Attending to our responsibility to the dead in our present historical moment of danger, this lecture stages three distinct reading experiments in “living together with the dead” with special attention to Palestine and Algeria. The first scene contemplates the times of war and death that constitute what Jalal Toufic refers to as “the withdrawal of tradition past a surpassing disaster.” The second scene explores artistic resurrection in literature by examining antiphonic burial during colonial war while juxtaposing philosophical conceptions of the relationship between death, burial, and history writing. I thus elaborate a concept of death as non-secular and theological, and of history writing as a form of anamnesis that inhabits the isthmus between the Terrestrial realm and the realm of the Unseen. The final scene is a meditation on poetry under conditions of colonial and postcolonial catastrophe. Throughout, theology and poetry serve as provocations to the discipline of history.

The historiography of liberalism has taken a theological turn. Many scholars now trace the origins of liberal thought to Christian orthodoxy, with its emphasis on the radical equality of humanity under the absolute sovereignty of God. Others trace it to the heresy of Pelagianism, with its emphasis on the radical freedom of humans to choose between good and evil under the rationalistic judgment of God. Focusing on a classic expression of early-modern liberalism, Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography, this article questions the theological turn: Franklin’s thought, I argue, rejects both Augustinianism and Pelagianism, along with their underlying metaphysical presuppositions concerning human liberty.

This article revisits the scholarly consensus that historical discourse in nineteenth-century Spanish America was primarily focused on nation building and state formation. Without denying the interest of post-colonial intellectuals in the histories of their home countries, it argues that the most urgent matters of concern for Spanish Americans who wrote about history, at least from the 1830s to the 1860s, were how to dismantle the legacies of colonialism at a transnational level and how to position Spanish America as a pivotal agent of change in world history. Focusing on the writings of a series of intellectuals from today’s Argentina, Chile, Colombia, Peru, and Venezuela, the article analyzes the emergence of the lexicon of decolonization, Spanish American challenges to Eurocentric approaches to “universal history,” and the proposal of narratives on global historical development alternative to the ones promoted from Western Europe and the United States during the Age of Revolutions.

Alfred Marshall used an evolutionary theory of race to ground individual psychology and explain economic behavior. The psychological theory, drawn from Herbert Spencer, explained British and US industrial leadership by the innate excellences of Anglo-Saxon workers and entrepreneurs, without invoking colonialism or other uses of state power. It also asserted the internal solidarity of Anglo-Saxons. Because they were inclined to help each other, argued Marshall, Anglo-Saxons could handle laissez-faire. The paper situates Marshall in conversation with Anglican liberals like F. D. Maurice, and argues that a shared racial consciousness worked as a common ground among Coleridgean Romantics and radicals like Mill and Spencer who needed a category of the nation that did not rely on the state.

This article offers a reading of the intersections of ancient and modern imperialism in Alfred Zimmern's 1911 monograph The Greek Commonwealth: Politics and Economics in Fifth-Century Athens. The first section looks at Zimmern's use of ancient and modern comparisons and shows that, far from modernizing the ancient Greeks, as scholars have argued, he in fact insistently drew attention to the differences between the ancient and modern worlds. The second section examines the complexities of Zimmern's narrative of the Athenian empire, in particular the tension between politics and economics intimated by the book's subtitle and foregrounded by its structure. The article as a whole sets Zimmern's account in the context of Edwardian reflections on ancient and modern imperialism and shows, with the help of his own reflections, that his use of historical parallels was designed to encourage thought about modern political and economic problems as well as action to remedy them.

In postwar France a proliferation of thinkers sought to move away from the dialectic of negation and synthesis. Two such writers turned to Jean-Jacques Rousseau as the source of a non-dualistic reflection. In 1962, Claude Lévi-Strauss laid claim to him as the “founder of the sciences of man,” and, inspired in part by his contact with Buddhism, he created a non-dualist version of the philosophe as a foil to Sartre. In 1989, Monique Wittig would also take up Rousseau, but in order to challenge Lévi-Strauss's notion of the exchange of women. In her hands, Rousseau also became a non-dualist through whom she could formalize the insights of gay and lesbian community life as a theory of sex abolition: “the science of the oppressed.” With archival materials, close readings, and historical contextualization, this article explores the genesis and interactions of both interpretations and situates them on the broader horizon of postwar thought.

