluded that they should remain allies of Athens and
become friends of Sparta. In essence, the island voted to hold hope and fear in an
uneasy balance. But this was impossible, and the people fractured all the more as both
powers began to apply greater force. When Peithias was acquitted, some of the freed
prisoners, enraged and frustrated by his counter charges, broke into the senate and
murdered him, along with sixty other people, senators and private people. Those who
survived the bloody attack took refuge in an Athenian ship about to sail away. The
conspirators then called the people to an assembly and declared that the coup was for
the best. They sent envoys to Athens to dissuade them from attacking. When the
envoys reached Athens, however, they were arrested. In the meantime, a Corinthian
ship attacked Corcyra and sent the commons fleeing to the higher parts of the city and
into the Hyllaic harbor. The oligarchs held the marketplace and the other harbors, facing
the mainland. The poor controlled the high ground and the outermost harbor. The rich
controlled the markets and the mainland harbors.
Mayhem ensued. The commons were joined by the slaves, and though the oligarchs
hired mercenaries from the mainland to defend them, they were over-powered. Indeed,
Thucydides tells us that even the commons women fought valiantly throughout the night,
“pelting with tiles from the houses, and supporting the melee with a fortitude beyond
their sex” (Thucydides III). At daybreak, the oligarchs were in such turmoil that they
began burning their own homes and markets so that the commons would not take
possession. Their desire not to give over their possessions to those who coveted them
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over powered their desire to possess. The island society was in flames, consuming itself.
The mercenaries stole back to the mainland, leaving the beaten oligarchs to face their
doom. The next day, an Athenian general, Nicostratus, arrived with twelve ships and
five hundred Messenian soldiers. Nicostratus persuaded the Corcyraeans to make
peace with one another and all agreed to ally with Athens. The commons appeared to
agree but when Nicostraus left, they herded the terrified, ragged oligarchs and set them
next to a temple to be secured. The rich, having destroyed their own wealth, became
poorer than the poor who envied them.
Four or five days of such captivity, and relative calm, passed. But the island was once
again attacked - this time by fifty-three Peloponnesian ships. After a miserable attempt
at defense, the commons retreated, gathered up their oligarch and Messenian prisoners,
resettled them at the temple of Hera, and kept guard over the city, fearing the worst.
The Peloponnesian ships eventually did attack, though they remained only a short time,
and quickly fled upon learning of additional Athenian ships arriving. The Corcyraens,
newly poor and their poor captors alike, were left to face one another. Thucydides
documents the resulting violence:
The Corcyraeans, made aware of the approach of the Athenian fleet and of the
departure of the enemy, brought the Messenians from outside the walls into the town,
and ordered the fleet which they had manned to sail round into the Hyllaic harbour; and
while it was so doing, slew such of their enemies as they laid hands on, dispatching
afterwards, as they landed them, those whom they had persuaded to go on board the
ships. Next they went to the sanctuary of Hera and persuaded about fifty men to take
their trial, and condemned them all to death. The mass of the suppliants who had
refused to do so, on seeing what was taking place, slew each other there in the
consecrated ground; while some hanged themselves upon the trees, and others
destroyed themselves as they were severally able. During seven days that Eurymedon
stayed with his sixty ships, the Corcyraeans were engaged in butchering those of their
fellow citizens whom they regarded as their enemies: and although the crime imputed
was that of attempting to put down the democracy, some were slain also for private
hatred, others by their debtors because of the moneys owed to them. Death thus raged
in every shape; and, as usually happens at such times, there was no length to which
violence did not go; sons were killed by their fathers, and suppliants dragged from the
altar or slain upon it; while some were even walled up in the temple of Dionysus and
died there (Thucydides III).
The definition of corruption, which we seek, can perhaps be found in this commentary.
“As usually happens at such times, there was no length to which violence did not go”
says Thucydides. Within his description of the siege and the battles, he makes clear the
turmoil: the Corcyraeans are thrown into civil war, in part because of invasion from two
opposing forces and in part because of the weakening of the governing body that held
the passions of the many and the few in check. The actions he describes: murdering
asylum - seekers, rigging trials, inciting mass suicide, revenging private hate, exacting
pounds of flesh, defiling sacred spaces, all seem prime examples of corruption. They
are violent actions taken by private individuals, unchecked by civil law. They indicate the
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rupture of the boundary between the personal and the political. Indeed, even here
Thucydides makes it clear that illicit language exchange signaled corruption: “fellow
citizens” became “enemies.” “Personal animosities” became “political crimes.”
