K.R. Knoester - The Motion of History in The Esoteric Tradition - Leo Strauss On Thucydides (Rough), Print

The Motion of History in the Esoteric Tradition – Leo Strauss on Thucydides and the ‘History of the Peloponnesian War’
The Motion of History in the Esoteric Tradition – Leo

Strauss on Thucydides and the ‘History of the
Peloponnesian War’ [rough draft]
Kristiaan Rodrigo Knoester

MA Ideëngeschiedenis en Interpretatie, 2007-08
dr. Jacques Bos
Universtiteit van Amsterdam
kristiaanux@hotmail.com
“Change, we shall find, except in something evil, is extremely dangerous. This is true of seasons and
winds, the regimen of the body and the character of the soul – in short, of everything without exception….
[Legislators] don’t appreciate that if children introduce novelties into their games, they’ll inevitably turn
out to be quite different people from the previous generation; being different, they’ll demand a different
kind of life, and that will then make them want new institutions and laws. The next stage is what we
described as the biggest evil that can affect a state – but not a single legislator takes fright at the prospect.”
— Plato, Laws, 797-798.
***
Most critiques leveled against Strauss’s notion of ‘esoteric writing’ focuses upon its
application, particularly in relation to certain authors whom Strauss identified as promulgating
an esoteric doctrine (e.g. Machiavelli, Spinoza, and Hobbes are among the most contentious
examples). In Persecution and the Art of Writing, written shortly after Strauss “rediscovered”
– through his readings of Maimonides and Alfarabi – the ‘esoteric tradition,’ – Strauss deals
openly with what would become his distinguishing trademark (and consequently, the most
widely debated aspect of his work). However, to read Persecution and the Art of Writing at
this level misses the point entirely. First of all, Strauss took the “esoteric tradition” to be an
intrinsically Platonic tradition. Writers such as Maimonides and Alfarabi, and later
Machiavelli, Spinoza, and Hobbes, were effectively grappling with an essentially Platonic
view of philosophy, insofar they recognized a fundamental tension between on the one hand
philosophy (or science) as a ‘quest for truth,’ and on the other public opinion about what is
supposed to be the truth. “Opinion as the element of society,” writes Strauss in On a
1
Forgotten Kind of Writing, is “the crucial premise of this argument;”1 provided that it takes
seriously what, for example, the social sciences continues to take for granted: “the arbitrary
character of the basic assumptions underlying any given society,” and the need for the
“whole-hearted acceptance of the principles of society.” Secondly, if the reader thereby takes
Strauss’s account of ‘reading’ and ‘writing between the lines’ seriously, and assumes that
Strauss did the same, then the reader would naturally have to inquire into the status of
Strauss’s text itself. In other words, he might be compelled to ask himself: “what is Strauss
really trying to say in Persecution and the Art of Writing?” – and more importantly – “how is
this to be revealed?” However, such questions can only be taken seriously once one has in
turn seriously taken up the esoteric premise to begin with. In this essay, I will therefore
attempt to reveal the importance of Strauss’s notion of the ‘esoteric tradition,’ both for
historians and philosophers, by looking at its foundation, according to Strauss, within
classical political philosophy. To accomplish this, I will discuss Thucydides’ History of the
Peloponnesian War – which inaugurated what would culminate in the political philosophy of
Socrates as revealed in the Platonic dialogues – alongside Strauss’s interpretation. Before that,
however, I will comment on both the notion of ‘esoteric’ writing and the relation between
history and philosophy according to Strauss. At the end of the paper, I will reevaluate these
notions in relation to Strauss’s reading of Thucydides.
It is easy for the reader’s assessment – when confronted with a so-called distinction between
the ‘wise’ and the ‘vulgar’ – to be influenced by an imperative need to choose sides, if not the
perspective from which one will confront the very notion of an ‘esoteric doctrine.’ Someone
who dislikes the notion of ‘insider knowledge’ accessible only to the ‘chosen few’ will
understandably recoil against the idea of an esoteric teaching, and scrutinize even more
sharply the methodology by which it is applied, particularly in lieu of its association to certain
writers, viz. those whose writings are commonly held to have advanced the cause of modern
liberal and democratic societies. After all, democracy and ‘esoteric’ doctrines must surely be
at cross-purposes. On the other hand, someone who assumes the tension between ‘the wise’
and ‘the vulgar’ to be both necessary and unavoidable, would understandably have no need to
question or prove the esoteric thesis. He would only be concerned with trying to understand
1
Leo Strauss, ‘On a Forgotten Kind of Writing,’ in What is Political Philosophy? Chicago, University of Chicago Press 1988
[1959]: p. 222.