For a major liberal theorist of totalitarianism’s rise and early advocate for European unification, it is surprising how little Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset’s views on the Second World War have factored into studies of his political thought. In this article, I show that Ortega described the conflict as a “catastrophe” that motivated European unification. Rather than an ex post facto interpretation, this was for him the fulfillment of a prophecy. As early as 1930, Ortega had predicted an impending catastrophe that would represent both a consequence of and a corrective for interwar democracy. European unification, then, was only possible to pursue after such an event. Noting that Ortega’s casting of European unification as a response to the Second World War reflects common contemporary assumptions, I also argue that he exhibits how this logic can be enlisted in the service of constraining democracy.

This article is the first to reconstruct the intellectual history of Milton Friedman's criticism of business and its social responsibilities. Using original archival research and printed evidence, this article makes three major arguments. First, Friedman's criticisms of business and its social responsibilities evolved over time and emerged from persistent anxieties among economic liberals about monopoly, business interests, and political authority that were explicitly read from Adam Smith. Second, the article contributes to the emerging intellectual history of corporate social responsibility (CSR) by reconstructing the development of Friedman's criticisms, their transformations, and their reception within the context of American managerial thought from the 1950s to the 1980s. Finally, contextualizing Friedman's criticisms demonstrates his concern about decision-making logics within organizations, which in turn explains his belief that CSR would contribute to collectivization and enhances the understanding of neoliberal political thought.

Friedrich Hayek, the Austrian economist, and Stafford Beer, best known for engineering socialist Chile's CYBERSYN project, met exactly once, at the 1960 Symposium on the Principles of Self-Organization, hosted by the Biological Computer Laboratory at the University of Illinois. Independently, in the decade that followed, Beer and Hayek each sought to apply the principles of self-organization to the design of economic institutions. They were joined in the belief that the full enjoyment of human liberty would require a self-organizing world economy. To understand why, this article delves into the explanatory logic and intellectual history of “self-organization.” I use points of convergence between Beer's thought and Hayek's to reframe a key moment in the history of neoliberalism.

For two weeks in July 1967, several thousand people attended the International Congress on the Dialectics of Liberation in London, a sprawling event that is now largely remembered as a point of convergence for an unlikely roster of prominent radical intellectuals—Stokely Carmichael, Allen Ginsberg, Paul Goodman, and Herbert Marcuse among them. This article uses a broad array of sources to present the congress as a mass counterinstitution in which a variety of social actors—including not only the invited speakers, but also conference organizers and audience members—struggled to establish nonauthoritarian forms of knowledge production. The record of these efforts, and in particular the audience's demand to participate directly in the production and exchange of ideas, illuminates the ways in which radical intellectuals' challenge to dominant institutions in the global North during the late 1960s threatened to undermine their own discursive authority.

As a collection of methods oriented toward the artefacts of human expression and the minds that shaped those expressions, intellectual history seems well placed to mobilize the category of the aesthetic, yet the aesthetic is rarely a focus on methodological discussions. The special forum that this article introduces explores what an “aesthetic approach” to intellectual history might look like. It focuses on the work of leading twentieth-century liberal Isaiah Berlin (1909–97), whose amorphous role in the history of intellectual history means that his work offers a parallax view on important questions of method and approach. In introducing this special forum, this article situates Isaiah Berlin’s distinctive approach and varied work as a historian of ideas and defender of liberalism within several larger contexts. One is Berlin’s response to tendencies in post-World War II British philosophy, and his turn to the history of ideas—an understanding of this area of study as requiring essentially aesthetic qualities of judgment, imagination, pattern recognition, and empathetic entry into the perspectives of others. A second is the development of other, more influential approaches to the history of ideas, to which Berlin’s approach is briefly contrasted. A third is the ideological struggles of the Cold War; in this last connection, we explore the affinities between Berlin’s awareness, and affirmation, of the aesthetic and the ethical in his articulation of liberalism.

