An 'Anti-utopian Age'?: Isaiah Berlin's England, Hannah Arendt's America, and Utopian Thinking in Dark Times Kei Hiruta University of Oxford This is an Accepted Manuscript of an article published by Taylor & Francis in the Journal of Political Ideologies on 18 November 2016, available online: https://doi.org/10.1080/13569317.2016.1258773 Abstract This essay challenges the influential view that Isaiah Berlin and Hannah Arendt played a central role in inaugurating an 'anti-utopian age'. While the two thinkers certainly did their share to discredit the radical utopian inclination to portray a political blueprint in the abstract, I show that neither was straightforwardly anti-utopian. On the contrary, both thinkers' writings display a different kind of utopian thinking, consisting in an imaginative and idealized reconstruction of existing polities. Schematically put, Berlin's utopia was England reconstructed as a quintessential liberal society, whereas Arendt's utopia was America reconstructed as a quintessential modern free republic. Those two polities differ from each other in important respects, but they share two essential features in common: they are claimed to be exempt from the rise of totalitarianism; and they allegedly give men and women the decent chance to live a fulfilling life. To illustrate Berlin's and Arendt's overlapping and yet differing visions, I consider their contrasting responses to the upheaval of 1968 – a possible utopian moment in the late 20th century. While their responses could scarcely be more different, they were informed by their shared desire to imagine an ideal polity in what both regarded as the darkest century in human history. 1 Introduction This essay considers how Isaiah Berlin and Hannah Arendt portrayed an ideal polity in the midand late 20th century, when anti-utopianism supposedly characterised much of Western political thought. It focuses on two imaginatively reconstructed polities to tease out a specifically utopian aspect of their respective work: Berlin's England and Arendt's United States of America.1 Of course, 'England' and 'America' designate physical spaces on a map, but they meant more to the two thinkers. For example, when Berlin proudly conceded his 'pro-British bias' and referred to toleration and liberty as 'deeply and uniquely English' values, he mentioned Britain and England as an exemplar of a certain set of desirable characteristics.2 Similarly, when Arendt referred to the 'very structure of the [American] body politic' as embodying 'the revolutionary notions of public happiness and political freedom', she not only offered an analysis of American history, politics and society but also discussed aspects of America to illustrate her normative ideals.3 But neither Berlin nor Arendt was concerned solely with the peculiarities of a specific country. England was dear to Berlin partly because it approximated to what he thought a human society could ideally be; the same held true for Arendt's America. The important point is that the purported universals the two thinkers endorsed significantly, and sometimes irreconcilably, differed from each other. The aim of this essay is to challenge the influential view that Berlin and Arendt, alongside Norman Cohn, Jacob Talmon and Karl Popper, inaugurated an 'anti-utopian age'. Russell Jacoby skilfully articulated this view in his popular 2005 book Picture Imperfect; subsequent scholars in various fields have uncritically accepted and reiterated Jacoby's analysis.4 Thanks to the mid-20th2 century anti-utopians' wholesale and all-too-powerful attack on utopianism, Jacoby and others argue, we have come to associate utopia with violence, dictatorship and, ultimately, totalitarianism. Today, they continue, those working towards 'peace, ease, and plenty [...] linked to universal brotherhood and communal work' are typically dismissed as 'foolhardy dreamers at best and murderous totalitarians at worst', and what is left of utopianism is John Rawls's exceedingly realistic utopia, which 'merely validates' the status quo.5 My objection to this analysis is twofold. First, neither Berlin nor Arendt was straightforwardly anti-utopian. True, both thinkers did their share to discredit the radical utopian inclination to portray a political blueprint in the abstract, attacking Plato's Republic as the first of a long line of mistakes in the Western intellectual tradition. But their writings commonly display a different kind of utopian thinking, irreducible to either the Platonic/radical variant or the Rawlsian/realistic counterpart. Second, Jacoby and others ignore important differences among the mid-20th-century political thinkers in general and between Berlin and Arendt in particular. It is notable in this context that the critics have ignored the two thinkers' mutual dislike.6 This, as I argued elsewhere,7 should not be reduced to (imagined) psychological issues such as Berlin's alleged sexism and academic vanity; nor should it be attributed solely to the two thinkers' disagreement over Israeli politics and the Zionist movement.8 Rather, it was underpinned by a set of significant theoretical differences. Building on a small group of studies attempting to do justice to this aspect of the two thinkers' story,9 this essay comparatively examines Berlin's and Arendt's differing utopian visions to challenge Jacoby and his followers' oversimplification. My guiding principle is this: while a political thinker's task partly and importantly consists in considering various interpretations of individual key concepts such as freedom 3 and equality, it must also involve some consideration as to how those concepts might be combined, adjudicated and sometimes compromised to be realised. Berlin and Arendt wished to see different sets of ideals realised, and they imaginatively portrayed, especially in their later work, actually existing polities from correspondingly differing angles. This essay proceeds in three sections. The first couple delineates Berlin's and Arendt's shared mode of utopian thinking, while drawing due attention to their competing ideals. Schematically put, Berlin's utopia was England reconstructed as a quintessential liberal society, and Arendt's utopia was America reconstructed as a quintessential modern free republic. True, at no point in time did Berlin's 'England' coincide with its real-world counterpart, nor Arendt's 'America' with its real-world counterpart; but the two thinkers' apparent shortfalls, I shall suggest, should be seen as stemming not so much from a lack of perceptiveness as from their parallel critical engagement with various forms of utopianism. Despite their significant differences, Berlin's liberal England and Arendt's free American republic share two essential features in common: they are claimed to be exempt from the rise of totalitarianism; and they allegedly give men and women the decent chance to live a fulfilling life. To elaborate on my comparative analysis, the third section of the essay will consider Berlin's and Arendt's contrasting responses to the upheaval of 1968. Their responses to this possible utopian moment could scarcely be more different, but they were informed by their shared desire to imagine an ideal polity in what both regarded as the darkest century in human history. 4 Berlin's England Berlin considers England to be a quintessential liberal society.10 This is testified to by many of his remarks, but the following from his autobiographical essay are particularly articulate and merit full citation: I confess to a pro-British bias. I was educated in England and have lived there since 1921; all that I have been and done and thought is indelibly English. I cannot judge English values impartially, for they are part of me: I count this as the greatest of intellectual and political good fortune. These values are the basis of what I believe: that decent respect for others and the toleration of dissent are better than pride and a sense of national mission; that liberty may be incompatible with, and better than, too much efficiency; that pluralism and untidiness are, to those who value freedom, better than the rigorous imposition of all-embracing systems, no matter how rational and disinterested, or than the rule of majorities against which there is no appeal. All this is deeply and uniquely English, and I freely admit that I am steeped in it, and believe in it, and cannot breathe freely save in a society where these values are for the most part taken for granted.11 Berlin was a Russian-Jewish émigré and naturalised British citizen. As Michael Ignatieff suggests, his