2
the esoteric teaching, and having done this, propagating it in like manner. At no point is he
compelled to address the objections of those who disavow the esoteric thesis in the history of
political philosophy. Indeed, they may be forced to engage in the polemic once they start to
feel the heat of public opinion, though this is par for the course in a tradition that recognizes
as fundamental the tension between philosophy and public opinion. This is not to say that
there do not exist tensions within the tradition itself. It is possible to be an advocate of more
liberal or conservative political policies, and then disseminate these accordingly. Strauss
himself is interpreted as being one or the other – recently many books have been written by
former students of his attempting to defend him from what has become a deeply ingrained
association with the neo-conservative policies of so-called “Straussians” both inside and
outside the Bush administration – while likewise his readings of Plato could be seen to hold a
favorable view of Plato as either a liberal or conservative thinker. Nevertheless, and despite
the difficulties of looking at past thinkers from a modern political perspective, it is evident
that the status of the ‘esoteric tradition’ and its methodology may largely depend on the
presuppositions and political proclivities of the reader.
Consequently, if one intuitively disagrees with Strauss’s thesis, recognizing nothing in it that
seems to pop out from ‘between the lines,’ then it is natural to criticize Strauss for failing to
provide the necessary evidence of his thesis, or for making erroneous interpretations. Mark
Bevir seems to take such an approach in The Logic of the History of Ideas. He writes:
“Strauss’s esoteric thesis leads him to conclude that if historians want to uncover the true
beliefs of philosophers, they have to read between the lines.”2 What is more, this esoteric
thesis fails because
An esoteric thesis commends a logical presumption to us prior to any investigation into actual
instances, so we could not defend it by pointing to actual instances because to do so we would
have to have investigated these instances prior to adopting it. Our investigations of the actual
instances would have to precede our adoption of the esoteric thesis, so they would have to deploy
our normal presumption of sincerity. Thus, any esoteric thesis based on a factual argument would
be mere expectation, itself parasitic on a logical presumption of sincerity. We cannot justify a
presumption of deception with respect to philosophers, politicians, or any other group simply by
pointing out how often members of the group practice deception. We cannot do so because we
could not know how often they practice deception except through prior investigations of their
2
Mark Bevir, The Logic of the History of Ideas, 2006: p. 146.
3
utterances, and these prior investigations would have to be made using our normal presumption of
sincerity.3
We should keep in mind that Bevir’s critique of Strauss’s thesis is itself meant to justify his
own theory of hermeneutic logic, which at this stage seeks support in the existence of
intentional beliefs that can be objectively interpreted. However, it misses the point with
regards to Strauss’s own intentions. In effect, Bevir fails to consider the aporetic nature of
Strauss’s thesis. Seth Benardete – Platonic scholar and close friend of Strauss’s – touched
upon the central feature of Strauss’s teaching when he drew attention to what he calls
Strauss’s “golden sentence”: “The problem inherent in the surface of things, and only in the
surface of things, is the heart of things.”4 This perspective of the ‘esoteric tradition,’
beginning with Plato, was the essential lesson he drew form reading Alfarabi’s works on
Plato. However, with regards to the appraisal of Strauss’s ‘esoteric’ doctrine as a heuristic
device, as is done by Bevir, the question is then how to interpret Strauss’s ‘esoteric’ teaching
on the basis of his exoteric text on ‘the art of esoteric writing.’ Put this way, the paradox
becomes obvious. However, as mentioned, it is also the core of what Strauss was getting at.
Bevir misses this point because he focuses on Strauss’s notion of ‘esoteric writing’ as if it
were a single coherent thesis; i.e., an epistemic theory that can by analytically tested in
practical terms. However, Strauss has frequently commented on the limitations of such
scientific methodologies being applied for historiographic purposes, which has led not only to
a strong fixation with distinguishing theory from practice, but also facts and values. Although
Bevir attempts to temper such dichotomies by adopting a weak form of contextualized
hermeneutics, he nevertheless relies on certain categories (e.g. meaning, belief,
consciousness) that are unavoidably associated with certain dichotomies (e.g.
subjective/objective; fact/value, mind/body, and true/false). Take for example the manner in
which Bevir speaks of true and false beliefs as objects of thought. Though it is unavoidable
that he must take up this problem in order to justify his logic as a form of reasoning [towards
the history of ideas], it completely misses the point when he uses it to criticize Strauss’s
notion of the esoteric tradition. The following statement sums up his view of Strauss’s
thought:
3
Ibid., p. 147. Exactly the same difficulty undermines the possibility of a satisfactory theoretical defence of an esoteric
thesis.
