By Kevin D. Williamson
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
As a young conservative, I was taught to despise
something we were taught to call “moral relativism.” The moral relativism of
the time was a particular Cold War variant: The United States and the Soviet
Union were, relativism’s partisans insisted, more or less equivalent
enterprises, each ruthlessly and cynically seeking its own advantage vis-à-vis
the other, while liberalism and Communism were simply two different ways of
trying to organize economic and political affairs, each with its own advantages
and disadvantages. There were differences, to be sure, but only the truly naïve
believed that there were good guys in this fight or that we — the West — were
them.
We young conservatives found that proposition repugnant.
The Soviet Union was a place of gulags and political prisoners, unnecessary
privation, suppression, and — above all — lies. It was an empire of lies, and
in such an empire no man is safe — no chess master, no novelist, no composer.
The United States had its problems, as did the United Kingdom and the rest of
our allies, but you could mock Ronald Reagan day and night and never fear
hearing the sound of someone’s standard-issue boot kicking down your door in
the dead of night. That was a moral truth, not a point of view.
But point of view, all the best people insisted, was all
there was. From a few overstuffed truisms originating in the field of
linguistics arose an entire philosophy — and an intellectual movement — oriented
toward radical indeterminacy. Nothing was truly knowable. Texts — poems,
history, laws, scientific theories, whatever — said, if they said anything at
all, only that which they were given permission to say by shadowy and vague
forces: capitalism, patriarchy, the omnipresent “power” of Michel Foucault and
his disciples. The Bill of Rights could mean whatever anybody with enough power
wanted it to mean, but Discipline and Punish had to be closely read,
studied down to the semicolon, even venerated. Reading Foucault is why you
learned French. De la démocratie en Amérique? Irrelevant.
The thing about reactionaries is, we react. William F.
Buckley Jr. dedicated an episode of Firing Line to the question of
“moral absolutes,” and denunciations of “moral relativism” came fast and thick.
And they did not stop. Our friend Ben Shapiro warns of the West abandoning its
moral heritage and “favoring moral subjectivism.” Mark Sunwall, a Mises
Institute contributor who teaches English in the College of Nursing Art and Science
in Hyogo, Japan (those always-angry Mises guys are spread far and wide, like
syphilis), indicts Buckley (they are always on the hunt for phony
conservatives!) as a man with a “secret contempt for moral absolutes.”
And so the intellectual battle lines were drawn.
But few if any of us were standing on the side we said we
were.
The Right has always been comfortable with moral
ambiguity, most plainly in the matter of foreign policy. That was especially
true in the Cold War, when conservatives went to great lengths — often too far,
and sometimes far too far — defending such characters as Francisco Franco and
Augusto Pinochet as bulwarks against Communism. F. A. Hayek’s overwhelming
admiration for the Chilean dictator was sufficient to inspire a chiding letter
from Margaret Thatcher, who described the general’s methods as “quite
unacceptable.” Nelson Mandela was the leader of a revolutionary Communist
movement and refused to foreswear political violence, but what he was up
against was not a Madisonian republic. Perhaps it was the demands of political
rhetoric, but conservatives have from time to time failed to cleave to the
knowledge that necessary evil is evil.
And these calculations were not limited to foreign
affairs. Consider the watershed moment that was the debate over the 1964 Civil
Rights Act. Buckley had opposed the 1964 law, but there were few more trenchant critics
of George Wallace’s racial record when the segregationist ran for president
in 1968. There were — and are — legitimate concerns that the federal approach
to civil rights, particularly in the matter of “public accommodations,” invited
invasive micromanagement and created real constitutional problems. (It is the
reason we are still having a debate over outlaw bakers.) There were
political calculations at work, too, to be sure: Barry Goldwater, who had been
an important civil-rights advocate in Arizona and in federal office, pronounced
himself eager to “hunt where the ducks are.” But the fact was, and is, that the
question is morally and politically complicated, and that there are good-faith
reasons for disagreement about the legal particulars.
The political party and political tendency that were
closely allied with the moral relativists of the Cold War era were in fact much
more eager for moral absolutism. In the matter of the United States vs. the
Soviet Union, they saw no moral equivalency: They saw the United States as the
principal force for evil in the world and wanted it knocked down a peg or two,
and any adversary would do: Lenin and his heirs, Mao, Castro, Ho Chi Minh. Noam
Chomsky spent years insisting that the Cambodian genocide was an invention of
American intelligence operatives hoping to discredit the authentic people’s
movement of Pol Pot even as that maniac installed his throne on top of a giant
pile of skulls.
The same is more or less true today: The great
alternative was, for a hot minute, Venezuela, and now it is smashing capitalism
in the name of the Green New Deal or, because nothing is ever really in the
past, Communism once more, albeit the “fully automated luxury communism” Aaron
Bastani recently described in the New York Times. (And shame on Bastani
and the Times both for bowdlerizing “fully
automated luxury gay space Communism.” Pansies.) There’s a new spin on
things — Bastani wants to use robots to mine synthetic meat asteroids, or
something — but the fundamentals are always the same. Critics have sometimes
knocked John le Carré for his alleged practice of moral equivocation in the
Cold War, but those critics should reread him: They are being too generous. Le
Carré is about as subtle as an episode of Captain Planet, for those of
you old enough to remember.
The American Left is not only comfortable with moral
absolutism, it is, at the moment, in the grip of a moral hysteria. Taylor Swift
is injecting pro-gay messages into the pop charts, but the progressives are
convulsed over whether she is spreading her message of (slightly snide)
tolerance in a morally acceptable way. Lena Dunham, Elton John, the Whitney
Museum’s tribute to the 1960s — no one and nothing is ever pure enough for
these puritans. Joe Biden? “Misogynistic.” Camille Paglia? A pariah. Professor
Rebecca Tuvel was denounced as a perpetrator of “violence” for using the phrase
“biological sex.” Liberal
book editors are so terrorized that they do not know what to publish, and
even some young progressive authors have been bullied into suppressing their
own books.
Conservatives took a mature attitude toward moral
ambiguity in the matter of foreign policy, and to some extent still do. Our
relations with the Gulf states, for example, is a reminder that while the
“enemy of my enemy is my friend” school of thought is not always right, it is
not always wrong, either. Our insistence on “moral absolutes” is very often to
be rhetorical when challenged. You can take the conservatives out of
Protestantism, but you can’t take the Protestantism out of conservatives.
Progressives, on the other hand, took a relativistic “Who
are we to judge?” attitude toward questions of sexual ethics and a few thorny
cultural questions, for about five minutes, and then they abandoned that
single-serving libertarianism the moment they achieved enough power to demand
conformity and punish dissent. “Liberals claim to want to give a hearing to
other views, but then are shocked and offended to discover that there are other
views,” as Bill Buckley famously put it. And now those shocked and offended
partisans are out to root out and punish those other views — with prison time,
in the case of global warming and the infinitely plastic offense of “hate
speech.”
Which leaves us where, exactly? To the extent that the
conservative movement is for the moment dominated by Republican™-branded
entertainment figures, the question of moral relativism is . . . morally relative.
Our populist friends, for example, presented the Donald Trump phenomenon as a
classical case of moral relativism (“But Hillary!”) and at the same time
argued that this relativistic calculation produced as its outcome a moral
absolute, the applicable scope of which has been steadily enlarged. One
suspects that they are not thinking too very hard about it.
What we can and should acknowledge is that there is a
difference between moral confidence and moral certitude, and that in both moral
and political matters there is always a place for prudence and humility, for
the facts of the case and the particulars of the time. A conservatism that
fails to account for these is no conservatism at all.
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