I suspect that Clausewitz's philosophical prowess isn't taken seriously enough. Sumida's Decoding Clausewitz definitely taps into some of the important philosophical implications of On War. Sumida, moreover, argues that Clausewitz was philosophically inventive and actually anticipated a number of twentieth-century philosophers. Namely, R.G. Collingwood, C.S. Pearce, and Ludwig Wittgenstein. I think that we ought to take Sumida seriously here and explore Clausewitz's contributions to a wide variety of philosophical problems. Of particular interest to me is Clausewitz's connection to R.G. Collingwood, pragmatism, Henri Bergson, and the philosophy of habit.
The connection between Clausewitz and R.G. Collingwood has been noted in previous posts, and has been acknowledged by a few scholars (Sumida, Gallie, Pomeroy). What interests me is their shared claim that history was the key to military and political education. Both thinkers, moreover, argued that historical study was at its core a purposeful perspective taking. Clausewitz writes in his account of Waterloo that "the main point of all criticisms of strategy, difficult though this may be, is to put oneself in the position of the decision-maker. If writers were to consider all eventualities, the great majority of criticisms of strategy would be totally without substance or diminish into minute distinctions of reasoning" (On Wellington: A Critique of Waterloo, Carl von Clausewitz, translated by Peter Hofschoroer 2010 U of Oklahoma Press, 38). The main thrust of Sumida's Decoding Clausewitz, further, is that Clausewitz's main goal was to make a theory that could enable one to intelligently surmise about the mental processes of past commanders, effectively reenacting their thoughts. Sumida consciously borrows the term reenactment from Collingwood. Both Collingwood and Clausewitz had rich and complex understandings of historical study, and the line that connects them is one thing I'm eager to see explored.
The connection between Clausewitz and Collingwood becomes deeper if we connect it to contemporary work being done on what is called simulation theory of mind. Simulation theorists seek to answer the question 'How do I know about other people's mental states?'. They generally answer that I know another mind because I am able to simulate that mental process for myself and project it and ascribe it to another individual. I know you because I am able to put myself in your shoes, I empathize with you, I reenact your mental state for myself. Simulation theory's strongest advocate, Alvin Goldman, does indeed acknowledge Collingwood's notion of reenactment as a precursor to his account of simulation theory.
The question of perspective taking and knowledge of other minds is thus a major issue in American philosophy of mind. Clausewitz and Collingwood contribute to this work in that, seeming to intuitively grasp the conclusions of simulation theory, they went on to develop practical educational programs based on the idea of purposeful perspective taking. Their work and simulation theory thus stand to mutually benefit one another. Simulation theory is a more robust framework for discussing the phenomenon of (historical) perspective taking which they simply called critical analysis or reenactment. Clausewitz and Collingwood in turn can elevate simulation theory by providing a model of how mental simulations, perspective taking exercises, can be used as a serious pedagogical tool.
Finally, as a quick side note, the notion of pedagogical simulation is already somewhat common among psychologists and by some in the military, but often as technological simulation rather than mental simulation. This is a significant point in that it taps into larger problems about our relationship with technology (especially in the military), and also has implications for the question of matter and mind. Pomeroy, in fact, argues that the military has attempted to progress much like the rest of the country, through technological advance, the manipulation of matter. We have not put a comparable amount of effort into our minds.
There is also a potential relationship between Clausewitz and philosophical pragmatism. In Decoding Clausewitz Sumida argues for a connection between Clausewitz and C.S. Pearce. I am currently reading William James's lectures published as Pragmatism. James asserts that the pragmatic method is all about asking if a philosophical claim brings about some concrete change in action or experience. If two sides of a philosophical debate leave the world unchanged in terms of practical experience and action, then it is a false problem that need not be pursued. Philosophy's business, on James's account, is about pursuing questions that have practical consequences for our lives. I suspect the relationship between pragmatism and Clausewitz is justified. I frankly haven't looked into it enough yet and am working on James.
I partly have faith in the connection between Clausewitz and pragmatism because there is an established relationship between William James and Henri Bergson. I am certain there is a lively connection to be made between Clausewitz and Bergson. One thing that Clausewitz, Bergson, and James all share is the claim that all observation must be fully individualized, always looking past general concepts to the particular reality beneath. Bergson, moreover, articulates a method for jarring oneself out of the perceptual slumber that has set in from years of unreflective engagement with general classifications. Interestingly enough, Bergson's method also involves perspective taking.