deep appreciation of English values and sensibilities may have stemmed from 'an exile's prerogative to love an adopted home with an absence of irony that is impossible for a native'.12 Whether this is the case or not, Berlin certainly identifies himself closely with his adopted home, claiming to be unable to 5 'breathe freely' in a society that does not resemble England. No less remarkable is the proximity of the ostensibly 'English' values and sensibilities to the ones he defends in his theoretical work. If liberty and pluralism are at the heart of Berlin's work,13 he, according to his own expressly 'biased' understanding, considers those ideas 'deeply and uniquely English'. What goods, more precisely, does Berlin repeatedly associate with 'England'? Chief among them are: individual liberty conceptualised in negative terms as non-interference; tolerance towards others and their respective personal goals; peace and stability resulting from the fortune of England 'not [having been] invaded or seriously defeated for eight hundred years';14 decency conceptualised primarily as the willingness to treat others humanely; and respect for privacy that allows men and women to do or to be (within limits) whatever they wish to do or to be. Those goods are tied to the liberal temperament of the English, who are: immune to fanaticism or extremism; moderate; untidy, though by no means chaotic or anarchical; benevolent and well-meaning, if at times patronizing; sober, empirical and commonsensical; and realistic, practical and piecemeal when tackling social and political problems. According to Berlin, England has been blessed with the historic fortune to organically connect the liberal goods and the liberal temperament to develop into a model liberal society. In his words: 'liberalism is essentially the belief of people who have lived on the same soil for a long time in comparative peace with each other. An English invention'.15 Observe the use of the term 'soil', which also appears in Berlin's self-description. He says, for example, that he will never emigrate from England 'because we are what we are and can only live on the soil that we do'. Similarly, he emphasises that 'by nature I am rooted, not rootless and cosmopolitan'-rooted, that is, in Oxford, England, Great Britain.16 One may extend the organic metaphor and think of Berlin's liberal England 6 in the image of a functional ecosystem: liberal goods are rooted in the fertile soil of liberal England, which is a natural habitat for liberals like Berlin himself. It must immediately be noted that some liberal values are missing or marginalised in Berlin's liberal system. Consider progress and social welfare. Interpreted in evolutionary and organicist terms, these values were at the heart of the new liberalism of early 20th-century Britain, finding its most succinct expression in L. T. Hobhouse's Liberalism.17 This brand of liberalism not only developed its Millian predecessor in a new historical context but also contributed significantly to the subsequent rise of the welfare state in Britain.18 Notwithstanding his express sympathy for 'New Dealism' and 'the welfare state under Attlee', however, Berlin gives little credit for the new liberal achievements; throughout his life, he was relatively unconcerned with socio-economic issues central to welfare thinking, including health, housing, employment and forms of industry. In fact, he hardly ever mentions key new liberal thinkers by name; on a rare occasion he did so, Berlin said he 'was not deeply impressed [...] by Hobhouse'.19 Similarly, while individual autonomy is integral to another important, perfectionist strand of liberalism, it does not feature prominently in Berlin's normative work. While he acknowledges the tradition of autonomy-based liberalism originating in Kant's moral philosophy, he presents himself as belonging to an alternative, negative liberty-based tradition represented by the Mill of On Liberty. Unlike liberal perfectionists such as Joseph Raz and Steven Wall,20 Berlin does not consider it to be a legitimate part of the liberal state's job to encourage its citizens to live autonomously or otherwise perfect themselves; he believes that the liberal state should be non-partisan, if not strictly neutral, regarding citizens' personal decisions and their conceptions of the good. Thus, Berlin's liberal England represents a particular kind of liberalism, which is neither 7 perfectionist nor reformist but distinctly minimalist. Its principal concern, as Jan-Werner Müller puts it, is 'to avoid a summum malum, not the realization of any summum bonum'.21 To appropriate an image Arendt repeatedly evokes, Berlin's England is an 'island' of negative liberty, surrounded by nonliberal politics of various kinds from mild authoritarianism to Nazism and Stalinism.22 Berlin, like Arendt in this respect, considers the 20th century to be a dark time and indeed 'the worst century there has ever been', characterised by the rise of totalitarianism, total wars and mass killing on an unprecedented scale.23 On this menacing water floats Berlin's England, whose liberal tradition is historically unique and yet has universal normative appeal. Two kinds of political menace appear prominently in Berlin's commentary on 'the worst century'. One is of a specifically Bolshevik kind, whereby a small group of ideologically motivated fanatics use extra-legal means, especially terror, to seize power and establish a highly illiberal regime. This is one of the chief threats Berlin has in mind when he repeatedly refers to Heinrich Heine's 'power of ideas' maxim: 'philosophical concepts nurtured in the stillness of a professor's study could destroy a civilisation'.24 Rousseau, Hegel, Marx and others came up with potentially explosive concepts, but it took Bolsheviks to actually and physically destroy a civilisation. A mirror image of Berlin's fear is found in the words of Trotsky himself: 'Nothing great has been accomplished in history without fanaticism'.25 To this type of threat Berlin's England is conveniently and rather suspiciously insusceptible; if the English are by temperament averse to fanaticism, extremism and cruelty, England must be exempt from the risk of a Bolshevik-style revolution or insurrection. The second menace is of a distinctly right-wing kind, rooted in a specifically romantic nationalism. As is well known, Berlin does not regard nationalism as necessarily aggressive or 8 inherently illiberal.26 However, it can develop in these directions when: 1) it entails a political demand for collective self-determination; 2) the national community sets limits to the freedom of association and to the activities of other communities in civil society; 3) national values and allegiances are credited with moral supremacy over other group allegiances; and 4) the nation acquires a sense of mission that is considered so important that it justifies the removal of all impediments, by violent means if necessarily.27 Historically, Berlin argues, nations that have suffered from externally induced humiliation have been susceptible to this type of nationalism. Berlin's celebrated 'bent twig' metaphor,28 as David Miller argues, is meant to illustrate this point: romantic nationalism is like a twig 'deformed by an unnatural outside force' that 'when released [...] strikes uncontrollably against the source of deformity'.29 The paradigmatic case of such 'bent twig' nationalism is, in Berlin's view, Germany after the Napoleonic invasion, strongly resenting the universalist pretention of the French, while being acutely aware of its own cultural backwardness and political weakness.30 A fierce critic of the determinist conception of history, Berlin concedes that German romantic nationalism did not need to develop into the militaristic nationalism of Wilhelm II; nor did this need to morph into National Socialism. However, Berlin (unlike Arendt in this respect) does not consider 20th-century right-wing totalitarianism to be entirely unprecedented, marked by a fundamental break from its 19th-century, romantic nationalist precursor. The former could emerge out of the latter when combined with other ingredients such as irrationalism and the leadership cult under certain historical conditions. Again, Berlin's England is ideally insusceptible to this type of menace. Although the rise and fall of the British Empire yielded English nationalism and indeed 'English chauvinism', this was not comparable to its malicious and aggressive German counterpart.31 Nor could it be if Berlin is right because, 9 according to his 'bent twig' hypothesis, externally induced humiliation is a prerequisite for the rise of romantic nationalism. If so, fascism will not emerge in England, unless the country is invaded or seriously defeated in the future. Berlin does not consider the value of benign English nationalism to consist solely in its inability to develop beyond a certain limit. It also consists in its capacity for satisfying what he sees as one of the most basic human needs deeply ingrained in our nature: the need to belong. At issue here is a specifically cultural belonging. In Berlin's view, only in a group to which one has special cultural connections can one truly be at home and live a fulfilling life. He concedes that such a group does not need to be a nation; it could in theory be a voluntary association, a socio-economic class, and so on. In practice, however, the sense of national belonging underpinned by a common language and shared memory has proved stronger than other group allegiances. Berlin infers from this that the membership in a nation qua a cultural group is likely to continue to satisfy best the human need to belong, at least in the foreseeable future. 