The Meaning of Critical Analysis in 'On War'

I. Introduction: Theory, Inquiry, Genius

II. Critical Analysis, Narrative, Mental Reconstruction

III. Narrative and Reenactment

I. Introduction: Theory, Inquiry, Genius

The purpose of this essay is to examine one of the central concepts of Carl von Clausewitz's On War: 'critical analysis'. This term deserves special attention for several reasons. First, Book II of On War, ‘On the Theory of War’, culminates in a discussion of critical analysis in which Clausewitz identifies it as the most important element of his theory. Second, it has not been explored as seriously as Clausewitz’s other concepts. His writing on absolute v. real war, military genius, and the relation between politics and war have typically overshadowed the chapter on critical analysis. All of those other concepts, however, cannot be understood adequately unless we grasp what Clausewitz means by critical analysis. Finally, the importance of the concept has recently been highlighted by Jon Sumida’s book Decoding Clausewitz: A New Approach to On War, in which he proposes that by critical analysis Clausewitz really means the “reenactment of the psychological conditions of strategic command decision” (Sumida, Decoding Clausewitz, 137). Indeed, Sumida’s reading of On War, and his interpretation of critical analysis, has been met with a variety of responses, some critical, some positive. The real purpose of this essay, then, is to test Sumida’s claims and the responses of his reviewers. When Clausewitz says ‘critical analysis‘ does he really mean ‘historical reenactment’?

In order to grasp what Clausewitz means by critical analysis we first must understand how he approached the question of theory, and how he believed theory was to serve as an educational device. 

In Chapter Two, Book II of On War, 'On The Theory of War', Clausewitz unequivocally states that a theory of war should never strive to be a positive system or a doctrine, but must rather be a form of study, a special type of inquiry. Given the unpredictability of war, he argues, "it is simply not possible to construct a model for the art of war that can serve as a scaffolding on which the commander can rely for support at any time" (On War, Howard/Paret translation, Alfred A. Knopf, 1993, 161). If military theory cannot be a "sort of manual for action" it must instead become a form of study. "Whenever an activity deals primarily with the same things again and again – with the same ends and the same means, even though there may be minor variations and an infinite diversity of combinations – these things are susceptible to rational study. It is precisely that inquiry which is the most essential part of any theory, and which may quite appropriately claim the title" (Ibid., 163, all emphasis is Clausewitz's unless otherwise noted). Since this kind of inquiry into the nature of war is conducted not with the aim of constructing a doctrine or a predictive set of rules, it must aim instead for ""a close acquaintance with the subject; applied to experience – in our case, to military history – to thorough familiarity with it" (Ibid.). Clausewitzian theory is therefore meant to be a type of instructive inquiry that does not aim at prediction, but is "a guide to anyone who wants to learn about war from books; it will light his way, ease his progress, train his judgement, and help him avoid pitfalls" (Ibid.). A combination of historical study and theoretical reflection will thus help educate a commander's intellect: "Analysis and observation, theory and experience," Clausewitz writes, "must never disdain or exclude each other; on the contrary, they support each other" (Ibid., 69). When Clausewitz argues that his theory of war is meant to train the judgement of a commander, he has a very specific picture of what strategic decision making is like and how the human mind handles these issues. 

Indeed, in Chapter Three of Book I  Clausewitz argues that strategic decision making in war must be handled by the 'genius' of a commander, by which he means "a harmonious combination" of intellectual and emotional qualities that allow a commander to exercise sound judgement. Sound judgement, moreover, depends largely on subrational faculties, which Clausewitz calls metaphorically coup d'oeil, a term derived from tactics that means "the idea of a rapid and accurate decision." He then goes on to explain that the term also has a strategic meaning that refers "to the inward eye." "Stripped of metaphor and of the restrictions imposed on it by the phrase," he continues, "the concept merely refers to the quick recognition of a truth that the mind would ordinarily miss or would perceive only after long study and reflection" (Ibid, 118). Jon Sumida, in his Decoding Clausewitz, rightly argues that Clausewitz is claiming that intuition, "a form of unconscious thought that integrates rational intelligence and emotion," is at the heart of Clausewitz’s concept of genius (Jon Sumida, Decoding Clausewitz, University of Kansas Press, 2008, 3). 

Intuition, moreover, is something that can only be improved through experience in war. Clausewitz makes the importance of experience clear during his concluding observations to Book I. There he argues that experience is the only thing that can help genius function properly in war’s danger and uncertainty. “In War,” Clausewitz writes, “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” (On War, 141). Clausewitz regards experience to be of paramount importance, and we can safely assume that his theory must have something to do with the effects of experience on a commander’s judgement. Sumida puts this idea very clearly in his preface to Decoding Clausewitz when he argues that at the end of Book I Clausewitz “implicitly poses the question of what might constitute an effective palliative for lack of experience” (xvi). Indeed, Sumida argues that this is at the core of Clausewitz’s theory: “Clausewitz believes that it is possible to formulate a theory of war that will promote the operation of genius through the replication of the effects of experience” (Decoding Clausewitz, 135). Clausewitz’s theory is therefore a form of inquiry meant to strengthen the intuitive judgement (i.e. genius) of a commander by providing access to something like experience. History, it turns out, is where Clausewitz believes we may gain access to something like experience.

II. Critical Analysis, Narrative, Mental Reconstruction

Having told us that theory must be a form of historical study that is aimed at improving a commander's intuitive decision making abilities, Clausewitz further specifies in Book II the lines along which such an inquiry must proceed. ‘Critical Analysis’ is the name he gives to said inquiry. In Chapter Five of Book II, titled 'Critical Analysis', Clausewitz explains that theory must ultimately be a historical inquiry: an intensive study of past military campaigns.  Permit me to quote him at some length. The chapter on critical analysis begins as such: "The influence of theoretical truths on practical life is always exerted more through critical analysis than through doctrine. Critical analysis being the application of theoretical truths to actual events, it not only reduces the gap between the two but also accustoms the mind to these truths through their repeated applications. We have established a criterion for theory, and must now establish one for critical analysis" (Ibid., 181, my emphasis). The chapter on critical analysis is thus delivering on the promise that he made in Chapter Two of Book II: he is explaining how theory as a form of study is to manifest itself.  It is to be a historical study that incorporates theoretical reflection. It is absolutely essential that we read Chapter Five of Book II in light of what he has told us in Chapter Two of Book II. That Clausewitz claims that this process 'accustoms the mind to these truths', moreover, shows that he is concerned with a educating particular kind of intelligence that we can call intuition.