Metaphysics, Bergson believes, is a matter of entering into a diverse set of perspectives different from each other and different from our own. By entering diverse perspectives we change something in ourselves, and hopefully catch an 'intuition' of our movement through time, 'seizing the self from within' to experience the novelty that is perpetually emerging from time. This is why Bergson defines metaphysics as 'the science of dispensing with symbols': it is a method of breaking down the symbolic structures of our minds, the general categories that have habitually governed our attention. In breaking the general molds of our minds, we can immerse our selves into the particulars of reality, seeing the world more clearly.
Clausewitz's method of historical reenactment was absolutely meant to cultivate a similar kind of attitude, one that could look past predictive narratives or bogus generalized theories to see the real character of the situation at hand. This is why he wrote that the experienced soldier "reacts in the same way as the human eye does in the dark: the pupil expands to admit what little light there is, discerning objects by degrees, and finally seeing them distinctly. By contrast, the novice is plunged into the deepest night" (On War, 141, Howard/Paret translation). For Clausewitz success in war is about the ability to observe reality accurately. One must learn to see what actually is, not simply what kind of thing we are dealing with. Kinds of things won't do. This desire to have raw contact with reality, to learn to see it for all that it is, and not in terms of classifications, is the essence of Bergson's metaphysics.
Clausewitz's relationship to Bergson is rich not only in terms of perspective taking and a capacity for observing the particulars of reality, but also on the topic of habit. The notion of habit occupies an interesting position in western philosophy. For many modern philosophers like Kant, habit has been viewed as antithetical to freedom. It is seen as mechanical and unconscious and therefore not intelligent. Bergson and Clausewitz, however, have a more positive view of habit, and regard it, like Aristotle, as an aid to freedom and intelligence. Bergson was influenced by Felix Ravaisson who wrote the essay 'Of Habit'. For both Bergson and Ravaisson habit was a positive influence in human life, creating a bridge between the mechanical world of nature and the free world of mind, making room for freedom in a mechanistic universe. Clausewitz, too, seems to have a positive view of habit. "Habit," he writes, "hardens the body for great exertions, strengthens the heart in great peril, and fortifies judgment against first impressions. Habit breeds that priceless quality, calm, which, passing from hussar and rifleman up to the general himself, will lighten the commander's task" (Ibid.).
That Clausewitz viewed habit is significant for several reason. For one thing, the relationship between habit and intelligence and the question of habit cultivation are fascinating and need to be explored simply in terms of how they fit into Clausewitz's theory. Second, it allows Clausewitz to be included into a group of thinkers who took habit seriously like Aristotle, Ravaisson, Bergson, Collingwood, Deleuze, and probably others. Finally, that Clausewitz viewed habit so positively goes to show that he was not simply a student of Kant's philosophy (who had a negative view of habit), but a philosopher in his own right.
Anyways, that's all I've got for now. There are all these different avenues to explore, and what I've really done here is lay out my current research track. I'm currently doing writing on Clausewitz and simulation theory, I have an outline for an essay comparing Collingwood and Clausewitz, and I'm doing a lot of reflecting on the relationship between Clausewitz, Bergson, and pragmatism. I work full time, so it's tough to find the time. But I'll continue to try and think about this stuff.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Clausewitz's Theory and Collingwood's Duty
I've now encountered three thinkers who believe there is a relationship between Clausewitz and R.G. Collingwood's work: W.B. Gallie, Jon Sumida, and Steven A Pomeroy. Gallie and Sumida note the similarity of their approaches to history, while Pomeroy implicitly connects them by discussing both of them in his essay 'The Idea of a Strategist's Education'. I've spent quite a lot of time with both of these thinkers, and the more I visit them the more I see how mutually complementary their projects are.
In fact, I'm working on an essay comparing their approaches to history and statecraft. The analysis will center around three major points. First, their shared conviction in the unpredictability of the human world and thus the inadequacy of prescriptive theories and doctrines. Second, their belief that the unpredictability of the human world could only be handled by human intelligence. And third, their idea that the best way to train the mind to handle the unpredictability of the world was to use historical study as a form of mental simulation that could give one an improved capacity for observation and improvisation in difficult situations.