32 Observe that Berlin's endorsement of nationality goes beyond Mill's functionalist argument that a 'feeling of common nationality' has the merit of generating political stability and sustaining 'free institutions'.33 While Berlin broadly shares the Millian view, he ultimately defends nationality in intrinsic, rather than instrumental, terms. He follows Herder's conception of the nation as 'purely and strictly a cultural attribute' and considers the primary value of nationality to consist in its ability to provide a home for the collective life of a people.34 This explains why the diversity Berlin wishes to see in society concerns individuals and their opinions, preferences and dispositions and does not extend to sub-national cultural communities; the multiculturalist excess can undermine the special connections binding a people. Berlin claims that England is optimally diverse 10 and animated by the right kind and degree of nationalism. While it is 'one of the least nationalist of all countries', Englishmen and Englishwomen are bonded by sufficiently rich cultural and historical ties that they do not feel surrounded by strangers.35 It is certainly true that Berlin reproduces some of the 'most self-approving myths' of England and its people.36 But he does more than that: he does his share in remoulding the myths. Of particular relevance here is the way he narrates the British philosophical tradition. In terms of a general outlook, he observes, British philosophy (like English society) has essentially been empiricist: sober, coolheaded, commonsensical and anti-metaphysical. It began with Bacon and Hobbes, was developed by Locke, Berkeley and Hume, culminating in Bentham and Mill, and was succeeded in various ways by Berlin's (near) contemporaries such as Russell, Moore, Ayer and Austin.37 Excluded from this narrative are, among others, British idealists such as Green, Bradley and Bosanquet. Berlin certainly knows some of the idealists' work, not least because the Oxford of the late 1920s where he began his academic career was under their lingering influence.38 However, he like many of his contemporary empiricists often calls idealists 'English Hegelians' or 'Hegelians in England', underlining the foreignness of their 'Germanic' work to the presumably native British tradition. For example, in his most well-known book on liberty, Berlin admires Green as 'exceptionally enlightened' and 'genuine[ly] liberal'; yet he ultimately portrays Green as a follower of his German masters, prioritising positive liberty over the negative rival that has been defended by 'classical English political philosophers' and, of course, by Berlin himself.39 Berlin in this way joins the early 20th-century empiricists' attempt to undo what was done in British philosophy between Mill and Russell. Even Berlin's autobiographical recollections serve this purpose. Reading Bradley and Bosanquet as a 11 student, he recalls, was like 'wandering in a very dark wood with broken light occasionally flickering through the branches'. Reading Moore's Principia Ethica, by contrast, gave the young Berlin the feeling of being 'transported' to 'an open, sunlit plain'.40 British empiricism thus gently shines over Berlin's liberal England, to which idealists as well as fanatics, extremists and terrorists, and communists and fascists, do not belong. Berlin's England, in short, is a half-realised liberal utopia. It is certainly not a Platonic blueprint utopia, portrayed in detail in the realm of purely theoretical reflection. Nor is it a Rawlsian realistic utopia that aims to show on the distant horizon 'a long-term goal' to move towards.41 Berlin's utopia, rather, is what England at its best can be, embodying essential liberal values, an ideally liberal temperament, and a long intellectual tradition simultaneously defending negative liberty and defying politically suspicious metaphysical thinking from Kant, Hegel and Marx through Green, Bradley and Bosanquet on one side and Nietzsche and Heidegger on the other. Berlin's England is also immune to the two worst manifestations of his fear: totalitarianism via a Bolshevik-style insurrection and totalitarianism via the hyperinflation of romantic nationalism. It is hardly surprising, then, that Berlin never seriously considered leaving England for either Israel (which he supported throughout his life) or America (where he thought his work could be better appreciated than in Britain). In fact, when Berlin was offered a full-time professorship by the City University of New York, he categorically said he did not have 'the slightest intention of leaving England for any purposes whatsoever'. He wished to remain in his adopted home, to which he was happily 'tied [...] by a thousand ties'.42 12 Arendt's America What America meant to Arendt approximated to what England meant to Berlin. Like Berlin's England, Arendt's America is claimed to have been blessed with the 'singular good fortune' to realise ideals of universal human appeal.43 A set of historical conditions, such as the alleged absence of mass poverty and the indigenous tradition of local self-government, assisted the American endeavour to found a new free republic. As I shall elaborate, however, the gap Arendt saw between the ideal of America-what America at its best could be-and the reality-what America happened to be at a given moment in Arendt's lifetime-was larger than the comparable gap Berlin saw in England. Her America was a somewhat schizophrenic entity, a half-realised utopia in recurring crisis; it was constantly pulled by various deleterious 'social' forces (in Arendt's sense of the term) unleashed by modernity such as individualism, materialism and consumerism, while continually correcting itself by re-enacting what she called the 'revolutionary spirit'. America, for her, was a quintessential modern free republic, with all the contradictions characterising modernity itself. Yet it was, in her words, 'the only country where a republic at least still has a chance'.44 Arendt time and again mentioned this country to illustrate her conceptions of freedom, power and equality, as Berlin repeatedly referred to England to illustrate his conceptions of liberty, tolerance and decency. In Arendt's terminology, the revolutionary 'spirit' contrasts with the 'act' of revolution. The latter ended when the Americans liberated themselves from British rule and established a new political order, but that which inspired the act of revolution in the first place-the underlying spirit-did not need to vanish with the end of the act. On the contrary, it had to survive if the newly founded body politic was to last as a free republic. What specifically constitutes the 'spirit'? Chief among them are: 13 political freedom conceptualised as the exercise of the distinctly human capacity to act in the public realm and begin something new; the habit of forming voluntary associations to address matters of public concerns in a pragmatic and non-partisan fashion; the awareness of, and a propensity for, public happiness (as distinct from private welfare) arising out of the enjoyable experience of 'discussions, [...] deliberations, and the making of decisions' over public business;45 the ambition to excel accompanied by the desire to see the excellence of others working towards a shared political goal; and trust in the value of the plurality of opinions and the resulting opposition to the rule of unanimous public