The first thing to note is that critical analysis is essentially a narrative exercise: the writing of a fuller account of a past campaign that goes beyond ordinary historical narrative. He immediately distinguishes "between the critical approach and the plain narrative of a historical event, which merely arranges facts one after another, and at most touches on their immediate causal links" (Ibid.). Critical analysis as a narrative exercise, Clausewitz explains, contains three different elements: historical research proper, critical analysis proper, and criticism proper: "First, the discovery and interpretation of equivocal facts. This is historical research proper, and has nothing in common with theory. Second, the tracing of effects back to their causes. This is critical analysis proper. It is essential for theory; for whatever in theory is to be defined, supported or simply described by reference to experience can only be dealt with in this manner. Third, the investigation and evaluation of means employed. This last is criticism proper, involving praise and censure. Here theory serves history, or rather the lessons to be drawn from history" (Ibid.). The first element of this process, historical research, is clear enough, but what does Clausewitz mean by the 'tracing of effects back to their causes' and 'the investigation and evaluation of means'? 

By the 'tracing of effects back to causes' Clausewitz must be referring to the mental processes of the commander in chief that led to certain decisions being made in war. For 'effects' and 'causes' can only mean the outcomes of certain military campaigns, and the thinking that led to those decisions being made. We can be confident that Clausewitz is not referring to material causes and effects here since in Chapter Two of Book II he criticizes his contemporaries for limiting their theories to material factors (155-156) and for not adequately dealing with mental factors (157-160). His inquiry into causes and effects in war therefore must be related to his goal of formulating a theory that adequately deals with psychological factors in war.

The mental processes that effect the outcome of a war, however, are not directly accessible to us by the historical record: "Nowhere in life is this so common as in war, where the facts are seldom fully known and the underlying motives even less so. They may be intentionally concealed by those in command, or, if they happen to be transitory and accidental, history may not have recorded them at all. This is why critical narrative must usually go hand in hand with historical research" (Ibid., 181-182, my emphasis). The real business of theory as critical analysis, then, is to dig beyond the surface of the historical record to reveal the mental processes that gave rise to actions. Surmising about the mental processes that led to certain decision in war, however, cannot proceed willy-nilly. It must be supported by a working theory that can bound the limits of the inquiry and help us ask intelligent questions. "In short," he argues, "a working theory is an essential basis for criticism. Without such a theory it is generally impossible for criticism to reach that point at which it becomes truly instructive...." (Ibid., 183). Clausewitz is adamant that theoretical truths are not to stand on their own, but may only to be used as aids to the construction of these critical narratives: 

But it would be wishful thinking to imagine that any theory could cover every abstract truth.... The same spirit of analytical investigation which creates a theory should also guide the work of the critic who both may and should often cross into the realm of theory in order to elucidate any point of special importance. The function of theory would be missed entirely if criticism were to degenerate into a mechanical application of theory. All the positive results of theoretical investigation – all the principles, rules, and methods – will increasingly lack universality and absolute truth the closer they come to being positive doctrine (Ibid.).   

When one finds a past commander's decisions to be in conflict with a theoretical truth, moreover, one is not to dismiss such a decision. Rather, one must inquire into the reasoning behind such a choice. "If, in tactics, it is generally agreed that in the standard line of battle cavalry should be posted not in line with but behind the infantry, it would nevertheless be foolish to condemn every different deployment simply because it is different. The critic should analyze the reasons for the exception" (Ibid.). Again, this means using theoretical truths to reconstruct the mental processes that led a commander to make such a decision. Clausewitz says this with great clarity when he argues that "Critical analysis, after all, is nothing but thinking that should precede the action" (Ibid., 196, my emphasis). The thinking that should precede the action, you say? Such a statement shows that by critical analysis Clausewitz must mean the critical reconstruction of past decision making processes.

This kind of reconstruction, moreover, extends to all the various layers of a military campaign, from the highest strategic objectives to the lowest tactical decision:

One can go on tracing the same effects that a cause produces so long as it seems worthwhile. In the same way, a means may be evaluated not merely with respect to its immediate end: that end itself should be appraised as a means for the next and highest one; and thus we can follow a chain of sequential objectives until we reach one that requires no justification, because its necessity is self-evident. In many cases, particularly those involving great and decisive actions, the analysis must extend to the ultimate objective, which is to bring about peace. Every stage in this progression obviously implies a new basis for judgment. That which seems correct when looked at from one level may, when viewed from a higher one, appear objectionable (Ibid., 184).

This kind of narrative reconstruction thus necessarily covers not only strategic decision making, but tactical decision making as well, 'the means employed'. As he says, the notion of 'means' here is broad and covers a variety of phenomena. But no matter how diverse the means possibly employed, their consideration always implies an inquiry into an individual's mental process that led to decision making, it is always subject to reconstruction and evaluation. That Clausewitz believed ends and means to be of such a diverse nature is confirmed in his writing in Chapter Two of Book II, when he argues that "The influence of the great diversity of intellectual qualities is felt chiefly in the higher ranks, and increases as one goes up the ladder. It is the primary cause for the diversity of roads to the goal..." (Ibid., 160-161). It is not a shortcoming, then, that Clausewitz cannot tell us more precisely what is meant by the tracing of effects back to their causes and the investigation of the means employed: the meaning of 'effects and causes' and 'the means employed' will vary based on what campaign we are investigating from what perspective. In one case it may mean understanding why a commander chose to abandon a siege of one city in favor of attacking another, and in another may mean asking why a commander chose to use his cavalry against unbroken infantry. Critical analysis and criticism, however, find their unity in the basic fact that it always involves the narrative reconstruction and evaluation of the thought processes that led an individual to make such a decision, that it is 'thinking that precedes the action'. Critical analysis, in short, is always a narrative and perspective taking exercise. 