Thucydides uses the terms “regarded” and “imputed” to clarify the corruption; fellow
citizens were regarded as enemies, and crimes were imputed. But the truth remained:
“death thus raged” whatever linguistic shape it took. As Saussure might have pointed
out, here in the midst of Corcyraean civil war, new combinations of phonetic elements
were torn from older forms. The signifier “enemy” was a patchwork of old comrades,
debtors, rivals, sons, and suppliants. Something of the old must have remained in the
new, even in the minds of these people enslaved to passion.
What allowed them to forget the true value of words, to accept the fraud so suddenly? It
is one thing to accept the slow, steady mutability of language, that lazy, slipping wherein
a story could enfold and a fellow could become a foe or, more in the semiotic register,
thou could become you or infection could become corruption. It is quite another to insert
change synchronically. When phonemes reconfigure, time and distance are required.
Further, “language premeditates nothing” as it changes. “Diachronic facts cannot be
reduced to the synchronic system which they condition, when the change is intentional”
(Saussure 94). Language changes over time and across geographical space.
Regarding and imputing do not constitute diachronic fact. Regarding and imputing are
conscious actions. The change is intentional. No matter the phonetics, when a father
murders his son, a father murders his son. In the synchronic language-state, signifiers
are immutable; they must be in order for the language game to be played, the language
strings to be plucked. When a community of speakers, settled into a language-state,
encounters diachronic change, the result can only be traumatic for “speaking operates
only on a language-state, and the changes that intervene between states have no place”
(Saussure 94).
To put it simply, when one signifier is exchanged for another, suddenly, intentionally,
from within, the rules of the game are broken; the notes of the melody are discordant. In
fact, for Saussure, words themselves have a sort of essence as they rest, immutable in
their synchronic language-state. “These transformations are basically alien to words and
cannot touch their essence. The word-unit is not constituted solely by the totality of its
phonemes but by characteristics other than its material quality. Suppose that one string
of a piano is out of tune: a discordant note will be heard each time the one who is
playing a melody strikes the corresponding key. But where is the discord? In the
melody? Certainly not; the melody has not been affected; only the piano has been
impaired” (Saussure 94). Linguistic rent-seeking is discordant. Something jangled out of
tune on this island as death raged in every shape. Why? It is more than the problem of
war, more than the problem of violence, more than the problem of Athens and Sparta.
Saussure might say that the Corcyraeans broke the fundamental rule of language:
above all else, a word is a “slice of sound which, to the exclusion of everything that
precedes and follows it in the spoken chain, is the signifier of a certain
concept”(Saussure 103). That certain slice of sound must be accepted by a community
of speakers as signifying a specific concept, and no other. Further, this slice of sound
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must have the appearance of permanence, of immutability. It must be true to its word.
That way, a language-state occurs, and speaking subjects exist. If this rule is broken,
and the sound and the concept, the signifier and the signified, are divorced, meaning
collapses. In fact, when individuals exchange their usual verbal evaluations of actions
for new ones, in the light of what they think justified, they lie. They corrupt truth. They
use signifiers to justify rather than to signify. They split the two sided linguistic unit:
signifier/signified. “The two-sided linguistic unit has often been compared with the
human person, made up of the body and the soul. The comparison is hardly satisfactory.
A better choice would be a chemical compound like water, a combination of hydrogen
and oxygen; taken separately, neither element has any of the properties of water”
(Saussure 103). The Corcyraean language-state was in civil-war, and lies replaced
truths as usual verbal evaluations. Thus, neither lies nor truths retained their properties.
Meaning vanished, and atrocities appeared.