opinion. The revolutionary spirit so conceived is not a uniquely American spirit. It surfaced not only in revolutionary America but also in various moments of what Arendt referred to as 'people's utopia', such as France in 1848 and 1870–71, Russia in 1905 and 1917, Germany in 1918–19, and Hungary in 1956, characterised by the spontaneous emergence of self-governing councils.46 But the American Revolution was of special importance because, unlike the rest, it neither was externally suppressed nor descended into a reign of terror. On the contrary, it reified itself into the written Constitution, which thereafter served as the foundation of the new republic. As Andrew Arato and Jean Cohen observe, Arendt's analysis of the American legal and political structure does not do justice to the complexity of competing constitutional principles that were present both at the moment of constitution-making and in subsequent US history; nor does Arendt's narrative of the American Revolution do justice to the 'competing interpretive perspectives' that deserve serious consideration.47 Nevertheless, Arendt's discussion is of theoretical interest for the same reason as Berlin's commentary on England is of theoretical interest: it dramatizes particular aspects of the American experience to imaginatively reconstruct the free republic at its best. In fact, she 14 uses her narrative of America-what America once was-to internally criticise the actually existing America of her time; much of Arendt's antidote to the ills of contemporary America consists in the reclaiming of what she takes to be older traditions of the republic.48 So understood, three features of Arendt's commentary on US history and institutions are worth highlighting. First, she sees the written Constitution as codifying the revolutionary spirit. The Supreme Court is 'a kind of Constitutional Assembly in continuous session' because the judges, by interpreting or decoding the Constitution, reanimate the revolutionary spirit that gave birth to the constitutional order in the first place.49 Second, somewhat anachronistically reading Tocqueville into the history of revolutionary America, Arendt downgrades the populist current and underlines the anti-majoritarian current in both the written Constitution and the intentions of the Framers. She repeatedly highlights the Framers' worries about 'elective despotism', and presents both the Senate and the First Amendment as different institutional means of protecting dissenting minorities against the tyranny of the majority.50 Arendt's America is a republic of competing opinions. Finally, and also in a Tocquevillian spirit, Arendt highlights the importance of a broader political culture supporting democratic institutions. Of particular note is her appraisal of citizens' attachment to the Constitution; a written constitution is critically defective if it is not 'understood, approved and beloved' in the country it is supposed to govern.51 In short, the American legal and political structure institutionalises the revolutionary spirit and provides a basic framework where citizens have the opportunity to be 'a participator in the government of affairs'.52 Observe the difference between Arendt and Berlin on the underlying conditions that support the maintenance of their respective ideal polity. On the one hand, Berlin underlines the significance of informal institutions such as customs and conventions for the wellbeing of a liberal polity. More 15 specifically, liberal politics depends on a set of favourable sociological conditions, including the liberal temperament of the populace and the relative cultural homogeneity that binds people through a common language and shared memory. According to Arendt, on the other hand, a free republic depends not so much on 'customs, manners, and traditions' as on the more formal, and specifically 'legal systems that regulate our life in the world and our daily affairs with each other'.53 Of course, Arendt does not overestimate the power of the laws, as seen in her emphasis on the extra-legal culture of people's attachment to the Constitution. However, 'culture' in this context refers to a Tocquevillian political culture, which differs from the Herderian national culture integral to Berlin's liberal England. Contrary to Berlin, Arendt believes that a free republic does not need to be anchored in nationhood or relative cultural homogeneity. Rather, it ultimately relies on citizens' mutual promises, including written promises in the form of declaration, covenant and so on, to actively and continuously participate in public affairs.54 Like Berlin's liberal England, Arendt's American republic is claimed to have a built-in immune system defying the rise of totalitarianism. It is important to note, though, that the two thinkers have differing views on how totalitarianism paradigmatically emerges. Berlin's fear, as I discussed earlier, chiefly concerns two scenarios: the violent seizure of power by a small group of Bolshevik-like fanatics, and the romantic outburst of nationalism in reaction to external humiliation. Neither scenario worries Arendt as much. Russell Jacoby is widely off the mark when he exaggerates the similarity between Arendt and Berlin (and Popper) and claims that 'anti-Semitism and Nazism [...] do not figure into Arendt's theory of totalitarianism'.55 On the contrary, she is emphatically concerned with what may be called a 'Weimar nightmare': the degeneration of liberal democracy into paralysis and then 16 into a power vacuum, which will be filled by a popularly supported totalitarian movement like Nazism. On her understanding, liberal democracy is inherently unstable and tends to feed its totalitarian enemies in two important ways. First, liberal democratic society increasingly releases men and women from traditional familial and social ties, thereby creating lonely, atomized and isolated individuals. Second, a totalitarian movement can appropriate liberal democratic institutions to recruit members and supporters from the lonely mass so created.56 Arendt's chief worry concerns not so much fanaticism as populism enhanced by modern mass society. Its mirror image is found in Hitler and Goebbels's May 1932 praise of elections: 'Voting, voting! Out to the people. We're all very happy'.57 Nevertheless, Arendt does not believe that liberal democracies must of necessity repeat Weimar's failure. Their demise is averted so long as the deleterious forces of mass society are overridden. Arendt's revolutionary spirit plays precisely this role. Turning men and women into active citizens instead of lonely individuals, it keeps the 'potentiality and [the] ever-present danger' of a totalitarian takeover in America as it is: an unrealised potentiality.58 This aspect of Arendt's thought may be called a 'republicanism of fear', which subverts the Berlinian primacy of negative liberty over the positive counterpart.59 In her view, liberal democracy and the protection of negative liberty it provides can collapse à la Weimar, unless citizens show the willingness to exercise the political freedom to act and care for the human-made world they inhabit. Negative liberty is in this sense dependent on political freedom, as much as the latter is dependent on the former. Interwar Germans enjoyed a considerable degree of negative liberty and yet exercised little-too little-political freedom. Arendt insists that post-war Americans ought to act differently. 