Clausewitz then provides us with an example of how such an inquiry is to be carried out. On page 185 he begins a historical narrative of Napoleon's decision making process in a 1797 campaign. He does precisely what he describes: he looks at the objectives that Napoleon pursued, he looks at the means by which that goal was achieved, and he tries to imagine what Napoleon must have thought to make him choose such a goal and to pursue it in such a way. He effectively shows us that through a critical narrative a critic may take a variety of perspectives, reconstructing the mental processes of many different actors. In discussing Napoleon's successful routing of Archduke Charles in 1797 he asks "How could Bonaparte make use of this success? Should he press on into the heart of the Austrian Empire, ease the advance of the two armies of the Rhine under Moreau and Hoche, and work in conjunction with them? That was how Bonaparte saw it, and from his point of view he was right. But the critic may take a wider view – that of the French Directory; whose members could see, and must have realized, that the campaign on the Rhine would not begin for another six weeks. From that standpoint, then, Bonaparte's advance through the Norican Alps could only be considered an unjustifiable risk" (Ibid., 185, my emphasis). I have italicized portions of this quotation to show that Clausewitz's language consistently betrays the fact that critical analysis is fundamentally about assuming the perspective of decision makers in war, getting in their heads and reconstructing their thought processes. 

That Clausewitz believed strategic criticism the be primarily a matter of perspective taking is shown with even greater clarity in his study of the battle of Waterloo. In that study he writes, "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, University of Oklahoma Press, 38, my emphasis). Critical analysis is thus a narrative exercise that is meant to place us into the perspective of past decision makers, allowing us to work out their thinking for ourselves. 

At the end of his discussion of the events of 1797 Clausewitz says, "It will suffice to show that comprehensive, intricate and difficult character which a critical analysis may assume if it extends to ultimate objectives – in other words, if it deals with the great and decisive measures which must necessarily lead up to them" ( On War, 187). Again, it is obvious that the 'great and decisive measures' that lead up to military phenomena must be the mental processes of the commander-in-chief, and that to critically analyze them is to reconstruct and evaluate them. 

The purpose of this narrative reconstruction of a commander's mental process, as we've noted, is to 'accustom the mind' to the realities of military things, by which Clausewitz means that it should help us cultivate an intuitive grasp of them. He further clarifies this point in the last section of Chapter Two of Book II. He closes the chapter by considering "a factor more vital to military knowledge than any other," an emphatic statement we would do well to take seriously:

Knowledge must be so absorbed into the mind that it almost ceases to exist in a separate, objective way. In almost any other art or profession a man can work with truths he has learned from musty books, but which have no life or meaning for him. Even truths that are in constant use and are always to hand may still be externals. When an architect sits down with a pen and paper to determine the strength of an abutment by a complicated calculation, the truth of the answer at which he arrives is not an expression of his own personality.... It is never like that in war. Continual change and the need to respond to it compels the commander to carry the whole intellectual apparatus of his knowledge within him. He must always be ready to bring forth the appropriate decision. By total assimilation with his mind and life, the commander's knowledge must be transformed into a genuine capacity. That is why it all seems to come so easily to men who have distinguished themselves in war, and why it is all ascribed to natural talent. We say natural talent in order to distinguish it from the talent that has been trained and educated by reflection and study (Ibid., 170, my emphasis).

The most vital fact in military education, then, is that a commander become so acquainted with military truths that they become fully integrated into his personality. A commander must cultivate a kind of instinct, a feel for things that cannot be captured in rational truths. A commander's knowledge is "an intellectual instinct which extracts the essence from the phenomena of life, as a bee sucks honey from a flower. In addition to study and reflection, life itself serves as a source. Experience, with its wealth of lessons, will never produce a Newton or an Euler, but it may well bring forth the higher calculations of a Conde or a Frederick" (Ibid., 169-170, my emphasis). We have several things to note here. First, Clausewitz is discussing a form of intelligence that he explicitly contrasts with rational, mathematical study. Second, it is a form of intellect that is trained primarily through experience and the study of experience rather than through mere rational study. The centrality of experience, as we already noted, has already been raised in the concluding chapter of Book I (See Ibid., 141-142). 

Critical analysis, as the culmination of Clausewitz's theory of war, must therefore be about educating an intuitive sensibility in war by providing a substitute for experience. Indeed, Clausewitz argues in the chapter on critical analysis that the critic is supposed to be 'absorbing' theoretical truths into his mind in a way that mirrors the intuitive capacities of the commander under study. The critic is not to "check a great commander's solution to a problem as if it were a sum in arithmetic. Rather, he must recognize with admiration the commander's success, the smooth unfolding of events, the higher workings of his genius" (Ibid., 193, my emphasis). Through the faithful and humble attempt to use theory as an instrument to reconstruct a great commander's decision making process in war, a critic can expose his mind to the experience of that genius. For "in the same way as in war these truths are better served by a commander who has absorbed their meaning in his mind rather than one who treats them as rigid external rules, so the critic should not apply them like an external law or an algebraic formula whose relevance need not be established each time it is used. These truth should always be allowed to become self-evident...." (Ibid., 196, my emphasis). Here we see a sort of identity between the critic and the general: the critic desires to have a mind that intuitively grasps the difficult realities of military problems like the great commanders of the past. The critic therefore limits himself to the terms that the great generals used, never engaging in academic technicalities or jargon, but letting everything "be done through the natural workings of the mind" (Ibid., 197). Through the reconstruction of past commander's mental processes the critic is able to gain a second-hand experience of the simple concepts that are employed to solve the enormous difficulties of war. We will be returning to this question of 'second-hand experience'.  