Right now, however, I would simply like to draw your attention to another goal they shared: to invent a form of theory that would greatly reduce, if not fully negate, the distinction between theory and practice.
If you've read An Autobiography or The New Leviathan then you ought to know that one of Collingwood's life goals was to find a way to fuse theory and practice. Similarly, Clausewitz is adamant that his approach to the theory in On War will greatly reduce the conflict that exists between theory and practice.
They both accomplish this task by claiming that theory is fundamentally about the accurate observation of reality rather than the creation of rules or doctrines that can prescribe action. Both men formulated their views in response to the dominant approaches to theory in their time. Clausewitz's contemporaries were concerned with discovering the timeless features of war so that they could hopefully deduce rules that could form of a positive, prescriptive doctrine. Similarly, Collingwood's contemporaries placed their faith in mathematical, rule based understandings of reality. Neither Clausewitz nor Collingwood were persuaded by their contemporaries, and decided instead that difficult situations could only be handled by a form of intelligence that was able to grasp reality directly and make decisions without the aid of prescriptive rules.
Their theories, therefore, were aimed at improving one's capacity for the observation of reality. As Collingwood noted, "Rules of action kept action at a low potential, because they involved a certain blindness to the realities of the situation. If action was to be raised to a higher potential, the agent must open his eyes wider and see more clearly the situation in which he was acting" (An Autobiography, 106, my emphasis). Clausewitz similarly claims that "The first, the supreme, the most far-reaching act of judgement that the statesman and commander have to make is to establish by that test the kind of war on which they are embarking; neither mistaking it for, nor trying to turn it into, something that is alien to its nature" (Clausewitz, On War, 100). Clausewitz indeed refers to a kind of war here, but the emphasis is clearly on perceiving the uniqueness of a situation beyond categorization. Similarly, Clausewitz notes that those experienced with war have this capacity for seeing clearly into the particularity of their situation: "In war the experienced soldier reacts rather in the same way as the human eye does in the dark: the pupil expands to admit what little light there is, discerning objects by degrees, and finally seeing them distinctly. By contrast, the novice is plunged into the deepest night" (Ibid., 141).
That Clausewitz's theory is meant to used foremost as an aid to the observation of reality's uniqueness is further enforced by his writing in Book II of On War. He argues that "theory need not be a positive doctrine, a sort of manual for action" (Ibid., 162). It is rather "inquiry which is the most essential part of any theory, and which may quite appropriately claim the title. It is an analytical investigation leading to a close acquaintance with the subject; applied to experience – in our case, to military history – it leads to thorough familiarity with it. The closer it comes to this goal, the more it proceeds from the objective form of a science to the subjective form of a skill, the more effective it will provide in areas where the nature of the case admits no arbiter but talent. It will, in fact, become an active ingredient in talent.... Theory then becomes a guide to anyone who wants to learn about war from books; it will light his way, ease his progress, train his judgment, and help him to avoid pitfalls" (Ibid., 163). One, then, is never to separate theory and observation. Clausewitz's theoretical propositions shall be used only as an aid to the observation of history, leading to the familiarity and acquaintance that he describes. Do not mistake Clausewitz on this point, theory is never to be separated from the observation of reality. "Analysis and observation, theory and experience," Clausewitz wrote, "must never disdain or exclude each other; on the contrary, they support each other" (Ibid., 69).
Theory as inquiry, and not as doctrine, is thus meant to train an individual to observe the uniqueness of the situation that actually confronts them. Only if one is able to cast aside the generalizations that so often accompany our approach to reality will they be able to fully confront reality and call forth an appropriate action. Theory, as a set of general propositions, are valid only so far as they assist in the observation of reality. Theory, Clausewitz writes, "is meant to educate the mind of the future commander, or, more accurately, to guide him in his self-education, not to accompany him to the battlefield; just as a wise teacher guides and stimulates a young man's intellectual development, but is careful not to lead him by the hand for the rest of his life" (Ibid.). Clausewitz's theory, then, is not a set of doctrines and rules, but a set of concepts that are meant to be used as an aid to the accurate observation of reality.
The gulf between theory and practice is greatly reduced using this approach. When one is engaging in the theoretically informed observation of military history one is exercising the same mental faculties that one must exercise in the actual conduct of war. Such a theoretical inquiry is meant to strengthen one's ability to perceive the uniqueness of a situation, which is a domain independent capacity.