Later in his description, Thucydides clarifies his position on the root cause of such
atrocities. Some of the many attacked the few out of “pleonexia,” the passionate desire
for more than one’s fair share, while others attacked out of zeal for equality. All were
carried away by “orgie,” undisciplined passion, and they committed savage and pitiless
attacks. He says people do these things when “they have the opportunity, against rulers
who have shown more arrogance (hubris) than good sense (sophrosune), and….to
escape long-standing poverty” (Reeve 440). This is a complex assessment because at
first it appears Thucydides is suggesting that human nature is violent and selfish and
that without civil order we would all be carried away by our passions, our emotions. We
would abandon logos and exchange it for pathos. But consider this: the historian tells us
that the poor of Corcyra acted as all people do when they have experienced long
standing poverty and when their rulers have shown more arrogance than good sense. In
other words, the badly governed act badly. Unequal distribution of wealth and longstanding poverty caused by arrogant and irrational rulers bred rebellion, and some
rebels wished for more than their fair share while others wished for equality. And this is
where Thucydides offers a twist - when the opportunity arises, people who are unjustly
ruled will rebel, and some will unjustly choose to commit atrocities. On Corcyra, the poor
attacked the wealthy. However, the poor who were the most brutal were the ones who
wished for equality, not the ones who acted out of “pleonexia.”
Most of these acted from a passionate desire for their neighbor's possessions, but there
were also those who attacked the wealthy not out of a desire for more than their fair
share (pleonexia), but primarily out of zeal for equality, and they were the most carried
away by their undisciplined passion (orgie) to commit savage and pitiless attacks
(Reeve 441).
Perhaps it is no surprise that the weakening of an oppressive government unleashed
human passion. Perhaps it is no surprise that Thucydides viewed human nature,
ungoverned, as enslaved to passions and “accustomed to violate justice and laws.” And
perhaps it is no surprise that the historian saw two forms of desire: one for equality and
one for excess. But what might be surprising is his firm belief that the citizens motivated
by a desire for equality would be the ones to commit the more savage and pitiless acts.
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Why would Thucydides, a self described realist and chronicler of “the nature of mankind”
view desire for equality as the more savage and ruthless passion? Finally, why would
the zeal for equality cause a father to murder his son or a lender his borrower? Perhaps
such zeal holds the answer to the nature of corruption, for it is this zeal that caused
meaning to vanish and atrocities to appear in Corcyra. How are corruption and the zeal
for equality linked?
Let us begin with Thucydides’ general concept: passion. Undisciplined, it causes human
beings to become carried away and to lose sight of law, of “hosios.” And here may be
the key, for this law - “hosios” - is not human/civil law - “dikaios” - but divine/natural law.
Thus, when our passion is undisciplined, we lose sight of those laws “sanctioned or
approved by the law of nature.” Uncontrolled, passion tears human beings from
themselves, from their very nature, “hosios.” Indeed, human/civil law, “dikaios” is subject
to the power of passion, unleashed, since civil laws are made by humans. The civil laws
promoted by the rulers of Corcyra were perfect examples. Thus, it is not that human
nature is corrupt and requires civil law to restrain it. Rather, civil laws, and the civil
servants who make and enforce them, are in danger of “the desire to rule arising out of
pleonexia and ambition, and the love of victory that proceeds from these two” (Reeve
441). Civil law is a tool of rulers who may be corrupted by undisciplined passion. Thus,
“dikaios” is corruptible, and once corrupted by “orgie,” it can not shield human nature
from “phthonos” the fatal power.
The cause of all this was a desire to rule arising out of pleonexia and ambition, and the
love of victory that proceeds from these two. Those who led their parties in the cities
promoted their policies under decent-sounding names: "political equality for the
multitude" on one side, and "moderate aristocracy" on the other. And though they
pretended to serve the public in their speeches, they actually treated it as the prize for
their competition; and striving by whatever means to win, both sides ventured on the
most horrible outrages and exacted even greater revenge, without any regard for
Justice or the advantage of the city-state. Each party was limited only by its own
appetite at the time, and stood ready to satisfy its ambition of the moment either by
voting for an unjust verdict or seizing control by force (Reeve 442).
Again, Thucydides used the corruption of the signifier as the signal for passion’s
dominance. The leaders engaged in verbal rent-seeking, used “decent-sounding names”
and pretense in their speeches. The result was horrible outrages and revenge. They
disregarded justice in favor of the “ambition of the moment.” The oligarchs claimed
“moderate aristocracy” and the democrats claimed “equality” but they all merely strove
to win. Recall, Thucydides believed that people would always rebel against arrogant
rulers who lacked good sense and who caused long-standing poverty through their
selfish desire for power. It seems clear, therefore, that Thucydides believed that
undisciplined passion overpowered individuals and their laws; spilled into political and
private arenas; and caused justice and “hosios” to be disregarded. Such disregard
satisfied the ambition of the moment - the future was abandoned, and the past forgotten.