17 Arendt is not sure, however, if post-war Americans do as a matter of fact act differently from interwar Germans. In a series of essays published in the late 1960s and early 1970s,60 she diagnoses her adopted country with various political ills, which may be grouped under the familiar individual/civil society/state headings. On the first level, US citizens increasingly yielded to the inclinations to: delegate political freedom to elected representatives; embrace the (negative) freedom from politics and retreat to the comfort of privacy and the household; seek happiness in the economic sphere of consumption and production; and appropriate political institutions to pursue private interests rather than shared political goals ('[c]orruption and perversion [...] from below').61 On the level of civil society, voluntary associations had morphed into self-sustaining pressure groups, while extensively bureaucratised political parties served their own special interests. And on the level of the state, the political class consisting of career politicians and their aides withdrew into the political capital; Public Relations methods infiltrated the sphere of governance to 'sell' policies and 'buy' votes; and purported specialists equipped with social science techniques were given offices to tackle political problems as though these had been managerial problems. In short, Arendt sees 'the social' increasingly eclipsing all spheres of political life in America. Nonetheless, she does not claim that the country's revolutionary spirit has been irreparably lost; it has merely gone missing, albeit for a long time. She concedes that the republic has been chronically ill, but she insists that it needs and deserves citizens' loving care. Finally, America's attraction to Arendt also consists in the republic's ability to inspire men and women to live a fulfilling life, as she conceptualises this. Ambiguities and hesitations notwithstanding, as I discussed elsewhere, she tends to defend the political way of life monistically as superior to the other ways.62 In her view, one can neither realise his or her potentiality in full nor experience the 18 happiness of living with and among others, unless he or she exercises the distinctly human capacity to speak and act in the public realm. A human life lived with no political participation is, in Arendt's words, 'literally dead to the world; it has ceased to be a human life because it is no longer lived among men'.63 Of course, she never supports the idea of forcing men and women into a particular way of life, no matter how good that way might be. Nor is she so naive as to expect everyone to show the courage to appear in public. But she wants free republics to 'assure [the politically active] of their rightful place in the public realm' to allow and encourage them to flourish, and she believes that such reassurance has by and large been provided in America.64 This makes America especially appealing to Arendt. Berlin profoundly disagrees. A pioneering advocate of what has come to be known as value pluralism, he categorically and unambiguously rejects the very idea that a single way of life can claim normative superiority over others (so much so that he, unlike Arendt, has repeatedly been accused of unintended commitment to relativism). 65 Human values are irreducibly many, and different combinations of different values give rise to multiple, and equally valid, ways of living. This type of pluralism is in Berlin's view a fundamental fact of human life, and liberal England is a good and humane society because it is doubly attuned to that fact: it protects men and women's negative liberty to allow them to live as they wish; and it strikes the right balance between suffocating moralism and excessive diversity, such that men and women neither feel compelled to conform to a prevailing social norm nor are rootless in the society in which they find themselves. It is small wonder, then, why Berlin says Arendt's political ideals are 'not for me'.66 Despite their shared anti-totalitarian commitment, the two thinkers are thus divided by their conflicting conceptions of the good life, by their differing views of the proper role of politics in human 19 life, by their contrasting understandings of the ways in which the totalitarian threat presents itself, and by their competing ideas for the appropriate social and political structure enabling men and women to live a fulfilling life. Pace Russell Jacoby and his followers, it is a mistake to group the two thinkers together as 'liberal anti-utopians'.67 1968: A Utopian Moment? The differences between Berlin's and Arendt's visions may by illustrated further by focusing on one particular point in time at which the two thinkers' paths intersected: New York City, 1968. Arendt, as is well known, lived in the Upper West Side and paid close attention to the unrest in the city. Less famous is the fact that Berlin then held a part-time visiting Professorship at the City University of New York and spent nearly one year in total between 1966 and 1971. But the parallel ran further. Berlin was offered an honorary doctorate by Columbia University and was scheduled to attend the Commencement on 4 June 1968. In the meantime, Columbia students' protests escalated during the spring semester, and the university authority decided to bring the police in on campus on 30 April, resulting in 712 arrests and 148 reported injuries.68 Arendt was so curious as to visit the campus to see the upheaval by herself. Berlin paid no less close attention from afar, wondering if the Commencement would take place as it had been planned. The two thinkers' papers from this period display fascinating points of comparison. Simply put, Arendt saw 1968 in terms of a reiteration of previous utopian moments in modernity; Berlin could not disagree more. Consider Berlin first. In the late 1960s, he unsurprisingly spoke of the contrast between exhilarating and yet frightening New York/America and peaceful if somewhat dull Oxford/England.69 20 He noted a worry in passing in May 1968: 'New York-the student riots-the slowly mounting mass of black anger-is terrifying'.70 But he was not terrified enough to cancel his plan to attend the Columbia Commencement. He kept his head by portraying the situation in his characteristically humorous tone. A few days before the Commencement, he wrote to his friend McGeorge Bundy, former security advisor to both Presidents Kennedy and Johnson: I propose to come [to Columbia] armed with a water-pistol, and if any militant student approaches me I shall rise up against him and say that the dons have turned, the worms fight back, and douse him. La Grande Peur, which is supposed to have seized everybody in 1791, or whenever it was, seems to be nothing compared to the terror of all professors before the slightest sign of student dissatisfaction. Why cannot the professors build barricades of their own?71 Berlin's tone is playful, but it is clear to which side he considered himself to belong: the university authority. He saw hundreds of 68-ers whom he called 'Christs' filling the streets of New York with a mixture of curiosity, bewilderment, alarm and contempt. He regarded them as politically and intellectually worthless: they were 'all wild, all bearded, all very mad'.72 In a less playful letter, Berlin in fact denounced them as barbaric, crude, nihilistic, confused, and 'complacently ignorant'.73 This verdict was not solely due to Berlin's taste for high culture. The 68-ers, even by their own account, were highly critical of the traditional liberal values and sensibilities Berlin cherished. To focus on the American ones, the 68-ers wanted their fellow citizens, especially the older generation, to be less 21 content with their government and to care more about the injustices it committed both at home and abroad. To be apolitical, in their view, was to endorse the status quo, amounting to complicity in the oppression of the black population and the misadventure in Vietnam, among other things. Berlin disagreed. He considered the 68-ers' claims too naive, arguing that even Vietnam could not be understood in such unequivocal terms.74 Nor was he impressed by their demand for greater democratic engagement, which was in his view moralistically curbing the sphere of privacy that men and women were entitled to enjoy. He was aware of his critics' perception of him as 'a kind of leader of a suicide squad of blind liberal reactionaries' and yet stood by his principles.75 'I long for some bourgeois stability', he wrote, 'some protection against the turning of all private, inner, disinterested activity into screams and shouts and public issues'.76 The 68-ers' primary vice, in Berlin's view, was the tendency to politicise everything-to be a political animal. New York City filled with those animals was antithetical to Berlin's stable, orderly and tolerant liberal England. It reminded him of 'Rome in the very last years'.77 Arendt's response to the upheaval could scarcely be more different. She noted the volatility of 'the country and the universities in particular' as early as November 1967, but from the outset she expressed clear sympathy for rebellious youth.78 She shared with them the basic sense that America was in moral as well as social and political crisis. Like them, she saw apathy and hypocrisy in the 'bourgeois stability', for which liberals like Berlin longed. Five months before the Columbia incident, she predicted that as long as the police were kept out of campus, 'things don't get out of hand, and the direction student opinion takes hardly ever drifts toward extremes'.79 She remained firmly on the student side after witnessing the Columbia incident, criticising the university