4
Cf. Steven B. Smith, Reading Leo Strauss, 2006: p. 117.
4
Strauss’s esoteric thesis leads him to conclude that if historians want to uncover the true beliefs of
philosophers, they have to read between the lines. Historians have to use a variety of special
techniques to peel away the exoteric skin and reach the esoteric core of a philosopher’s writing.5
The problem with this formulation of the esoteric tradition is that it focuses solely on the
true/false dichotomy, and then goes on to assume that Strauss is advancing a notion of truth as
if it were an epistemic doctrine of knowledge. However, when Strauss writes of a
“philosophic or scientific truth” he is writing from the perspective of classical philosophy; i.e.
from the pre-scientific perspective; the perspective assumed by Socrates and the reason why
he became the founder of political philosophy (according to Strauss). To understand this
perspective, we must take up its relation to historicism, which is fundamental to the thought of
Strauss. In a response to George Sabine concerning his esoteric premise, Strauss explains that
“if one does not take seriously the intention of the great thinkers, namely, the intention to
know the truth about the whole, one cannot understand them; but historicism is based on the
premise that this intention is unreasonable because it is simply impossible to know the truth
about the whole.”6 Such a statement, Strauss argues, does not presuppose that the philosopher
was always fully aware of all the premises and possible results surrounding his statements.
Instead, it was meant to convey to the historian that he “must proceed on the supposition that
the great thinkers understood better what they thought than the historian who is not likely to
be a great thinker.”7 With regards to his conception of truth, he admits that it is anti-positivist
insofar positivism “is blind to the fundamental problems,” meaning that “the positivist as
positivist cannot be a historian of philosophy.” The basis of this premise is, again, related to
his view that the history of philosophy cannot be divorced from fundamental philosophical
claims and their related problems. For this reason, “a man who happens to be a positivist can
become a historian of philosophy only to the extent to which he develops the capacity for
questioning positivism.”8 Alternatively, taking seriously the intention of the great thinkers of
the past “to know the truth about the whole” requires a descent from modern historicism to
the pre-scientific view of the classical polis. To understand the necessity of this descent, we
need to understand Strauss’s notion of the crisis of modernity; a crisis, Strauss argued, that
was largely shaped by the radical historicity that had become entrenched in philosophy and
the social sciences – a process which itself also culminated in the philosophy of Heidegger
5
Bevir, 1999: p. 146.
6
Strauss, 1988: p. 227.
7
Idem., p. 228.
8
Idem., p. 229.
5
and the political aesthetics of the Nazi movement. Before continuing further with Thucydides’
History of the Peloponnesian War, we therefore need to look at Strauss’s conception of
history and its’ relation to philosophy.
Strauss defines the discovery of history – the coming-to-be of an historical awareness – as the
nexus upon which we are to recognize the crisis of Western civilization. By this we are to
understand the notion of modernity and its loss of faith in the idea of progress. For modern
man, according to Strauss, progress has become a change that couples intellectual progress
(accumulation of knowledge) with social advancement, while doing away with the demand
for any ultimate goal or end, be it moral or teleological. Arthur Lovejoy, for example, noted
how the ‘chain of scientific development’ of the new science and philosophy had replaced its
traditional forerunners, including the (Platonic) ‘Chain of Being,’ through a process of
temporalization, i.e. historicization. Strauss, on the other hand, explains this in terms of a
further descent from the original Greek notion of nature. An outcome of this, Strauss
continues, was that “the notion of a rational morality, the heritage of Greek philosophy,
has…lost its standing completely; all choices are, it is argued, ultimately nonrational or
irrational.”9 But it is also in this tension that the dichotomy of the Bible and Greek philosophy
nevertheless remained, albeit hidden and forgotten.
The basis for this duality was set in antiquity. In an introduction to History of Political
Philosophy, Strauss mentions the distinction Aristotle made between those “who discourse on
the gods” and “those who discourse on nature”, the latter being what philosophers from the
beginning had concentrated on. Placing the concept of ‘nature’ in this context is meant to
reveal just how foundational the question – what is nature? – in fact is. So Strauss goes on to
explain that the word nature was rarely used before its adoption by philosophy. Homer, for
example, mentions ‘nature’ in the Odyssey only once. There it refers to the character of a
thing, as is evident in Homer’s portrayal of how the god Hermes helped Odysseus to escape
from the island of the sorceress-goddess Circe. In this episode of the Odyssey, brave Odysseus
finds himself in danger of being turned into swine, as had been the fate of his comrades. But
Hermes was able to protect Odysseus from Circe’s witchcraft; he “drew a herb from the earth
9
Strauss, ‘Progress or Return?’, in Jewish Philosophy and the Crisis of Modernity, 1997: p. 100.