Clausewitz closes the chapter on critical analysis with a severe indictment of abstract theories that do not embrace the actual language used in politics. Such a jargon-rich, unrealistic language never would have flourished, he writes, "if by means of simple terms and straightforward observation of the conduct of war theory had sought to determine all that was determinable; if, without spurious claims, with no unseemly display of scientific formulae and historical compendia, it had stuck to the point and never parted company with those who have to manage things in battle by the light of their native wit" (Ibid., 198, my emphasis). Critical analysis, then, is essentially a process in which a critic uses a combination of historical fact and theoretically supported surmise to reconstruct a past commander's mental process with the goal of replicating his experience. In the process the critic is supposed to be cultivating an intuitive grasp of military phenomena and a sense of the ways in which the greatest minds of the past have dealt with these kinds of problems. The critic attempts to reconstruct the workings of past genius so that they may work to develop their own genius.

III. Narrative and Reenactment

As we can see, Clausewitz's writing on critical analysis can be rendered in the language of narrative, mental reconstruction, second-hand experience, and the training of intuitive judgement. All of this is clear from the first two Books of On War. Jon Sumida, in his Decoding Clausewitz, however, proposes that Clausewitz's concept of critical analysis should be thought of as a form of 'historical reenactment'. According to Sumida, the primary argument of On War "is that an imagined replication of past decision-making of a commander-in-chief – that is, historical reenactment – can promote the development of a sensibility similar to that produced by the experience of real war" (Sumida, Decoding Clausewitz, xvi). Through historical reenactments one is supposed to gain a second-hand experience of the genius of past commanders. Great commanders of the past, he writes, "demonstrated a practical understanding of armed conflict through their possession of whatever it took to overcome the manifold and in many cases unpredictable obstacles to taking sound action in war." Such a practical skill, moreover, "was the product of experience. And [Clausewitz] was furthermore convinced that the most important thing improved by experience was intuition...." Clausewitz's theory, as a form of reenactment, then, was meant to offer "instruction as to how a sense of intuition, and thus of genius, might be acquired by someone without experience of supreme command" (Ibid., 3). Later in the book Sumida puts this point with more clarity. Given that Clausewitz believed experience to be the most vital factor in a commander's education, he attempted "to construct something that resembles experience–to the point of being nearly equivalent to–through historical reenactment based on historical fact and theoretically informed surmise" (Ibid., 184). Later on Sumida calls the product of reenactment 'synthetic experience'. Clausewitzian theory, he claims, can be rendered as "Verifiable Historical  Fact (VHF) + Theory-Based Historical Surmise = Synthetic Experience.... Synthetic Experience (SE) + Reflection on Synthetic Experience (RSE) = Improved Capacity for Judgement (ICJ)." (Ibid., 196). These terms are not so different from the language I used above, but they put the case a bit more strongly, and draw on a variety of different sources. My reading of On War, I confess, is entirely indebted to Sumida's work.

The reception of Sumida's use of the term reenactment has not been uniform. Some reviewers, like J. Alex Vohr, have lauded Sumida's use of the phrase reenactment as a profound insight into Clausewitz's thinking, while Eugenia Kiesling has expressed less enthusiastic appraisals of the terminology, and Janeen Klinger has outright questioned the applicability of the phrase. "On this point," she writes, "one might do well to apply a version of Occam’s razor that the simplest explanation is the best and that perhaps Clausewitz used the term 'critical analysis' because that is what he meant to say."  (http://www.clausewitz.com/bibl/Klinger-ReviewSumidaDecodingClausewitz.html, accessed 9/25/2014). I find this last statement a little bit befuddling. In what sense is a term like critical analysis self-evident? Clausewitz's discussion of it reveals it to be a complex process that combines historical study and theoretical reflection in a way that he believed overcame the shortcomings of previous forms of military theory. My goal in the latter half of this essay is to look more closely at this question of what critical analysis means, and whether Sumida is correct in claiming that critical analysis is essentially a form of historical reenactment.

Now, given that Sumida self-consciously borrows the term reenactment from R.G. Collingwood, I think it prudent to begin with Collingwood and see what kind of affinity exists between he and Clausewitz's writing. Based on the discussion above, two thing are undeniable about Clausewitz's concept of critical analysis: first, it is a kind of historical study that tries to understand the thoughts behind past actions, and second it uses narrative to do so. In order for Sumida to be justified in using the term reenactment, therefore, we must find that Collingwood believes reenactment to serve similar purposes.

The first thing that we must grasp about Collingwood's concept of historical reenactment is that it is an answer to the question: How can we have knowledge of another mind? For Collingwood there is only one object of historical study: thought. The historian, of course, cares deeply about actions and studies the actions of past actors. Action, however, can only be understood as an expression of thought. "The deeds which historians study are therefore... deeds embodying or expressing thought." (The Principles of History, 48). Thought, and not action, is the ultimate object of history. Collingwood reiterates this point in his Autobiography: "You are thinking historically... when you say about anything, 'I see what the person who made this (wrote this, used this, designed this &c.) was thinking' " (An Autobiography., 110). In order to say that we have seen what someone was thinking, moreover, we must think those same thoughts for ourselves. For Collingwood there is no other way to understand a thought, we must think "that very same thought, not another like it" (Ibid., 111). Thus claiming that all history is the history of thought, and that thought can only be understood by rethinking those thoughts, Collingwood argues that "historical knowledge is the re-enactment in the historian's mind of the thought whose history he is studying" (Ibid., 112). So far Collingwood's concept of reenactment seems to square with Clausewitz's concept of critical analysis in that they both strive to understand past actions in terms of the motivating thought. But does Collingwood's reenactment explicitly rely on narrative?

Yes. Yes it does. If we look closely at The Idea of History we discover that Collingwood argues that this process of reenactment is always bound up with narrative. This becomes clear in his essay 'Historical Evidence'. In section vii, 'Who Killed John Doe?', Collingwood argues that the historians business is in many ways similar to a detective. Both the historian and the detective reject the idea that difficult questions will be handled by means of testimony and or second-hand observation. No one will hand them the truth about an event. On the contrary, both the detective and the historian must ask their own questions in order to reconstruct an accurate picture of why people behaved the way they did. Collingwood demonstrates this fact by telling a story in which John Doe has been murdered:

When John Doe was found, early one sunday morning, lying across his desk with a dagger through his back, no one expected that the question who did it would be settled by means of testimony. It was not likely that anyone saw the murder being done. It was even less likely that someone in the murderer's confidence would give him away. It was least likely of all that the murderer would walk into the village police-stations and denounce himself. In spite of this, the public demanded that he should be brought to justice, and the police had hopes of doing it; though the only clue was a little fresh green paint on the handle of the dagger, like the fresh green paint on the iron gate between John Doe's garden and the rector's (The Idea of History, 266). 