Words lost their meaning, but only within the realm of “dikaios.” Civil law, civil life, and
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civil language all fell prey to “orgie.” Corcyra collapsed into uncontrollable desire,
leaving “phthonos” -envy - free reign.
But what did the Corcyraeans desire? What is left to want when the past is forgotten
and the future abandoned? Just as “language is a garment covered with patches cut
from its own cloth,” and “…the principle of change is based on the principle of continuity,”
so all desire needs an aim beyond itself. When civil law is corrupted by undisciplined
passion, the signal is sounded by discordant language. But such discord can only jangle
so long and so far before it is out of range. The laws that govern language are natural
not civil, “the masses have no say in the matter.” However much passion enslaves civil
life, the natural life, based on the principle of continuity, remains, immutable. This
immutability may be disregarded, but it can not be corrupted, according to Thucydides.
Natural law is both diachronic and synchronic, mutable and immutable, absent and fully
present. It is conservative and radical, oligarchical and democratic. Passion,
undisciplined, can not have an aim because it is not conscious of its limitations. It lacks
an object. “Orgie” can never be satisfied - it is always, already envious. Undisciplined
passion leads to envy; envy leads to revenge; revenge leads to loss of the only thing of
value: the natural law.
Now that life had been thrown into confusion in the city, human nature - which is
accustomed to violate justice and laws - came to vanquish law altogether, and gladly
showed itself enslaved to passion (orgie), stronger than justice, and enemy of any
superior. Without the destructive force of envy (phthonos), you see, people would not
value revenge over to hosion,nor profits over justice. When they want revenge on others,
people are determined first to destroy without a trace the laws that commonly govern
such matters, though it is only because of these laws that anyone in trouble can hope to
be saved, and even though anyone might be in danger someday and stand in need of
such laws (Reeve 443 ).
It is the destructive force of this envy that causes people to value revenge and profits
over “hosion” and justice. “Phthonos” has a grand and glorious sound/slice for such a
tiny and pathetic concept. Indeed, the slaves of passion are heir to nothing but
“phthonos.” They want revenge; however, their enemies are themselves. The fatal force,
envy, drives these slaves to eradicate any sign of the very laws that could save them.
Undisciplined passion breeds envy because aimless passion is insatiable. Thucydides
views envy as a sad sort of desire; it wants what it can not possess, and it is blind to
what it does possess. It knows no limit, is enemy of any superior, ignorant of “those
unwritten laws which bring upon the transgressor of them the reprobation of the general
sentiment.” The “unwritten laws” that “commonly govern” are laws for “anyone” and
“general sentiment” respects them. For example, good sense “sophrosune” tells anyone
that justice and fairness lead to well being, and arrogance leads to revenge. But on the
island of Corcyra, the citizens forsook these laws, the natural laws. In such a state, zeal
for equality could only have been oxymoronic. When uncontrolled passion turns its
desire toward equality, when individuals, enslaved by passion, envy equality, only
atrocities may follow. Blind to what they do possess, zealously wanting what they can
not possess, the envious are in a state of perpetual inequality. Thus, for Thucydides, the
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most vicious form of passion is envy, for it corrupts perfectly. How are corruption and
the zeal for equality linked? They are linked through envy.
he who is a stranger to the matter may
be led by envy to suspect exaggeration if he hears anything above
his own nature. For men can endure to hear others praised only so
long as they can severally persuade themselves of their own ability
to equal the actions recounted: when this point is passed, envy comes
in and with it incredulity ( Thucydides IV ).