Collingwood formulated his rapprochement between theory and practice in strikingly similar terms. In The New Leviathan Collingwood speaks explicitly of the difference between practical and theoretical reason. Theoretical reason, he argues, is the means by which we explain the world around us, including both the natural and human world. Practical reason, on the other hand, is the means by which we explain our own behavior. Collingwood is adamant, moreover, that there is always a direct relationship between theoretical and practical reason, between the language we use to explain others and that we use to explain ourselves.
Collingwood regards history as a highly developed form of theoretical reason. When we explain the people around us through the lens of history, he argues, we view their actions in terms of particularity and necessity. "To think historically," he argues, "is to explore a world consisting of things other than myself, each of them an individual or unique agent, in an individual or unique situation, doing an individual or unique action which he has to do because, charactered and circumstanced as he is, he can do no other" (Collingwood, The New Leviathan, 18.52). To think historically is therefore to think in terms of uniqueness and particularity. The historian sees pas situations simply as they were, never reducing them to a classification.
History as a form of theoretical reason, Collingwood argues, finds its practical counterpart in what he calls 'duty'. To act dutifully is to engage with the present in the same way that a historian engages with the past: as a unique situation that calls for a unique action. Collingwood puts this clearly: "A man's duty on a given occasion is the act which for him is both possible and necessary: the act which at that moment character and circumstance combine to make it inevitable, if he has a free will, that he should freely will to do it" (Ibid., 17.8). History and duty are therefore corresponding forms of theoretical and practical reason because they both engage reality in terms of particularity rather than generality. Or as he put it, "The consciousness of duty is thus identical with the consciousness of historical consciousness" (Goodness, Rightness, Utility, in The New Leviathan, 477).
It is important to note that this distinction was Collingwood's response to what he saw as a predilection for rule based explanations in both theory and practice. He argued that modern Europe was dominated by the rule based functioning of natural science (theoretical reason) and rule based 'regularian' theories of moral and political action (practical reason) (See The New Leviathan, 18.4-18.45). It was his ambition to articulate a corresponding theoretical and practical reason that could overcome the limitations of rule based moral and political action. In other words, Collingwood wanted to champion history as a way of learning to observe the world in terms of particularity so that individuals could learn to treat their own lives in the same way and thus embrace a form of action that does not rely on rules.
We should immediately note Clausewitz's claim that "what genius does is the best rule" (On War, 157).
Collingwood believes that historical and dutiful thought are mutually reinforcing habits. "The more a man accustoms himself to thinking historically," he argues, "the more he will accustom himself to thinking what course of action it is his duty to do, as distinct from asking what it is expedient for him to do and what it is right for him to do; and the more he will accustom himself to thinking in the same way of other people's actions explaining them to himself not by saying 'this person did this action in pursuit of such and such an end' or 'in obedience to such and such a rule' but 'because it was his duty'" (The New Leviathan, 28.9). Collingwood's hope is that historical study will impart a domain independent skill for observing the particularities of our world. Dutiful action and historical study enforce one another by helping us continually open ourselves to the uniqueness of the world, 'expanding to admit what little light there is, discerning objects by degrees, and finally seeing them distinctly'. This capacity for individualized observation and action, Collingwood believed, was essential if humans are to learn to skillfully handle moral and political problems. In history and duty we thus see not only Collingwood's rapprochement of theory and practice, but an elaboration of his claim in the Autobiography that history is the science of human affairs, the method "from which men could learn to deal with human situations as skilfully as natural science had taught them to deal with situations in the world of Nature..." (An Autobiography, 115).
The concept of duty thus allows Collingwood to reduce the gap between theory and practice in a way that echos Clausewitz. They share four claims: that the purpose of theoretical explanation is to observe in terms of particularity; that learning to observe history in terms of particularity can improve one's capacity to perceive the uniqueness of one's own situation; that perceiving reality in such a way could enable an individualized form of action that was not bound by rules, and finally that studying history with the goal of improving the capacity for observing and acting individually is the best way to prepare for future moral and political difficulties.
The link between Clausewitz and Collingwood is rich. I hope I've persuaded you that their approaches to the rapprochement of theory and practice were remarkably similar. I only hoped to pursue that limited aim here. There is much more for me to explore in the relationship between these two excellent thinkers.