That Collingwood would provide us with such an interesting narrative shows that he took the relation between narrative and history seriously. In comparing the work of the historian to that of the detective Collingwood intends to drive home several points about the nature of historical inquiry. First, that the historian, like the detective, is driven by questioning. Second, that historians exclusively ask questions about the thoughts behind certain actions. Third, that historians regard objects and actions as evidence of thought. Fourth, that historians use this evidence to reconstruct, or 'reenact', in their own minds the thought of the individual under study. This ultimately results in the construction of a narrative in which past actors' thoughts are reconstructed and thus rendered intelligible.

When Collingwood claims that all history is a matter of reenactment, therefore, he implies that reenactment always comes in a narrative form. It is, moreover, a particularly robust form of narrative, one driven by the critical questioning of the historian. He reaffirms the uniqueness of his concept of history in the Autobiography: "History and pseudo-history are alike consisted of narratives: but in history there were narratives of purposive activity, and the evidence for them consisted of relics they had left behind (books or potsherds, the principle was the same) which became evidence precisely to the extent to which the historian conceived them in terms of purpose...." (An Autobiography,  my emphasis, 109). Collingwood distinguishes his version of history as critical narrative from what he calls 'scissors-and-paste’ history. Before the nineteenth century, Collingwood argues, historians essentially worked by a "scissors-and-paste" method. A practicer of scissors-and-past history seeks "to know what 'the authorities' had said about the subject he was interested in, and to his authorities' statements he was tied by the leg..." (Ibid., 79). In Collingwood's account of history as a form critical narrative (reenactment) we have a perfect echoing of Clausewitz's distinction between critical analysis and plain narrative: "We distinguish between the critical approach and the plain narrative of a historical event, which merely arranges facts one after another, and at most touches on their immediate causal links" (On War, 181).

Collingwood and Clausewitz's approaches to historical study undeniably share one component that intimately binds them to the concept of reenactment: narrative. They are both explicit about the central role of narrative in their concepts of history. In Collingwood's account of historical narrative the presence of reenactment is made explicit, whereas the idea is implicit in Clausewitz. Read carefully, however, On War makes it clear that critical analysis as a narrative exercise is essentially about perspective taking. Let alone the fact that in other places Clausewitz explicitly says that strategic criticism is about putting "oneself in the position of the decision-maker" (On Wellington: A Critique of Waterloo, 38). 

At the heart of Collingwood's concept of reenactment we therefore have two fundamental claims. First, human action is only intelligible as a narrative. And second, that these narratives of human actions must take us inside a situation, allowing us to rethink the thoughts of the actor under study. Reenactment is therefore not merely a claim about historical methodology. It is more fundamentally a claim about human epistemology: about what it means to understand another human being. Collingwood is not shy about elevating the concept of reenactment to the level of epistemology. Indeed, he claims that all knowledge of mind is essentially historical in character. "If it is by historical thinking that we re-think the thought of Hammurabi or Solon," he writes in The Idea of History, "it is in the same way that we discover the thought of a friend who rites us a letter, or a stranger who crosses the street.... In this sense, all knowledge of mind is historical" (The Idea of History, 219, my emphasis). Thus, for Collingwood, human activity can only be understood if it is rendered into a narrative that allows us to reenact the thoughts of those we wish to understand. 

The idea that human activity becomes intelligible only when rendered in a narrative is not unique to Collingwood. If we can grasp the central place of narrative in human self-knowledge, moreover, we will understand that Clausewitz's notion of critical analysis, bound to narrative as it is, must imply something like reenactment.

The inextricability of narrative and human understanding has been put with great clarity by the philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre in his After Virtue. In the course of explicating Aristotle's account of the virtues, MacIntyre thinks it essential to grasp the way in which human action is intelligible only when rendered as a narrative. That narrative plays such a central role in human knowledge, however, is an elusive fact, "an unacknowledged presence in many of our ways of thinking and acting" (MacIntyre, After Virtue, 2007, 206). In arguing for the importance of narrative understanding MacIntyre is explicitly arguing against social sciences, like behaviorism, that attempt to classify action in generalized ways. Such generalized accounts of human action, he claims, ignore the fact that every human being is driven not by general rules, but by particular intentions. "There is no such thing as 'behavior', to be identified prior to and independently of intentions, beliefs and settings...." Instead, we must "place the agent's intentions... in causal and temporal order with reference to their role in his or her history; and we also place them with reference to their role in the history of the setting or settings to which they belong" (Ibid., 208). "Narrative history..." he concludes, "turns out to be the basic and essential genre for the characterization of human actions" (Ibid.). 

MacIntyre provides several examples to demonstrate this fact that all human activity must be rendered in a narrative that takes account of intentions and settings. Take the example of a man who has made the decision to work in his yard:

To the question 'What is he doing?' the answers may with equal truth and appropriateness be 'Digging', 'Gardening', 'Taking Exercise', 'Preparing for winter' or 'Pleasing his wife'. Some of these answers will characterize the agent's intentions, other unintended consequences of his actions, and of these unintended consequences some may be such that the agent is aware of them and others not. What is important to notice immediately is that any answer to the questions of how we are to understand or to explain a given segment of behavior will presuppose some prior answer to the question of how these different correct answers to the question 'What is he doing?' are related to each other. For if someone's primary intention is to put the garden in order before the winter and it is only incidentally the case that in so doing he is taking exercise and pleasing his wife, we have one type of behavior to be explained; but if the agent's primary intention is to please his wife by taking exercise, we have quite another type of behavior to be explained and we will have to look in a different direction for understanding and explanation (Ibid., 206).

A comprehensive and accurate account of action, therefore, must be rendered in the form of a story that orders an agent's intentions and places them in their the proper context.