Consider Pericles, the “incorruptible” leader of Athens. Thucydides provides his readers
with only one man who is free of corruption. Through the character of Pericles, we learn
how to discipline passion and live free and independent lives. We learn how to avoid the
disastrous Corcyraean trap. In Pericles’ Funeral Oration, the just ruler outlines the
“principles of action…institutions and…manner of life necessary for an empire to
become great” (Thucydides IV). He begins with a warning: do not be led by envy, for
envy brings with it incredulity. Interestingly, his first warning as he is about to praise the
war dead, is against envy, against the zeal for equality, the desire to be “equal to the
actions recounted.” Why should we not envy our fallen heroes? How are their actions
not validation of our own cowardice? Pericles’ answer is that “our form of government
does not enter into rivalry” (Thucydides IV). Instead, the Athenian Democracy is an
example to its neighbors. Further, even though the democracy maintains equal justice
for all citizens in their private lives, “the claim of excellence” is recognized. Those who
are excellent are best suited to service, regardless of their economic status. What
matters is only merit. The Athenians are not exclusive in public life, and they are not
suspicious or controlling in private life. Indeed, it is here where we may see the manner
in which passion is disciplined. While private life is unconstrained, public acts are
pervaded by a spirit of reverence which prevents citizens from doing wrong.
While we are thus unconstrained in our private business, a spirit of reverence pervades
our public acts; we are prevented from doing wrong by respect for the authorities and
for the laws, having a particular regard to those which are ordained for the protection of
the injured as well as those unwritten laws which bring upon the transgressor of them
the reprobation of the general sentiment ( Thucydides IV).
Pericles separates life into the private and the public. He gives private life free reign and
disciplines public life with a “spirit of reverence.” This spirit controls passion, preventing
private citizens from “doing wrong,” from corrupting the public life. Infused with a spirit of
reverence, the public life respects authority and civil law, especially laws which protect
the weak. Finally, it reveres “hosios.” those unwritten laws of nature. This notion that
envy can be avoided by dividing life into the private and the public and thereby offering
all citizens equality and security, suggests that Pericles has a keen sense of the human
psyche. The fatal power of envy rests in its ability to break the barrier between private
and public life. When unconstrained private passion spills over into public life - the
fortress that protects and allows equality its security dissolves. In other words, public life
provides private life the security it requires in order to be free. Repression and splitting
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offer equal justice, offer balance, offer freedom. Of course, it is a sort of bounded
freedom, since passion must reside in the private domaine and spirit of reverence in the
public. Still, the state of confusion which Corcyra experienced occurred because this
barrier between the private and public collapsed. Respect for civil and natural law
vanished. A zeal for equality, the most terrible form of passion, was let loose, and “there
was no length to which violence did not go.” Recall, the reason for such collapse was
that public servants were infused with passion rather than the spirit of reverence.
Though they “pretended to serve the public in their speeches, they actually treated it as
the prize for their competition (Thucydides IV). Such corruption had natural
consequences: long-standing poverty, injustice, and, finally, rebellion and civil war.
Unable to separate themselves into their two aspects (private/public) citizens selfdestructed. The dialectical relationships were forgotten. Father killed son and lender
killed debtor because the spirit of reverence was exhausted and the passions stolen.
This could not happen in Athens.
And we have not forgotten to provide for our weary spirits many relaxations from toil; we
have regular games and sacrifices throughout the year; our homes are beautiful and
elegant; and the delight which we daily feel in all these things helps to banish sorrow.
Because of the greatness of our city the fruits of the whole earth flow in upon us; so that
we enjoy the goods of other countries as freely as our own (Thucydides IV).
Here Pericles reminds his Athenians that when private and public lives are in their
proper order, such depletion is impossible. The weary spirit rests, and the passions
banish sorrow. There is no need for envy because public and private are in perfect
balance. Further, this balance is natural, and it naturally is rewarded. Just as Pericles
displays an understanding of human psychological process when he articulates the
need for repressing passion and splitting the citizen into a private and a public being,
here he gestures toward a materialist sense of the conditions of life. Athenian homes
are beautiful and elegant, and their social existence allows for a consciousness filled
with “delight.” Pericles describes his democracy as a harmony between the social forces
of production and the relations of production. The real foundation of Athens is “great,”
and because of the greatness of its economic structure, the legal and political
superstructure (the public life) and its corresponding consciousness (the private life) are
in perfect harmony. There is no conflict, no property relations trouble, no fetters. “The
fruits of the whole earth flow in upon us.” Since envy depends upon the material
productive forces of society coming in conflict with the existing relations of production,
as they did in Corcyra, this fatal power holds no sway in Athens. In Athens, then,
citizens “live at ease.” They rely on their “own hearts and hands” and they regard
themselves as free.