The most pressing question I have is where Collingwood's claims about history as a form of mental reenactment. Lie in all of this. I'm almost certain that reenactment is at the heart of his concept of the science of human affairs. Yet I'm struck by such a question.
Why didn't Collingwood speak of reenactment in The New Leviathan? How could he possibly formulate his ideas on history and duty while completely leaving out the concept of reenactment, the thing he most strongly identifies with history with in An Autobiography and The Idea of History?
I intend to pursue those questions in the essay I'm working on.
In fact, I'm working on an essay comparing their approaches to history and statecraft. The analysis will center around three major points. First, their shared conviction in the unpredictability of the human world and thus the inadequacy of prescriptive theories and doctrines. Second, their belief that the unpredictability of the human world could only be handled by human intelligence. And third, their idea that the best way to train the mind to handle the unpredictability of the world was to use historical study as a form of mental simulation that could give one an improved capacity for observation and improvisation in difficult situations.
Right now, however, I would simply like to draw your attention to another goal they shared: to invent a form of theory that would greatly reduce, if not fully negate, the distinction between theory and practice.
If you've read An Autobiography or The New Leviathan then you ought to know that one of Collingwood's life goals was to find a way to fuse theory and practice. Similarly, Clausewitz is adamant that his approach to the theory in On War will greatly reduce the conflict that exists between theory and practice.
They both accomplish this task by claiming that theory is fundamentally about the accurate observation of reality rather than the creation of rules or doctrines that can prescribe action. Both men formulated their views in response to the dominant approaches to theory in their time. Clausewitz's contemporaries were concerned with discovering the timeless features of war so that they could hopefully deduce rules that could form of a positive, prescriptive doctrine. Similarly, Collingwood's contemporaries placed their faith in mathematical, rule based understandings of reality. Neither Clausewitz nor Collingwood were persuaded by their contemporaries, and decided instead that difficult situations could only be handled by a form of intelligence that was able to grasp reality directly and make decisions without the aid of prescriptive rules.
Their theories, therefore, were aimed at improving one's capacity for the observation of reality. As Collingwood noted, "Rules of action kept action at a low potential, because they involved a certain blindness to the realities of the situation. If action was to be raised to a higher potential, the agent must open his eyes wider and see more clearly the situation in which he was acting" (An Autobiography, 106, my emphasis). Clausewitz similarly claims that "The first, the supreme, the most far-reaching act of judgement that the statesman and commander have to make is to establish by that test the kind of war on which they are embarking; neither mistaking it for, nor trying to turn it into, something that is alien to its nature" (Clausewitz, On War, 100). Clausewitz indeed refers to a kind of war here, but the emphasis is clearly on perceiving the uniqueness of a situation beyond categorization. Similarly, Clausewitz notes that those experienced with war have this capacity for seeing clearly into the particularity of their situation: "In war the experienced soldier reacts rather in the same way as the human eye does in the dark: the pupil expands to admit what little light there is, discerning objects by degrees, and finally seeing them distinctly. By contrast, the novice is plunged into the deepest night" (Ibid., 141).
That Clausewitz's theory is meant to used foremost as an aid to the observation of reality's uniqueness is further enforced by his writing in Book II of On War. He argues that "theory need not be a positive doctrine, a sort of manual for action" (Ibid., 162). It is rather "inquiry which is the most essential part of any theory, and which may quite appropriately claim the title. It is an analytical investigation leading to a close acquaintance with the subject; applied to experience – in our case, to military history – it leads to thorough familiarity with it. The closer it comes to this goal, the more it proceeds from the objective form of a science to the subjective form of a skill, the more effective it will provide in areas where the nature of the case admits no arbiter but talent. It will, in fact, become an active ingredient in talent.... Theory then becomes a guide to anyone who wants to learn about war from books; it will light his way, ease his progress, train his judgment, and help him to avoid pitfalls" (Ibid., 163). One, then, is never to separate theory and observation. Clausewitz's theoretical propositions shall be used only as an aid to the observation of history, leading to the familiarity and acquaintance that he describes. Do not mistake Clausewitz on this point, theory is never to be separated from the observation of reality. "Analysis and observation, theory and experience," Clausewitz wrote, "must never disdain or exclude each other; on the contrary, they support each other" (Ibid., 69).