authority as 'particularly 22 dreadful'.80 To her eyes, rebellious youth were not 'wild, bearded and mad Christs' or roaming ignorant barbarians. They were courageous citizens and carriers of the revolutionary spirit, fuelled by a sense of justice and undeterred by police brutality. Of course, she did not uncritically admire the 68ers. She made differing judgments on their diverse practices, depending on their individual merits. Nor was she impressed by what she called the 68-ers' 'curious timidity in theoretical matters'.81 In fact, she criticised their inclination to rely on clichéd slogans, often failing to 'recogniz[e] realities as such'.82 Nevertheless, Arendt's overall view of the 68-ers was strikingly optimistic. The distinctive feature of this generation, she said, was 'its determination to act, its joy in action, the assurance of being able to change things by one's own efforts'.83 The upheavals in New York, Chicago, Berkeley and elsewhere of her time were akin to other moments of 'people's utopia' from Philadelphia 1776 to Budapest 1956.84 She wrote to Karl Jaspers: It seems to me that children in the next century will learn about the year 1968 the way we learned about the year 1848. [...] Things are in an extremely dangerous state here [in the United States], too; but I sometimes think this is the only country where a republic at least still has a chance. And besides that, one has the feeling that one is among friends.85 The final sentence deserves special attention because it indicates a sense of belonging, which is somewhat surprising, considering Arendt's life-story. As is well known, she spent her entire formative years in Germany and arrived in the United States in 1941 as a refugee and a 36-year-old woman. She did not and could not become socially and culturally American as Berlin, who migrated 23 to England as an 11-year-old boy, became English. Five years after her arrival in New York, Arendt composed in her native language arguably the saddest poem she ever wrote: 'Wohl dem, der keine Heimat hat; er sieht sie noch im Traum'. ['Happy is he who has no home; he still sees it in his dreams'.]86 True, her legal homelessness ended on 10 December 1951, when she was granted US citizenship that gave her a 'right to have rights', that is, 'the right of every human being to membership in a political community'.87 But she never rid herself of a sense of loss, seeing herself as a 'German Jew driven from [her] homeland by the Nazis'.88 Nevertheless, eventually, she in a way came to feel at home in America. That was not only because she cultivated a circle of close friends in her adopted country, but also because she found herself among fellow citizens who shared with her the willingness to act and work to preserve and improve the free republic that they had together inherited. Her true homeland may have remained to be the German language, but her political home was now America.89 It is hard to avoid psychoanalytic imagery here: she found in the 1960s American republic a cure to the trauma that the Weimar Republic had inflicted on her in the 1930s.90 Tellingly, 'public happiness' was the term Arendt often used to describe the sense one has when experiencing political freedom. Happy did she become, then, finding a home in America; she saw it in front of her. Over this issue of belonging, and over its place in an ideal polity, however, Arendt and Berlin fundamentally disagreed. In Arendt's view, crises and disasters of the early 20th century laid bare the elementary truth that the principle of national self-determination would always be incompatible with the demographic complexity of Europe and other regions, and what remained of the nation-state system after 1945 would be living on borrowed time. We thus find in Arendt's work not so much the now clichéd effort to 'dispel the myth of the nation-state' as a series of attempts to articulate a new 24 form of government and a new international order, based on the assumption that the end of the nationstate was essentially a fait accompli. Berlin, by contrast, sought to rehabilitate the nation-state system by conceptualising a specifically cultural nationalism compatible with liberal principles. In his view, nationalism should be given 'channels of productive self-expression', for the need to belong is a very basic human need, and national belonging has historically proved to be the only group allegiance that is rich enough to give its members 'indissoluble and impalpable ties of common language, historical memory, habit, tradition and feeling' to satisfy that need.91 Separated from those 'ties', the right to political participation alone is insufficient to let one feel at home in the community to which he or she belongs. According to this Berlinian account, one cannot coherently say, as Arendt did, that one's 'loyalty is with the republic, not the country, but more concretely [...] with the people' because, in Berlin's view, to be loyal to the people is to be loyal to the country.92 Likewise, if we agree with Berlin, we will be required to conclude that the happiness Arendt apparently experienced in America must have been an incomplete happiness, and the 'home' she believed to have found there must have been no more than a shelter, for true home requires roots, and the natural soil for the human roots is not a republic but a country, not politics but culture. Arendt, on her part, saw no incoherence in her loyalty. She rebutted the relevance of cultural homogeneity to the vitality of a free republic, insisted on the sufficiency of the power of promise-making for political order and stability, and dismissed the desire to 'return' to a world imagined as a family of homogeneous nations as unfeasible at best and delusional at worst.93 One may of course dispute her arguments, but those who know her life-story are likely to see a certain unity of theory and practice in her own life. After 18 years of being a stateless person between 25 1933 and 1951, she settled in America, learned 'to truly love the world' there, and lived happily- politically speaking-as a US citizen until the end of her life.94 Conclusion Many commentators have criticised and even ridiculed Berlin's tendency to idealise English society, often linking this to the émigré intellectual's desire to be admired and accepted, preferably by those in the 'Establishment'. No less has been written on Arendt's comparable, if less consistent, inclination to exaggerate the revolutionary tradition in America and her apparent inability to understand some of the country's deepest problems, including racism. Her shortfalls too have been explained in psychological terms as stemming from her being 'protective of her new country and homeland'.95 While there is something to be said for these critical observations, one wonders if some of the harsher comments live up to the principle of interpretive charity.96 Considering Berlin's express acknowledgement of his 'proBritish bias' and Arendt's deep ambivalence towards America, this essay has suggested a different, more charitable, and hopefully more nuanced reading, connecting the two thinkers' parallel idealisations to their shared opposition to radical utopianism. True, as Russell Jacoby emphasises, both Berlin and Arendt considered the ills of radical utopianism to consist partly in its record of generating undesirable political consequences. However, they also considered the ills to consist in radical utopianism's audacity to theorise normative ideals prior to 'applying' them to the real world, resulting in a consistent failure to do justice to the inherent 'untidiness' (Berlin) or the 'melancholy haphazardness' of the human world (Arendt).97 They could not possibly find the Rawlsian strategy to hedge undesirable excesses of radical utopianism appealing; it keeps its radical cousin's audacity 26 essentially intact, even if it does not breed a Stalin. But, instead of turning straightforwardly antiutopian, Berlin and Arendt alike developed a different mode of thinking to depict utopian visions out of imaginative reconstruction of existing polities. Berlin extracted key ingredients constituting his ideal polity from select aspects of English history, as Arendt extracted her corresponding ingredients from select aspects of American history. Both thinkers have duly attracted the charges of over-generalisation and factual inaccuracies, but that was the price they had to pay to develop this mode of utopian thinking. Why, finally, should such reality-sensitive mode of thinking be called 'utopian'? Should the label not be reserved for something