These narratives of human action, moreover, have the character of being embedded. That is, they are intertwined with one another so that our stories, in which we are all the lead character, affect and bleed into one another. "Someone may discover...," MacIntyre writes, "that he or she is a character in a number of narratives at the same time, some of them embedded in others" (Ibid., 213). Thus MacIntyre corroborates the notion that we find in Clausewitz in Collingwood that all human action becomes intelligible only when place in narrative form. He summarizes his argument well when he says "man is in his actions and practices, as well as in his fictions, essentially a story-telling animal. He is not essentially, but becomes through history, a teller of stories that aspire to truth" (Ibid., 216). This notion of man as a 'story-telling animal', we shall shortly see, is essential to grasping the depth of Clausewitz's concept of critical analysis as a theoretical narrative exercise.

Clausewitz, I would like to quickly note, displays a tacit understanding of the ways in which human narratives are embedded in one another. Recall that in his account of critical analysis he repeatedly adopts multiple perspectives, effectively showing us the way in which a narrative of Napoleon's action only becomes intelligible if it is embedded in a complementary narrative of the intentions of the French directory and of the Austrian commander's. This fact is evident in his consistent use of the phrases like 'a wider view', 'From that standpoint', or 'a still wider view' (On War, 185-186). Clearly, Clausewitz understood that human action must be rendered in an 'embedded narrative' in which different people's intentions are gauged and explicated in relation to one another.

That human action only becomes intelligible in the form of a narrative has been addressed more recently by Jonathan Gotschall in The Storytelling Animal. Gotschall, moreover, deepens our understanding of this phenomena by arguing that narratives can only be understood from the inside. Narratives of human behavior, that is to say, always take us into the mind's of the individuals under study, allowing us to reenact or simulate their thoughts and experiences. In seeking to answer his central question, 'Why did humans evolve to be so intimately intertwined with story?', Gotschall develops the argument that story "is a powerful and ancient virtual reality technology that simulates the big dilemmas of human life." A good narrative always takes us so deeply into a situation so that we can "identify so closely with the protagonists that we don't just sympathize with them; we strongly empathize with them. We feel their happiness and desire and fear; our brains rev up as though what is happening to them is actually happening to us" (Gotschall, The Storytelling Animal, 2012, 67, my emphasis). The concept of narrative or story, therefore, necessarily implies that we are going inside another person's mind, reenacting or simulating their thoughts for ourselves. It seems prudent to note, further, that the term 'simulation' has been used as a synonym for Collingwood's concept of reenactment (See Alvin Goldman, Simulating Minds, 2006, 18; and Karsten R. Stueber, "The Psychological Basis of Historical Explanation: Reenactment, Simulation, and the Fusion of Horizons," History and Theory 41 (February 2002), 25-42) ). 

The central takeaway of this discussion of Collingwood, MacIntyre, and Gotschall is that the concept of narrative already implies the existence of something like reenactment. That Clausewitz explicitly identifies critical analysis as a narrative exercise means that it must amount to something like a reenactment, or simulation. Read with this more robust concept of narrative in mind Clausewitz's theory of war pushes us to take seriously the concept of narrative education. Clearly, he believed that a certain kind of narrative education was the best form and function a theory of war could take. His theory, at it’s heart, must be about cultivating an ability to accurately narrate, that is, reenact, the thoughts of the individuals we seek to understand. Narrative, reenactment, is the only way to understand the human mind, whether it be in war or in love.

Emotional Equanimity

I have many things occupying my time these days, so my work on Clausewitz is primarily reflective at this point. I reread all of Book I and Book II but I've decided to not pursue it for now. I'm reading some William James, some Nietzsche, some Bergson, and I'm reflecting on how they all fit together. They do.

One thing I've become more aware of is how much Clausewitz has influenced my day-to-day thinking about life and decision making. He and Collingwood have both provided me with a set of concepts and the description of an attitude that seem to apply equally well to war, politics, morality, and daily living.

Emotional equanimity is the key to it all. Wisdom, which is what Clausewitz and Collingwood are after, is not primarily a matter of intellect, but a matter of temperament.

Why else would Clausewitz spend the bulk of the chapter 'On Military Genius' discussing the question of temperament and emotional balance?

I'm letting my thinking go for now. I intend to return to it. There are things I ought to forget for now.

Philosophical Implications

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.

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.

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.

Bergson and Clausewitz on Time

Thanks to my reading of Henri Bergson I've become more sensitive to the issue of time. For Bergson, time and space are the two major domains in which thinking takes place, space being the dominant of the two. He argues that thinking is most often directed towards space because in its original manifestation thought was meant to help us manipulate and divide matter. Directing intelligence primarily towards space and the manipulation of matter is a deep seated mental habit. "If the intellect has been made in order to utilize matter," Bergson writes, "its structure has no doubt been modelled upon that of matter. At least that is the simplest and most probable hypothesis. We should keep to it as long as it is not demonstrated to us that the intelligence deforms, transforms, constructs its object, or only brushes the surface, or grasps the mere semblance of it" (The Creative Mind, 26). From here Bergson goes on to demonstrate this precise point: that intellect, as it exists in the realm of space/matter, begins to distort its object when it approaches the temporal, immaterial, and mental.

According to Bergson, approaching the intellect in terms of space (that is, in terms of division and manipulation) does not yield comparable success when it is applied to the study of mind. In fact, Bergson believes that approach the study of the mind in a spirit of division is detrimental to our understanding of it. Mind, he argues, belongs not to the realm of space, but to time. It is in time that the mind changes, unfolds, and truly exists. To think clearly about the mind, then, we must think clearly about the nature of time. The fundamental aspect of time, Bergson argues, is that it is a pure unity that cannot be understood through the method of division that work so well with space and matter. Mind, for Bergson, is also a pure unity that cannot be divided without doing serious damage to our understanding of it.

Understanding the mind in all of its richness, then, is about plunging ourselves into the unity of time. We cannot divide our inner experience in the same way that we divide the space around us. We must accept that our inner lives are a pure unity that must be experienced as a whole. Bergson argues that we can indeed use our thinking to begin to experience our inner lives in this total way. The challenge is to overcome the artificial boundaries and divisions that we habitually place on our inner experience, our habit of spatializing the mind. Once we cease to treat the mind in the same way that we treat space we will see "There is simply the continuous melody of inner life,–a melody which is going on and will go on, indivisible, from the beginning to the end of our conscious existence" ("The Perception of Change" in The Creative Mind, 124).