Theory as inquiry, and not as doctrine, is thus meant to train an individual to observe the uniqueness of the situation that actually confronts them. Only if one is able to cast aside the generalizations that so often accompany our approach to reality will they be able to fully confront reality and call forth an appropriate action. Theory, as a set of general propositions, are valid only so far as they assist in the observation of reality. Theory, Clausewitz writes, "is meant to educate the mind of the future commander, or, more accurately, to guide him in his self-education, not to accompany him to the battlefield; just as a wise teacher guides and stimulates a young man's intellectual development, but is careful not to lead him by the hand for the rest of his life" (Ibid.). Clausewitz's theory, then, is not a set of doctrines and rules, but a set of concepts that are meant to be used as an aid to the accurate observation of reality.
The gulf between theory and practice is greatly reduced using this approach. When one is engaging in the theoretically informed observation of military history one is exercising the same mental faculties that one must exercise in the actual conduct of war. Such a theoretical inquiry is meant to strengthen one's ability to perceive the uniqueness of a situation, which is a domain independent capacity.
Collingwood formulated his rapprochement between theory and practice in strikingly similar terms. In The New Leviathan Collingwood speaks explicitly of the difference between practical and theoretical reason. Theoretical reason, he argues, is the means by which we explain the world around us, including both the natural and human world. Practical reason, on the other hand, is the means by which we explain our own behavior. Collingwood is adamant, moreover, that there is always a direct relationship between theoretical and practical reason, between the language we use to explain others and that we use to explain ourselves.
Collingwood regards history as a highly developed form of theoretical reason. When we explain the people around us through the lens of history, he argues, we view their actions in terms of particularity and necessity. "To think historically," he argues, "is to explore a world consisting of things other than myself, each of them an individual or unique agent, in an individual or unique situation, doing an individual or unique action which he has to do because, charactered and circumstanced as he is, he can do no other" (Collingwood, The New Leviathan, 18.52). To think historically is therefore to think in terms of uniqueness and particularity. The historian sees pas situations simply as they were, never reducing them to a classification.
History as a form of theoretical reason, Collingwood argues, finds its practical counterpart in what he calls 'duty'. To act dutifully is to engage with the present in the same way that a historian engages with the past: as a unique situation that calls for a unique action. Collingwood puts this clearly: "A man's duty on a given occasion is the act which for him is both possible and necessary: the act which at that moment character and circumstance combine to make it inevitable, if he has a free will, that he should freely will to do it" (Ibid., 17.8). History and duty are therefore corresponding forms of theoretical and practical reason because they both engage reality in terms of particularity rather than generality. Or as he put it, "The consciousness of duty is thus identical with the consciousness of historical consciousness" (Goodness, Rightness, Utility, in The New Leviathan, 477).
It is important to note that this distinction was Collingwood's response to what he saw as a predilection for rule based explanations in both theory and practice. He argued that modern Europe was dominated by the rule based functioning of natural science (theoretical reason) and rule based 'regularian' theories of moral and political action (practical reason) (See The New Leviathan, 18.4-18.45). It was his ambition to articulate a corresponding theoretical and practical reason that could overcome the limitations of rule based moral and political action. In other words, Collingwood wanted to champion history as a way of learning to observe the world in terms of particularity so that individuals could learn to treat their own lives in the same way and thus embrace a form of action that does not rely on rules.
We should immediately note Clausewitz's claim that "what genius does is the best rule" (On War, 157).
Collingwood believes that historical and dutiful thought are mutually reinforcing habits. "The more a man accustoms himself to thinking historically," he argues, "the more he will accustom himself to thinking what course of action it is his duty to do, as distinct from asking what it is expedient for him to do and what it is right for him to do; and the more he will accustom himself to thinking in the same way of other people's actions explaining them to himself not by saying 'this person did this action in pursuit of such and such an end' or 'in obedience to such and such a rule' but 'because it was his duty'" (The New Leviathan, 28.9). Collingwood's hope is that historical study will impart a domain independent skill for observing the particularities of our world. Dutiful action and historical study enforce one another by helping us continually open ourselves to the uniqueness of the world, 'expanding to admit what little light there is, discerning objects by degrees, and finally seeing them distinctly'. This capacity for individualized observation and action, Collingwood believed, was essential if humans are to learn to skillfully handle moral and political problems. In history and duty we thus see not only Collingwood's rapprochement of theory and practice, but an elaboration of his claim in the Autobiography that history is the science of human affairs, the method "from which men could learn to deal with human situations as skilfully as natural science had taught them to deal with situations in the world of Nature..." (An Autobiography, 115).