6
and showed [Odysseus] its nature. Black at the root it was, like milk its blossom; and the gods
call it moly. Hard is it to dig for mortal men, but the gods can do anything.”
Strauss elaborates the Greek conception of omnipotence presented in this account in Progress
or Return? As he points out: We are told that the gods can do everything – i.e. they are
omnipotent – so consequently they know the nature of all things. But these things are
completely independent of the gods, i.e. they have separate natures. Accordingly, the gods can
only use them by first knowing their particular natures. Such independence, and the
requirement of knowledge before things can be used properly, thereby reduces the
omnipotence of the gods. And all this in turn, according to Strauss, helps clarify, or is
reflected in, the character of Greek philosophy, whose fundamental teaching is concerned
with the ‘eternity of the cosmos or chaos.’ This is evident, for example, in its scheme of
causality, where above any personal being “we find in one form or other an impersonal
necessity.”10 Contrast this with the Bible, which teaches the creation out of nothing (first
cause) by an omnipotent God, but likewise depicts ‘Him’ in anthropocentric terms (as ‘a
person’). This, Strauss hastens to add, has to do with the fact that the Bible must view ‘Him’
as a ‘personal God’ – i.e. in terms of God’s concern with man in the absolute sense.11
Likewise, this affects man’s experience in the world, particularly in reference to ‘the Fall.’
We learn, therefore, that in the Hebrew Bible, before the discovery of nature, it was ‘way’ or
‘custom’ that came closest to such a meaning. Thereafter we see a bifurcation of ‘way’ or
‘custom’ resulting in nature (physis, in the Greek sense) on the one hand and ‘convention’ or
‘law’ (nomos) on the other.12 Strauss gives as an example the view that refers to the ability to
speak as something natural, while the particular languages are seen as the result of
convention.
Herein lies a fundamental distinction between Greek philosophy and the Bible: Greek thought
(myth) developed the notion that there is such a thing as the nature of a thing, and this would
become elaborated in Greek philosophy proper as a quest for principles, ‘for the beginnings,
for the first things… in the light of the idea of nature.’13 The biblical notions of ‘custom’ or
‘way’, on the other hand, would by necessity allude to the existence of a ‘right way’. In this
manner what is ‘good’ is associated with ‘ancestral’ tradition, by virtue of ancestors to whom
10
Idem., p. 110.
11
Cf. Moses Maimonides, ‘Guide for the Perplexed’, Ch. I.
12
Cf., David Boucher, Political Theories of International Relations, 1998: p. 58.
13
Strauss, Progress or Return?, in: 1997: 111.
7
was revealed the ‘right way’ by God. Divine law – theos nomos – is the ‘right way’, and is not
open to dispute. Greek philosophy, Strauss tells us, also begins with divine law, but in the
‘traditional sense of the term (where it is a code traced to a personal god)’, which eventually
is
replaced by a natural order which may even be called, as it was later to be called, a natural
law—or at any rate, to use a wider term, a natural morality. So the divine law, in the real and
strict sense of the term, is only the starting point, the absolutely essential starting point, for
Greek philosophy, but it is abandoned in the process. And if it is accepted by Greek philosophy,
it is accepted only politically, meaning, for the education of the many, and not as something
which stands independently.14
The Bible is able to claim obedience to the divine law because it has been granted by a
personal God, whose omnipotence and essence is unknowable and therefore undisputable (“I
shall be What I shall be”). And it is by virtue of a covenant that man is forced to believe –
through trust and faith – in His presence.
Leo Strauss ultimately argues that it is on the basis of this duality that political philosophy, in
the Socratic sense, became foundational. The problem of human knowledge is reflected in this
antagonism: the Bible grants that man is capable of understanding only by virtue of God, and
in his service, while philosophy places the pursuit of knowledge as a way of life in itself,
unencumbered by the urgency of obedience. Indeed, it was the pursuit of the forbidden
knowledge – knowledge of good and evil – that brought about the Fall in the first place, and
why the ‘good life’ is placed in the context of redemption through obedience. In terms of
classical political philosophy, nature is therefore prior to convention. Questions as to the
nature of political things (e.g. law in terms of justice) and the political community in general
were framed in this context. So too investigations on the nature of man.