Our city is thrown open to the world, though and we never expel a foreigner and prevent
him from seeing or learning anything of which the secret if revealed to an enemy might
profit him. We rely not upon management or trickery, but upon our own hearts and
hands. And in the matter of education, whereas they from early youth are always
undergoing laborious exercises which are to make them brave, we live at ease, and yet
are equally ready to face the perils which they face (Thucydides IV).
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It is a curious understanding of freedom, this notion of a split subject: both public and
private. While private life is unconstrained and the public life disciplined, the Athenian
seems to move between the two, in a dialectical relationship. It is not that the private life
takes on the privileged position of an egoistic individual, the one with inalienable rights,
while the public life remains somehow abstract, the citizen, the juridical individual.
Rather, the Athenian seems to be free because he is always already a private/public
being, his passion disciplined, housed beautifully, elegantly. The Athenian is
emancipated because he is Athenian. Further, Pericles explains that the Athenian is
fully human because he is able to recognize himself as private and public, rather than a
corrupted version, always glancing nervously about, demanding of the private self
passion and the public self restraint. Given the manner in which Pericles envisions the
Athenian, it seems clear that his form of democracy brings into being a peculiar form of
human - emancipated and fearless.
For we are lovers of the beautiful in our tastes and our strength lies, in our opinion, not
in deliberation and discussion, but that knowledge which is gained by discussion
preparatory to action. For we have a peculiar power of thinking before we act, and of
acting, too, whereas other men are courageous from ignorance but hesitate upon
reflection… We alone do good to our neighbors not upon a calculation of interest, but in
the confidence of freedom and in a frank and fearless spirit (Thucydides IV).
The Athenian empire and the Athenian are one, public and private. The “individual
Athenian in his own person” and “the state” are joined, always, already. There is no
need for envy because there is equal distribution of wealth, in all its manifestations:
“Such is the city for whose sake these men nobly fought and died; they could not bear
the thought that she might be taken from them; and every one of us who survive should
gladly toil on her behalf” (Thucydides IV). Pericles’ Funeral Oration delivered just what
we wanted - an answer to our question regarding the nature of corruption. Corruption is
the result of envy, and envy is the condition brought about by a misunderstanding of the
dialectical nature of public/private being. Corruption is a collective issue, neither the
public nor the private alone holds the blame. Rather, like two sides of a sheet of paper,
public and private form a whole. Athenians are public and private. They are confident of
their freedom because they discipline passion with a spirit of reverence and reverence
with passion. Civil laws, “dikaios,” act as a tangible reminder to Athenians of
divine/natural law, “hosios.” Athenians revere civil laws because they mirror natural law.
They make and follow civil law because they understand that “ it is only because of
these laws that anyone in trouble can hope to be saved, and…anyone might be in
danger someday and stand in need of such laws” (Reeve 441). Thus, Pericles explains
that when an individual human being recognizes his double self, when he understands
that he is free because he is social and that neither the public nor the private self exists
in isolation from the other, he is Athenian. “And his merit as a citizen more than
outweighed his demerits as an individual” (Thucydides IV). Athenians are incorruptible
because they are Athenians and in actuality “could not bear the thought that she might
be taken from them.”
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But taken from them she was. When the conditions of life are “at ease” and wealth is
evenly distributed, freedom is pleasant. When the conditions of life are rank with plague
and poverty, freedom is bitter. Although Pericles’ Oration described the Athenian, he
was not foolish enough to believe such a creature existed in realpolitik. Instead,
according to Thucydides, his orations were all designed to call forth the Athenian from
the individual muddled bodies who were perpetually in danger of the fatal power:
“phthonos.” Thucydides explained that “Athens was in name a democracy, but in fact
was a government by its first man…Pericles tried to appease the anger of the Athenians
and to divert their attention from their present afflictions” (Thucydides II). Thus, his
Funeral Oration articulated a truth about the nature of corruption, but it could not
prevent it. When the ravages of war and plague attacked the city, public and private
parted ways, and the structure that allowed passion to be disciplined and individual
beings to be free, to be Athenians, crumbled. Athens did, indeed, open its gates and let
in the foreigner, or rather the country folk, in order to protect them from invaders. They
did, indeed, rely on their own “hearts and hands.” But the result was overpopulation and
disease.