The link between Clausewitz and Collingwood is rich. I hope I've persuaded you that their approaches to the rapprochement of theory and practice were remarkably similar. I only hoped to pursue that limited aim here. There is much more for me to explore in the relationship between these two excellent thinkers.
The most pressing question I have is where Collingwood's claims about history as a form of mental reenactment. Lie in all of this. I'm almost certain that reenactment is at the heart of his concept of the science of human affairs. Yet I'm struck by such a question.
Why didn't Collingwood speak of reenactment in The New Leviathan? How could he possibly formulate his ideas on history and duty while completely leaving out the concept of reenactment, the thing he most strongly identifies with history with in An Autobiography and The Idea of History?
I intend to pursue those questions in the essay I'm working on.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Matter and Mind in Strategic Education
I've recently found a nice paper by Lieutenant Colonel Steven A Pomeroy entitled "The Idea of a Strategist's Education." In it Mr. Pomeroy explores the question of the proper basis for political and military education. One of the central problems in strategic education, according to Pomeroy, is the tension between the sciences and the humanities. Like many western intellectual-academic institutions, the United States military has chosen to heavily (perhaps disproportionately) invest itself in the hard sciences. West Point, after all, was founded by a corps of engineers.
Pomeroy argues, however, that American strategic thinking has come to rely too heavily on scientific and technological solutions. He notes a trend in which strategic thinkers began to believe that "the quality of national scientific and technological development deeply affected strategy" (4). Pomeroy thus argues that "American strategy neglected conflict's human terrain" (5).
Pomeroy's argument is not that the humanities ought simply to replace science in the realm of strategic education, but that a humane education is essential to a balanced strategic education. He points to Alexander the Great as a past thinker who was able to seamlessly integrate technical (scientific) knowledge with less formal (humanities) judgement. It was Alexander's "balanced perspective that has served him well through the ages." Pomeroy thus goes on to say that his "claim is not that a humanisitic approach to strategy is necessarily superior to that rooted in formal reasoning; rather, it is at least equally important. Given the reality of the historical record and the employment of such thinking to successful strategy, it behooves young strategists to cultivate the humanistic approach of an Alexander" (8). Pomeroy is therefore calling for a balance between the sciences and the humanities. Clearly, it is the humanities that need to be given their proper emphasis.
Much to my delight, Pomeroy ties this imbalance in American military education to an imbalance that belongs to American society as a whole. He cites C.P. Snow's landmark lecture on the 'two cultures', in which Snow argued that American intellectual life was becoming ever more divided into the sciences and the humanities. "American society," Pomeroy goes on to write, "has developed a technocratic state and culture. As this occurred, systems analysts and social scientists rose to positions of political and social power." (4). Pomeroy is right to acknowledge this larger intellectual tension that exists within American society.
Indeed, Western society has been remarkably good at dealing with matter and has often shied away from reflection on mind. Mind, however, is the fundamental stuff of our social and political lives. If we are to engage intelligently with the human world we have to grapple above all with thoughts: "Historians, social scientists, and strategists," Pomeroy argues, "seek to understand the interior of an event. The interior represents the universe of thought that determined what occurred or what one hopes will occur. The exterior is simply what happened " (11). I think it is fair to say that we are a society focused on the exterior of events: we favor material or mechanical explanations of simply what happened, rather than mental, immaterial explanations.
Clausewitz, for one, recognized this tendency to favor material explanations. In Book II of On War he criticizes his contemporary theorists for restricting their analyses to material, calculable factors, whereas the most important things in war are governed by mental, immaterial, unquantifiable factors. Creating a theory of war that can deal with these immaterial factors was of the utmost importance to Clausewitz.
R.G. Collingwood shared a similar desire. Indeed, Pomeroy points to both Collingwood and Clausewitz as thinkers that showed us the best way to go about strategic education: through the study of history. As Pomeroy so aptly observes, "History and strategy therefore interpret human thought and activity. The former explains what one thought and acted. The latter explains what to do in the present and after a time becomes the subject of study by those interested in such things. Strategy is therefore history in the making, further cementing its relation with the humanities" (10). Indeed, this is precisely why Collingwood and Clausewitz advocated history as a form of military-political education: they believed it trained the mind to observe and grapple with the kinds of problems that one must deal with in politics and war.