These artificial boundaries can only be overcome through a sort of purposeful forgetting: we must learn to let go of all the categories that we have used to order the inner and outer worlds. This kind of purposeful forgetting is to be undertaken through metaphysical study, which Bergson aptly defines as 'the science of dispensing of symbols'. For only when we have managed to do away with the rigidity of our classifications will we be able to shake the false space they put between us and the world and plunge fully into the unbreakable unity of time and mind.

Clausewitz anticipated many of Bergson's ideas, including his skepticism towards generalization, the idea that reality is ineffable, that we must grapple with wholes more than parts, and that time and the mind are immaterial things that cannot be approached in the same way as space and matter.

In particular, time is a major part of Clausewitz's writing in On War. One of the fundamental claims of On War is that the historical record shows without a doubt that defense is a stronger form of war than attack. When writing about the superiority of the defense Clausewitz repeatedly stresses that the defenders advantages come primarily through time: waiting is the fundamental aspect of the defense.

This connection between Bergson and Clausewitz may appear weak. That they both speak seriously of time may not appear to mean much on the surface. But I have a hunch that there is something significant going in with their concern with time. For Clausewitz also spoke of the mind and education in the same way Bergson does. There is something there.

I'll sort that out soon. But in any case, I'd like to share some writing I did on Clausewitz's thinking about defense and time. This is an essay I wrote in 2007 for the Clausewitz seminar at UMD. I wanted to get some content out on this blog. I'll be producing some more stuff soon. But this has been a taster of what I'm working on with Bergson and Clausewitz, and my essay on waiting in Clausewitz:

In Book VI, Chapter 8 of On War, Carl Von Clausewitz states, “waiting is such a fundamental feature of all warfare that war is hardly conceivable without it” (Clausewitz, 454). This emphasis on waiting is very closely tied to Clausewitz argument that the “defensive form of warfare is intrinsically stronger than the offensive” (Clausewitz, 428). The primary reason that waiting is so essential for the defender is that “time which is allowed to pass unused accumulates to the credit of the defender. He reaps where he did not sow. Any omission of attack… accrues to the defenders’ benefit” (Clausewitz, 428). For the defender, waiting can present itself in several different fashions, some of which are essential to the concept of defense. However, other, more extreme modes of waiting, such as a retreat into the interior of the country, or a popular insurrection, will only be utilized in the face of an overwhelming enemy, or during a war for national survival. While waiting is almost always advantageous to the defender, the opposite is true for the attacker, who desires a quick decision.

In his opening chapter of Book VI, Clausewitz defines the concept of defense as “The parrying of a blow.” He then goes on to state that the distinguishing trait of defense is “awaiting the blow” (Clausewitz, 427). This means that in order to fight a defensive war all the defender must do is wait, which is enough to satisfy the primary object of the defense, preservation. This modest goal of preservation affords the defender certain key advantages that make defense the stronger form of war. Since the defender simply waits to be attacked, the battle naturally happens on his land, which gives the defender a tactical advantage. An awareness of the terrain is an enormous advantage for the defender, and his knowledge allows him to better utilize topography to set up surprises.  Clausewitz feels that surprising an enemy at a certain point with far more troops than expected is “the most powerful medium in the art of warfare”(Clausewitz, 431) and the defenders superior knowledge of terrain allows him to spring numerical surprises with greater ease. Waiting also affords the defender advantages such as “strengthening the theater of operations, by fortresses… by popular support, and the exploitation of moral factors” (Clausewitz, 434). Fortresses allow for the defender to occupy a highly defended point that the attacker will naturally gravitate towards, again allowing for the defender to choose the location of an engagement. Popular support manifests itself in the overall public opinion of the war. Since the defender is naturally being invaded, the people are likely to support their nations military struggle, making army enlistment easier, and easing social unrest that is often caused by large-scale conflict. The exploitation of moral factors allows for a “commander to invigorate his troops” (Clausewitz, 437). The moral forces arisen in a defending army are likely to be stronger than that of an invading army, since the defender may be fighting for national existence. 

The previously stated advantages of waiting are inherent to every defensive war.  However, several methods of defense that require more intense forms of waiting are only utilized under certain conditions. When an enemy of overwhelming numerical superiority presents itself, a retreat into the interior of the country may be an effective way of attriting the enemy, “not so much by the sword” but “by his own exertions” (Clausewitz, 566).  This form of waiting is not to be employed in all defensive wars, but should be regarded as “a special form of indirect resistance” (Clausewitz, 566). Withdrawing into the interior of the country allows for the defender to conveniently move his troops from along prearranged supply depots, suffering minimal losses, and often gaining reinforcements as it moves further into the country. On the other hand, “the attacker [must] pay in blood for every foot of progress”(Clausewitz, 566). As the attacker advances he must leave men behind to guard the ground he has taken, thinning his numbers as he advances. Also, the attacker must have his supplies shipped from behind, which is “a difficult task while on the move, no matter how short its lines of communication. It is bound to have shortages from the start” (Clausewitz, 567). In addition, the attacker can have very little hope of finding supplies in the interior, since the retreating defender has most likely exhausted them. As the defender retreats and waits, the attacker will be gradually worn down, and eventually will be incapable of continuing his advance, or will be weakened enough to permit a counterattack. While a retreat into the interior of the country seems to be a powerful way of destroying an invading army, conditions must permit its use. Clausewitz feels that “sparsely cultivated area, a loyal and warlike people, and severe weather conditions” are some of the best conditions for a retreat into the interior of the country (Clausewitz, 569).  One of the most important historical examples of the effectiveness of the retreat into the interior of the country is the Napoleonic invasion of Russia in 1812. Clausewitz often sights this campaign, and it is important to note that the Russians had an extremely long line of retreat and terrible weather conditions, which could gradually reduce the effectiveness of the Napoleonic campaign. The retreat to the interior of the country is an effective means of destroying an advancing army and greatly ads to the credit of the defense. However, it cannot be utilized in all defensive campaigns. 