Among many conundrums in Isaiah Berlin's thought are the apparent tension between a strongly “personalist” approach to ideas and appreciation for Romanticism, and his warnings against the identification of freedom with human perfection and of politics with aesthetic projects, and aversion to any form of excessive “zeal,” as potentially oppressive, callous, and cruel. Berlin the moderate, skeptical liberal coexisted with Berlin the enthusiast and hero-worshipper. This article argues that, over the course of his writing career—both in early, largely unknown writings on contemporary musicians, and in better-known work on the history of ideas and “personal impressions” of contemporaries—Berlin brought these disparate elements of his outlook together through an aesthetizing of heroism, and a close identification of the aesthetic with the ethical. It concludes by suggesting that Berlin's way of understanding heroism may have something to tell us about how commitment to liberalism and appreciation for heroism may coexist and intertwine in ways that contribute to a greater appreciation, and more compelling defense, of liberalism.

This article clarifies the relationship between Isaiah Berlin’s liberalism, pluralism, humanism, and “aestheticism” by analyzing his unique approach to, and stories about, the history of ideas. I argue that Berlin should be understood as a reformer of liberalism, who understood his intervention in intellectual-historical terms. Reacting against what he saw as threats to human liberty and dignity rooted in the monist rational–scientific aspirations and expectations of Enlightenment-influenced political ideologies, Berlin responded by reinterpreting liberalism’s commitment to negative liberty through an aesthetic conception of the human being and a pluralist way of thinking about politics. In addition to reconstructing how Berlin’s writings on the history of ideas enact this liberal reformation, and clarifying the ways in which his resulting liberalism is and is not aesthetic, I also evaluate the potential implications of Berlin’s work for thinking about liberal politics in the present.

Of the various topics that have occupied readers of Isaiah Berlin—liberty, pluralism, nationalism, Marxism, romanticism, to name just a few—very few have focused on the role of judgment in his philosophy.1 One possible reason for this is that the concept of judgment, unlike other concepts in the political-theory lexicon, seems too indistinct to permit careful analysis.2 Judgment often seems too circumstantial, too contextual, to have a theory of. What is good judgment in one situation will not be so in another. It consists, to a large degree, in our capacity to read the times, and I do not mean the New York Times. The concept of judgment is invariably connected to character, but good character seems as elusive as good judgment. Do certain kinds of people simply have good judgment and, if so, what are the characteristics that produce it? We seem to be caught in a vicious—or, should I say, virtuous—circle.

This article aims to contribute to recent discussions about the status of the “aesthetic” in the history of liberalism, by considering the ways in which ideas about music—specifically a “love of music [that is] both aesthetic and ethical”—has shaped liberal thought. Focusing on the work of the prominent twentieth-century liberal Isaiah Berlin (1909–97), and drawing from unpublished correspondence and neglected published writings, it introduces music as a form through which Berlin approached thinking about the tension between sensation and idea, or feeling and thinking, thereby shaping his approach to intellectual history.

The conventional approach to Isaiah Berlin's writings has been to treat them discursively, as philosophical texts. While such approaches are insightful, there is more to Berlin's writings than his arguments. Among his literary strategies is a comparative approach that involves the use of metaphors, similes, and analogies. As I will argue, Berlin's use of metaphor constitutes a core component of his work, where his meaning is often suggestive more than precise. Berlin's intention seems to be to exhibit those aspects of experience reflective of uncertainty, where our choices are not determined by necessity. Such an intention ostensibly exhibits his value pluralism, as well as an oft-neglected sensitivity to the forms of language. By resorting to metaphors Berlin accomplishes several things: he shows how the intelligibility of experience is partially imagistic, he illustrates how meaning can be structured comparatively but nondiscursively, and he exemplifies the importance of these things for decision making.