more idealistic? The first thing to note in reply is that both Berlin's England and Arendt's America are, as I have shown, reconstructed visions and in this sense nonplaces. Besides, both display a very high degree of idealism; in this context, the proximity of those visions to that of the great utopian thinker Ernst Bloch may be worth highlighting. According to Bloch, men and women in utopia will 'no longer [...] be humiliated, enslaved, forsaken, scorned, estranged, annihilated, and deprived of identity'.98 Observe how each and every item on Bloch's list is present, albeit in differing ways, in both Berlin's England and Arendt's America. Men and women in the former are not humiliated, enslaved, annihilated, forsaken or scorned not only because their basic rights and liberties are protected but also because they live in a peaceful, stable, tolerant, decent and humane society. Moreover, they are no longer estranged or deprived of identity partly because they live as they freely (in the negative sense of the term) choose but also because they live in a cultural home where they feel they truly belong. Arendt's America meets Bloch's utopian demands differently but no less robustly. Men and women there do not suffer from enslavement or annihilation because, in 27 addition to enjoying the legal and institutional protection of basic rights, they continuously and vigorously exercise the right to free speech and assembly to resist, as a people, detrimental social forces inherent in modernity. As individuals, they may still face attempts to humiliate, scorn or forsake, but members of Arendt's ideal polity would be able to fight back against such attempts. Furthermore, they exercise their political freedom to act in public to realise their full potentiality and enjoy living with and among their peers. In so doing, they disclose themselves, acquire their true identities and thus free themselves from possible estrangement from themselves; and they make unique contributions to the world they share with others and free themselves from the risk of world alienation. Contrary to Jacoby's and his followers' oversimplification, Berlin's and Arendt's visions in this way differ from each other in important respects. Nevertheless, the two thinkers are united by at least one thing: the willingness to imagine in dark times a non-place where men and women are not only safe from the totalitarian menace but also have the decent chance to live a fulfilling life. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Tal Correm, Roger Crisp, Arie Dubnov, Christian Emden, Jonathan Floyd, Michael Freeden, Henry Hardy, Varun Uberoi and two anonymous reviewers for reading and commenting on an earlier version of this essay. Thanks are also due to the participants in the workshops at the University of Oxford and Texas A&M University, where I presented parts of the essay. I gratefully acknowledge the permission by the Isaiah Berlin Literary Trust to cite from the Papers of Sir Isaiah Berlin in the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. 28 Disclosure Statement The author has no potential conflict of interest. 1 Berlin often let the English/England stand for the British/Britain, seeing no serious tension between the two. As the aim of this essay is to examine the ideals for which they alike stood in Berlin's work, I shall follow his casual, and in other contexts problematic, terminology. 2 I. Berlin, Personal Impressions, H. Hardy (Ed.), 3rd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), p. 437. 3 H. Arendt, On Revolution (London: Penguin Books, 1973), p. 138. 4 R. Jacoby, Picture Imperfect: Utopian Thought for an Anti-Utopian Age (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), pp. 50–82; reiterated in, e.g. S. Brincat, 'Reclaiming the Utopian Imaginary in IR Theory', Review of International Studies 35(3) (2009), pp. 595–598; P. Couton and J. J. López, 'Movement as Utopia', History of the Human Sciences 22(4) (2009), pp. 93–94; and R. Levitas, Utopia as Method: The Imaginary Reconstitution of Society (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 7–19. 5 Jacoby, ibid., pp. ix–x; Brincat, ibid., p. 601. 6 The dislike is mutual but asymmetrical. Berlin detested Arendt and had much to say about her work and personality, whereas Arendt did not take Berlin seriously as an original thinker and had little to say about him. 7 K. Hiruta, 'The Meaning and Value of Freedom: Berlin contra Arendt', The European Legacy 19(7) (2014), pp. 854– 868. 8 S. Benhabib, The Reluctant Modernism of Hannah Arendt, new ed. (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003), p. li; D. R. Villa, 'Hannah Arendt: From Philosophy to Politics', in C. H. Zuckert (Ed.) Political Philosophy in the Twentieth Century: Authors and Arguments, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 119. Caute's study is more perceptive but is not free of the tendency to overly psychologize the rivalry between Berlin and Arendt. See D. Caute, Isaac and Isaiah: The Covert Punishment of a Cold War Heretic (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), pp. 262– 272. 29 9 See, in particular, J. Cocks, Passion and Paradox: Intellectuals Confront the National Question (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), pp. 71–91; Hiruta, op. cit., Ref. 7; R. Beiner, Political Philosophy: What It Is and Why It Matters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. xv–xxii. 10 This observation itself has been made by M. Ignatieff, Isaiah Berlin: A Life (New York: Metropolitan Books, 1998), p. 36; and J-W. Müller, 'Fear and Freedom: On "Cold War Liberalism"', European Journal of Political Theory 7(1) (2008), pp. 54–55. This essay aims to develop their observations further to probe into the full implications of Berlin's imaginative reconstruction of England for his political thought. 11 Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 2, p. 437. 12 Ignatieff, op. cit., Ref. 10, p. 36. 13 G. Crowder, Isaiah Berlin: Liberty and Pluralism (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2004). 14 R. Jahanbegloo, Conversations with Isaiah Berlin (London: Phoenix Press, 2000), pp. 101–102. 15 I. Berlin and S. Lukes, 'Isaiah Berlin in Conversation with Steven Lukes', Salmagundi 120 (1998), p. 121. 16 I. Berlin, Building: Letters 1960–1975, H. Hardy and M. Pottle (Eds) (London: Chatto & Windus, 2013), p. 262, p. 190. 17 L. T. Hobhouse, Liberalism (London: Oxford University Press, 1911). 18 M. Freeden, Liberalism Divided: A Study in British Political Thought 1914–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986); M. Freeden, Ideologies and Political Theory: A Conceptual Approach (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), pp. 141–225. 19 Berlin and Lukes, op. cit., Ref. 15, pp. 98–99, p. 91. 20 J. Raz, The Morality of Freedom (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986); S. Wall, Liberalism, Perfectionism and Restraint (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 21 Müller, op. cit., Ref. 10, p. 48. 22 E.g. H. Arendt, Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought (London: Penguin Books, 1977), p. 6; H. Arendt, Essays in Understanding 1930–1954, J. Kohn (Ed.) (New York: Schocken Books, 1994), p. 186; Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, pp. 275–276. 23 Berlin cited in Ignatieff, op. cit., Ref. 10, p. 301. 24 See Hardy's preface to I. Berlin, The Power of Ideas, H. Hardy (Ed.), 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), p. xxv. 30 25 J. Rubenstein, Leon Trotsky: A Revolutionary Life (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), p. 180. 26 Berlin sometimes distinguishes between 'national consciousness' and 'nationalism', the former designating a natural and benign sense of national belonging and the latter more narrowly the inflamed form of that feeling. But he does not consistently use the terminological distinction; nor does the dichotomy adequately capture the complexity of Berlin's analysis of the subject matter. I shall therefore use 'nationalism' in a broad sense and discuss various types of it without using the term 'national consciousness'. 27 My analysis is indebted to D. Miller, 'Crooked Timber or Bent Twig?: Isaiah Berlin's Nationalism', Political Studies 53(1) (2005), pp. 103–108. 28 I. Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity: Chapters in the History of Ideas, H. Hardy (Ed.), 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), pp. 253–278. 29 Miller, op. cit., Ref. 27, p. 101. 