Another form of waiting that can be employed by the defender is what Clausewitz calls, “the people in arms” (Clausewitz, 578), which refers to a popular insurrection and guerilla warfare tactics. In the event that the defending army has suffered a catastrophic military defeat, and the invading army is occupying the country, the defender can wage a guerilla war as a last resort to preserve their national existence. In book I, chapter two of On War, Clausewitz says that three categories cover everything, “the armed forces, the country, and the enemy’s will” (Clausewitz, 102). In order to defeat an enemy you must destroyed their armed forces, occupy their country, and break their will. Even if the first two goals are accomplished, the will of the enemy may still persevere. Therefore, if the defender has the will to revert to guerilla tactics, and protract the war, then the attacker cannot win. This is why Clausewitz notion of a popular insurrection is so important. If the defender has the will to protract the war by attacking the enemy, while avoiding any major engagements, then the defender simply must wait for the attacker to modify his political objective. Domestic politics often discourage the attacker from fighting a protracted war, making guerilla war, and the defenses ability to wait very powerful. 

While waiting occurs during all defensive campaigns, it is important to remember that this period of inactivity is only temporary. The defensive form of warfare is to be used in order to wear down the enemy enough to gain a sufficient advantage. After this either qualitative or quantitative advantage has been gained, the defender must always counterattack. Clausewitz states, “Once the defender has gained an important advantage, defense has done its work… Prudence bids him strike while the iron is hot and use the advantage to prevent a second onslaught”(Clausewitz, 443)

While waiting is intrinsically advantageous to the defender, waiting is typically against the interests of the attacker. However, Clausewitz says, “the act of attack… is… a constant alternation and combination of attack and defense” (Clausewitz, 634) Therefore, all attacks are forced for a large period of time to wait. Even though it is against their interests, these periods of waiting are a “necessary evil” (Clausewitz, 634). Also, after an attacker has accomplished his objective, he must again take a defensive stance. However, Clausewitz feels that when the attacker switches over to the defensive “the reaction follows with a force that is usually much stronger than that of the original attack” (Clausewitz, 639). Clausewitz firmly believes that the attack is the weaker form of war because it is forced to wait on many occasions, and the defender benefits from these periods of inaction. 

Waiting is a fundamental part of defensive warfare, and is employed in every defensive campaign, and can be taken to extremes by a retreat into the interior, or a popular insurrection after a catastrophic military defeat. While the defense always benefits from waiting, waiting almost never helps the attacker. However, the nature of attack forces periods of inaction, leading to the weakness of the attack and the superiority of the defense.

Thinking With Clausewitz

I, Riley Paterson, continue to be fascinated by the work of the Prussian military theorist Carl von Clausewitz. I began reading Clausewitz in the fall of 2007 while studying military history with Jon Sumida at the University of Maryland. My reading of Clausewitz conveniently coincided with the publication of Sumida's book Decoding Clausewitz: A New Approach to On War. I was astounded to find that Sumida does indeed offer an approach to On War that significantly break with major threads in the Clausewitz scholarship.

It was many years ago that I first learned of Clausewitz, but I've been captivated by him since. On War has given me tons of fodder for philosophical reflection, and the bulk of my writing has been either directly or indirectly a response to his thinking.

I've decided to start this blog because it is unclear to me if or when I will have an opportunity to engage with Clausewitz in an institutional setting. I therefore intend to pursue my independent thinking about Clausewitz head on. This blog will be a place for me to deposit my quick reflections on Clausewitz, and also a place where I will share my lengthier work on his writing.

In the last five years or so I've built up an exciting network of thinkers that can help me analyze and explicate the implications of Clausewitz's work. Moreover, I am currently turning my effort towards the secondary literature on Clausewitz. I've just read Alan Beyerchan's writing on Clausewitz and nonlinearity, am currently grappling with W.B. Gallie's work on Clausewitz, have Peter Paret's biography in the mail, and have also ordered a number of other books that I will deal with.

My hope is that I can contribute to the scholarship on Clausewitz from a philosophically informed perspective. I agree with Gallie that Clausewitz needs to be treated as a philosopher, and I have found many ways that Clausewitz can contribute to the conversation that was taking place between some major twentieth century philosophers.

In particular, I believe that Clausewitz's thinking can be combined with the philosophy of Henri Bergson. Indeed, the next piece of writing I intend to do will be on the relationship between Clausewitz, Bergson, and R.G. Collingwood. In linking Clausewitz and Collingwood I am following a line followed by Gallie and Sumida. As far as I can tell, however, the link to Bergson has never been pursue. But given the relationship between Bergson and Collingwood, I have little doubt that the three make a nice group.

What unites all three thinkers is the claim that reality can never be accessed through general theories, classifications, or rules. Generalizations are by nature procrustean: they achieve their precision or clarity by ignoring certain elements of reality. As Collingwood said, "If you act according to rules, you are not dealign with the situation in which you stand, you are only dealing with a certain type of situation under which you class it" (Collingwood, An Autobiography, 104). If we rely too heavily on generalizations we run the rusk of distorting our sense of reality. Clausewitz acknowledged that war was such a diverse phenomenon that it could never be adequately captured by general rules or doctrines, it was 'more than a true chameleon'. The only way to handle war, for Clausewitz, is to bypass the generalities that we usually approach things with, and instead find a way to engage more directly with reality.

In other words, we must teach ourselves to have a consciousness of uniqueness and particularity. For the only way to make intelligent judgements is to have a sense of what makes this instance different from other instances. We must engage with all the rough edges of reality.

Bergson, Collingwood, and Clausewitz all saw deeply into these problems of generalization and our blindness to novelty. All three, moreover, knew that there was a way to train our minds to be attuned to the uniqueness of our situations, and that such a training would allow one to exercise judgement with greater care.

Soon, then, I'll be writing on the way that Bergson, Collingwood, and Clausewitz thought that we could open our eyes to the uniqueness of every moment, and thereby gain a greater capacity for making difficult decisions.