Clausewitz and Collingwood, moreover, shared the view that history was fundamentally a form of mental simulation in which we rethought past thoughts for ourselves. It is this question of history as mental simulation as political education that I will be returning to soon.
For now I simply wanted to check in on my reading of Pomeroy and report that I will soon be working on an essay connecting Clausewitz and Collingwood. I've seen them connected in several places (Gallie, Sumida, Pomeroy), and I believe I can push the connection further. I may even spice it up with a little Bergson.
Pomeroy argues, however, that American strategic thinking has come to rely too heavily on scientific and technological solutions. He notes a trend in which strategic thinkers began to believe that "the quality of national scientific and technological development deeply affected strategy" (4). Pomeroy thus argues that "American strategy neglected conflict's human terrain" (5).
Pomeroy's argument is not that the humanities ought simply to replace science in the realm of strategic education, but that a humane education is essential to a balanced strategic education. He points to Alexander the Great as a past thinker who was able to seamlessly integrate technical (scientific) knowledge with less formal (humanities) judgement. It was Alexander's "balanced perspective that has served him well through the ages." Pomeroy thus goes on to say that his "claim is not that a humanisitic approach to strategy is necessarily superior to that rooted in formal reasoning; rather, it is at least equally important. Given the reality of the historical record and the employment of such thinking to successful strategy, it behooves young strategists to cultivate the humanistic approach of an Alexander" (8). Pomeroy is therefore calling for a balance between the sciences and the humanities. Clearly, it is the humanities that need to be given their proper emphasis.
Much to my delight, Pomeroy ties this imbalance in American military education to an imbalance that belongs to American society as a whole. He cites C.P. Snow's landmark lecture on the 'two cultures', in which Snow argued that American intellectual life was becoming ever more divided into the sciences and the humanities. "American society," Pomeroy goes on to write, "has developed a technocratic state and culture. As this occurred, systems analysts and social scientists rose to positions of political and social power." (4). Pomeroy is right to acknowledge this larger intellectual tension that exists within American society.
Indeed, Western society has been remarkably good at dealing with matter and has often shied away from reflection on mind. Mind, however, is the fundamental stuff of our social and political lives. If we are to engage intelligently with the human world we have to grapple above all with thoughts: "Historians, social scientists, and strategists," Pomeroy argues, "seek to understand the interior of an event. The interior represents the universe of thought that determined what occurred or what one hopes will occur. The exterior is simply what happened " (11). I think it is fair to say that we are a society focused on the exterior of events: we favor material or mechanical explanations of simply what happened, rather than mental, immaterial explanations.
Clausewitz, for one, recognized this tendency to favor material explanations. In Book II of On War he criticizes his contemporary theorists for restricting their analyses to material, calculable factors, whereas the most important things in war are governed by mental, immaterial, unquantifiable factors. Creating a theory of war that can deal with these immaterial factors was of the utmost importance to Clausewitz.
R.G. Collingwood shared a similar desire. Indeed, Pomeroy points to both Collingwood and Clausewitz as thinkers that showed us the best way to go about strategic education: through the study of history. As Pomeroy so aptly observes, "History and strategy therefore interpret human thought and activity. The former explains what one thought and acted. The latter explains what to do in the present and after a time becomes the subject of study by those interested in such things. Strategy is therefore history in the making, further cementing its relation with the humanities" (10). Indeed, this is precisely why Collingwood and Clausewitz advocated history as a form of military-political education: they believed it trained the mind to observe and grapple with the kinds of problems that one must deal with in politics and war.
Clausewitz and Collingwood, moreover, shared the view that history was fundamentally a form of mental simulation in which we rethought past thoughts for ourselves. It is this question of history as mental simulation as political education that I will be returning to soon.
For now I simply wanted to check in on my reading of Pomeroy and report that I will soon be working on an essay connecting Clausewitz and Collingwood. I've seen them connected in several places (Gallie, Sumida, Pomeroy), and I believe I can push the connection further. I may even spice it up with a little Bergson.
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