An aggravation of the existing calamity was the influx from the country into the city, and
this was especially felt by the new arrivals. As there were no houses to receive them,
they had to be lodged at the hot season of the year in stifling cabins, where the mortality
raged without restraint. The bodies of dying men lay one upon another, and half-dead
creatures reeled about the streets and gathered round all the fountains in their longing
for water. The sacred places also in which they had quartered themselves were full of
corpses of persons that had died there, just as they were; for as the disaster passed all
bounds, men, not knowing what was to become of them, became utterly careless of
everything, whether sacred or profane. All the burial rites before in use were entirely
upset, and they buried the bodies as best they could. Many from want of the proper
appliances, through so many of their friends having died already, had recourse to the
most shameless sepultures: sometimes getting the start of those who had raised a pile,
they threw their own dead body upon the stranger's pyre and ignited it; sometimes they
tossed the corpse which they were carrying on the top of another that was burning, and
so went off (Thucydides II).
This horrific situation would seem to belong on Corcyra, the corrupted island. Instead, it
is in Pericles’ Athens, and the corpses are his Athenians. Here we have a fundamental
question regarding Pericles’ definition of corruption. Shouldn’t corruption bring
punishment and its opposite bring reward? Shouldn’t natural law be just? And shouldn’t
justice reward the good and punish the bad? How could the hearts and hands of Athens
be burning? Indeed, the primary lesson of natural law - “it is only because of these laws
that anyone in trouble can hope to be saved, and…anyone might be in danger someday
and stand in need of such laws” appears to be mocked as the Athenians struggled to
manage a natural disaster: the plague. “There was the awful spectacle of men dying like
sheep, through having caught the infection in nursing each other. This caused the
greatest mortality” (Thucydides II). Could it be that Pericles’ philosophy is flawed and
that his notion of Athenian greatness is mere ideology? Although Pericles himself
perished in the plague, his impassioned response to these questions resonates.
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I am of opinion that national greatness is more for the advantage of private citizens,
than any individual well-being coupled with public humiliation. A man may be personally
ever so well off, and yet if his country be ruined he must be ruined with it; whereas a
flourishing commonwealth always affords chances of salvation to unfortunate individuals.
Since then a state can support the misfortunes of private citizens, while they cannot
support hers, it is surely the duty of every one to be forward in her defence… Born,
however, as you are, citizens of a great state, and brought up, as you have been, with
habits equal to your birth, you should be ready to face the greatest disasters and still to
keep unimpaired the lustre of your name. For the judgment of mankind is as relentless
to the weakness that falls short of a recognized renown, as it is jealous of the arrogance
that aspires higher than its due. Cease then to grieve for your private afflictions, and
address yourselves instead to the safety of the commonwealth…Again, your country
has a right to your services in sustaining the glories of her position. These are a
common source of pride to you all, and you cannot decline the burdens of empire and
still expect to share its honours (Thucydides II ).
Here, the leader articulates the dialectics of being Athenian in a very concrete and
practical way. A great nation is more valuable than individual well-being; natural law
dictates that the individual who is well off now will lose his fortune, in “the general law of
decay.” Then, he will find himself in need of the support of the state. Thus, without the
state, the individual will face ruin, eventually. Further, being born into a particular society,
Athens, a “great state” and raised “with habits equal to your birth,” the fact of being the
sum of interrelations, of being public/private, should be obvious. Pericles claims that
there is no sense in lingering on a false split. Whatever the appearance or the current
sentiment, there are no private selves pitted against public selves in Athens. There are
only Athenians, and, as such, the individual bodies who make up the commonwealth,
“cannot decline the burdens of empire and still expect to share its honours.”
It seems clear that Pericles is speaking in such a way because the fatal power threatens.
His people are angry; they “shrink before the exertions which war make necessary” and
they fear an “unhappy result” (Thucydides II). They point their private fingers in the
direction of their public aspect and complain. They blame Pericles for having counseled
war, but not themselves for having voted for it. His people are not Athenian any more
than the people of Corcyra were Corcyraean. At least, they are not acting the part.