30 E.g. I. Berlin, Against the Current: Essays in the History of Ideas, H. Hardy (Ed.), 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), p. 442; Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 24, pp. 307–308; Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 28, pp. 262–263. 31 Jahanbegloo, op. cit., Ref. 14, p. 102. 32 See, in particular, I. Berlin, 'The Problem of Nationalism', Isaiah Berlin Virtual Library, 2006 [1972], available at http://berlin.wolf.ox.ac.uk/lists/nachlass/probnati.pdf (accessed 1 December 2015). 33 J. S. Mill, 'Considerations on Representative Government', in J. Gray (Ed.), On Liberty and Other Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 427–434. 34 I. Berlin, Three Critics of the Enlightenment: Vico, Hamann, Herder, H. Hardy (Ed.), 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), p. 256. 35 Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 32, p. 3. 36 Ignatieff, op. cit., Ref. 10, p. 36. 37 E.g. Jahanbegloo, op. cit., Ref. 14, pp. 111–113; I. Berlin, Concepts and Categories: Philosophical Essays, H. Hardy (Ed.), 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), pp. 288–289, pp. 305–310. 38 See A. M. Dubnov, Isaiah Berlin: The Journey of a Jewish Liberal (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), pp. 53–76; J. L. Cherniss, A Mind and its Time: The Development of Isaiah Berlin's Political Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 1–14. 39 I. Berlin, Liberty, H. Hardy (Ed.) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 42, p. 180, p. 170, emphasis added. 31 40 I. Berlin, 'England's Mistaken Moralist', The Times Higher Education Supplement, 15 October 1993. 41 J. Rawls, The Law of Peoples (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), p. 128. 42 Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 16, p. 259. 43 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, p. 157. 44 H. Arendt and K. Jaspers, Correspondence 1926–1969, L. Kohler and H. Saner (Eds), trans. R. and R. Kimber (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1992), p. 681, emphasis added. 45 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, p. 119. 46 H. Arendt, Crises of the Republic (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1972), pp. 231–232. 47 A. Arato and J. Cohen, 'Banishing the Sovereign?: Internal and External Sovereignty in Arendt', Constellations 16 (2) (2009), p. 314. 48 See L. Disch, 'How Could Hannah Arendt Glorify the American Revolution and Revile the French?: Placing On Revolution in the Historiography of the French and American Revolutions', European Journal of Political Theory 10(3) (2011), pp. 350–371. 49 Woodrow Wilson cited in Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, p. 200. 50 Arendt, ibid., pp. 164–165, pp. 225–229, p. 238, pp. 305–306; Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 46, p. 92. 51 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, p. 146. 52 Thomas Jefferson, repeatedly cited in Arendt, ibid., pp. 126–130, pp. 215–281. 53 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 46, p. 79. 54 Arendt, ibid., pp. 85–87; Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, pp. 165–178. 55 Jacoby, op. cit., Ref. 4, p. 82. 56 See, in particular, H. Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 3rd ed. (New York: Harcourt, Inc., 1968), pp. 460–479. 57 I. Kershaw, Hitler 1889–1936: Hubris (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1999), p. 367. 58 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 56, p. 478. 59 This, needless to say, is a variation on J. N. Shklar, 'The Liberalism of Fear', in N. L. Rosenblum (Ed.) Liberalism and the Moral Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), pp. 21–38. 60 See, in particular, Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 46; Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, pp. 215–81; and H. Arendt, 'Home to Roost', in J. Kohn (Ed.) Responsibility and Judgment (New York: Schocken Books, 2003), pp. 257–275. 61 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, p. 252. 32 62 Hiruta, op. cit., Ref. 7, pp. 861–864. My interpretation is controversial but resonates with some recent studies, e.g. D. R. Villa, Public Freedom (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), p. 331; Beiner, op. cit., Ref. 9, pp. xv–xxii and pp. 1–24. For a different, pluralist reading of Arendt, see R. E. Flathman, Pluralism and Liberal Democracy (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), pp. 53–75. 63 H. Arendt, The Human Condition, 2nd ed. (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1998), p. 176. 64 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 3, p. 279. 65 E.g. L. Strauss, The Rebirth of Classical Political Rationalism: An Introduction to the Thought of Leo Strauss, T. L. Pangle (Ed.) (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1989), pp. 13–26; P. Anderson, A Zone of Engagement (London: Verso, 1992), pp. 230–50. 66 A. Walicki, Encounters with Isaiah Berlin: Story of an Intellectual Friendship (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011), p. 148. 67 Jacoby, op. cit., Ref. 4, passim. 68 Columbia University Archives, Rare Book & Manuscript Library, '1968: Columbia in Crisis' (2011), available at https://exhibitions.cul.columbia.edu/exhibits/show/1968 (accessed 1 December 2015). 69 E.g. Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 16, p. 322, pp. 362–363; Berlin to Stephen Spender, 22 February 1967. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Berlin 283, fol. 87; Berlin to A. H. Halsey, 5 March 1968. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Berlin 179, fols. 99–100; Berlin to David Cecil, 21 March 1969. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Berlin 182, fols. 56–57. 70 Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 16, p. 347. 71 Berlin, ibid., p. 350. 72 Berlin, ibid., p. 381. 73 Berlin, ibid., p. 360. 74 Berlin, ibid., pp. 311–312, p. 344, pp. 601–602. 75 Berlin to Alan Ryan, 25 November 1968. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Berlin 181, fol. 84. 76 Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 16, p. 352. 77 Berlin, ibid., p. 381. 78 Arendt and Jaspers, op. cit., Ref. 44, pp. 676–677. See also H. Arendt and M. McCarthy, Between Friends: The Correspondence of Hannah Arendt and Mary McCarthy 1949–1975, C. Brightman (Ed.) (New York: Harcourt Brace 33 & Company, 1995), pp. 230–231; H. Arendt, Denktagebuch 1950 bis 1973, U. Ludz and I. Nordmann (Eds) (München/Zürich: Piper, 2002), pp. 702–703. 79 Arendt and Jaspers, op. cit., Ref. 44, pp. 676–677. 80 Arendt and Jaspers, ibid., p. 682. See also Arendt, Denktagebuch, op. cit., Ref. 78, pp. 710–711. 81 Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 46, p. 125. 82 Arendt, ibid., p. 211. 83 Arendt, ibid., p. 202. 84 Arendt, ibid., p. 231. 85 Arendt and Jaspers, op. cit., Ref. 44, p. 681. 86 E. Young-Bruehl, Hannah Arendt: For the Love of the World, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), p. 487. 87 H. Arendt, '"The Rights of Man": What Are They?', Modern Review 3(1) (1949), p. 34. 88 Arendt cited in A. Kazin, New York Jew (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1996), p. 218; reiterated in H. Arendt, Men In Dark Times (London: Penguin Books, 1973), p. 25. 89 See Arendt, Essays in Understanding, op. cit., Ref. 22, pp. 12–13; A. Elon, The Pity of It All: A Portrait of the German-Jewish Epoch, 1743–1933 (New York: Picador, 2002), p. 118. 90 F. Mehring, '"All for the Sake of Freedom": Hannah Arendt's Democratic Dissent, Trauma, and American Citizenship', Journal of Transnational American Studies 3(2) (2011), pp. 1–32. 91 Berlin, op. cit., Ref. 24, p. 311; Berlin, Against the Current, op. cit., Ref. 30, p. 16. 92 H. Arendt and H. J. Benedict, 'Revolution, Violence, and Power: A Correspondence', Constellations 16(2) (2009), p. 304. 93 See, in particular, Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 56, pp. 267–302. 94 Arendt and Jaspers, op. cit., Ref. 44, p. 264. 95 Benhabib, op. cit., Ref. 8, p. 154 96 E.g. C. Hitchens, 'Moderation or Death', London Review of Books, 20(23) (1998), pp. 3–11; E. J. Hobsbawm, Revolutionaries: Contemporary Essays (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, London, 1973), pp. 201–208. 34 97 Those expressions recur in Berlin's and Arendt's writings, respectively. See, e.g. I. Berlin and B. PolanowskaSygulska, Unfinished Dialogue (New York: Prometheus Books, 2006), pp. 119–28; Arendt, Between Past and Future, op. cit., Ref. 22, pp. 82–89; Arendt, op. cit., Ref. 88, p. 93. 98 E. Bloch, The Utopian Function of Art and Literature (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1988), p. 42.