Rather, Pericles speaks to some part of people capable of hearing his words and
recognizing the truth of his statements. Pericles reminds his audience that he is, indeed,
“not only a patriot but an honest one.” He seems firm in his sense that the greatness of
Athens brings forth Athenians, or at least individuals capable of comprehending the
essential nature of striving to be Athenians: incorruptible, whole citizens. He offers
himself as an example of an Athenian, and urges his audience to strive toward this
model. But he is also aware that this striving is not a guarantee of continuous balance.
In fact, it is recognition of imbalance, of desire, of uncontrolled passion. The presence of
the greatness of Athens is shot through with the anxiety of its realpolitk: individual
human beings, regardless of their place of birth, fall short, lose their “confidence of
freedom and frank and fearless spirit” and become corrupted by the fatal power of envy,
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when the burden of poverty is upon them. “For before what is sudden, unexpected, and
least within calculation, the spirit quails” and envy arises.
How could this have happened in a great democracy with unconstrained private
business and with a spirit of reverence pervading public acts? How could this have
happen when these people were “prevented from doing wrong by respect for the
authorities and for the laws, having a particular regard to those which are ordained for
the protection of the injured as well as those unwritten laws which bring upon the
transgressor of them the reprobation of the general sentiment,” as Pericles claimed?
Recall that the Athenians are the very people who loomed large in the terrified minds of
the Corcyraeans, those unfortunate, corrupted people who “exchanged their usual
verbal evaluations of actions for new ones” so that irrational daring became courage
and thoughtful appraisal of the future became cowardice. Such linguistic rent-seeking,
such jangling, is the very manner of discord Pericles’ orations are designed to halt. But,
just as the Corcyraeans split into the many and the few and turned against one another,
so the Athenians faced collapse of their state. Why? What was the cause of such
turmoil? According to Pericles, it was desire, expansion, growth of an empire, calculated
interest, tyranny.
You should remember also that what you are fighting against is not merely slavery as
an exchange for independence, but also loss of empire and danger from the animosities
incurred in its exercise. Besides, to recede is no longer possible, if indeed any of you in
the alarm of the moment has become enamoured of the honesty of such an
unambitious part. For what you hold is, to speak somewhat plainly, a tyranny; to take it
perhaps was wrong, but to let it go is unsafe (Thucydides II).
At least Pericles tells the truth. He speaks plainly, calling Athens a “tyranny.” But he
consoles his crumbling state with images of the “greatness of dominion” and of an
empire that extends across “land and sea.” He says Athenians “are completely
supreme.” This rhetoric of dominion clashes with the language of balance, and it is here
where we might rest. When Pericles promises “that liberty preserved by your efforts will
easily recover for us what we have lost,” he exchanges his usual verbal evaluations of
actions for new ones. Tyranny is exchanged for democracy, and corruption is signaled
in language once more.
What can we learn from a close reading of Thucydides’ document of the past? How can
we recognize ourselves, reflected there? If, indeed, he offered “an exact knowledge of
the past as an aid to the interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things
must resemble if it does not reflect it…a possession for all time,” what lessons might we
in 2012 CE take from 427 BCE Greece? What part of democracy is left in tyranny and
what part of tyranny in democracy? Since Thucydides called upon us to read his history
carefully in order to see our corruption in the Corcyraean mirror, let us reflect on the
uncanny resemblance. It is beyond the scope of this short paper to offer an account of
the history of ideas which developed from the classical Athenian democracy. However,
issues of the conflation of the public and private, the degree to which a republic relies
upon a virtuous and self-sacrificing citizenry, and the problem of individual desire and
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envy have been, and remain, central. Must individuals squelch their private desires in
favor of public virtue? How can individual rights be protected from government
intrusion? Conversely, how can governmental rights be protected from individual
intrusion? How can free, independent humans govern themselves? Finally, how does
the desire for expansion, growth and calculated interest herald the fatal power, envy?
References
Reeve, C.D. 1999. Thucydides on Human Nature. Political Theory.
Saussure, Ferdinand de. Course in General Linguistics. New York. Philosophical Library.
Thucydides, 1954. The Peloponnesian War. Harmondsworth: Penguin.