Strauss considered Socrates the founder of this tradition. It was Socrates who felt the urgency
of the question regarding the conduct of one’s life. And it was Socrates who, in following this
quest, acquired an understanding of the nature of philosophic passion or desire – i.e. eros15 –
which in turn helped him achieve some clarity on the right way of life. It was in this manner
14
Idem., p. 114.
15
Idem., p. 122.
8
that he experienced philosophy as a guide in search of knowledge, discovering in it a

necessity that in itself constitutes an essential understanding of the nature of man, but which
in turn sheds light on the need to understand the nature of the whole. All this therefore leads
to the conclusion that such knowledge will always remain obscure. But far from discouraging
one from such a pursuit, it convinces the seeker that the best way of life is one devoted to the
quest for knowledge, i.e. philosophy. This conflict concerning ‘the decisive truth, the truth
regarding the right way of life’, is what Strauss considers to be the ‘secret of the vitality of
Western civilization’.16
Socrates lived this tension, but also its consequences. Although Socrates was accused of
impiety, he was pious to the extent that he did focus on examining divine or natural things,
and because of this was compelled to ascend from conventional law to nature in order to
escape the arbitrariness of opinion. Because he directed himself towards true knowledge, that
is, towards the ‘ideas’ or ‘forms’, he guided himself by investigating the character of things
whose essence reflected these ‘ideas’ and ‘forms’. Being pious, he therefore concentrated on
human things. Because the highest of these is the human soul, and the human soul thrives in
the best social circumstances, he devoted his talents to investigating the nature of human
society—the polis.
In Political Philosophy and History, Strauss distinguishes his position vis á vis Hegel by
quoting an excerpt from him where he elucidates the fundamental difference between modern
and pre-modern philosophy: “The manner of study in ancient times is distinct from that of
modern times, in that the former consisted in the veritable training and perfecting of the
natural consciousness. Trying its powers at each part of its life severally, and philosophizing
about everything it came across, the natural consciousness transformed itself into a
universality of abstract understanding which was active in every matter and in every respect.
In modern times, however, the individual finds the abstract form ready made.”17 Strauss
attempts to justify the importance of pre-modern philosophy of the ancients by ‘recollecting’
the essence of this ‘natural consciousness’ as it was experienced in the classical polis, before
its’ abstraction became our modern perspective. To do so, Strauss brings up the question of
the ‘political’ in relation to ‘philosophy’ before the descent of political philosophy, i.e., before
16
Idem., p. 114.
17
Taken from Hegel’s The Phenomenology of Mind, tr. J.B. Baille, 2nd ed., London, New York, 1931, 94; (modified by
Strauss). Quoted in: Strauss, 1988: 75.
9
philosophy ascended from the Platonic cave and into Nature – the abstract Notion
representing the phenomena of the natural consciousness. For this reason, political philosophy
must become historical, and also go back to the beginnings. Strauss wants us to see for
ourselves how ‘the ancients’ antedated the challenge of revelation in their inquiries on what
the right life consists of, and in their attempts to reconcile philosophy and the city. In doing so
they were engaged directly with political experience: to the phenomena that manifests itself
before ‘the natural consciousness’. This does not mean that Strauss was proposing the
possibility of reliving such a ‘direct experience,’ he was too much of a hermeneutic and [post]
modernist (not to mention a careful reader of Nietzsche and Heidegger, and almost certainly
Hegel as well) to fall into that simplistic trap. Instead, he saw as the essence of such an
experience itself the essential problem of modernity. Or, in other words, it is the problem of
such an experience – i.e. its possibility and significance – that constitutes the foundation of
modern political philosophy.
So we must begin by recovering the political significance of nature (e.g. natural rights) buried
beneath the abstractions solidified by History. It is this that leads Strauss to the tension
between ‘philosophy and the city’ – i.e. the will to self-criticism versus accepted opinions – in
such matters as justice, the good, and piety; questions that the pre-philosophic, pre-historical
mindset considered fundamental to any investigation by virtue of being inextricable from the
end of the investigations themselves. To do so, one need not look any further than
Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War.
The best depiction of the polis – by means of the tensions that characterize it and the forces
which result as a consequence – was given by Thucydides. His only work, the History of the
Peloponnesian War, is a narrative account of the strife that befell the Greek city states once
the tension between Sparta and Athens could no longer be contained, resulting in the fall of
Athens and the dissolution of its empire (shortly before this his account ends abruptly).
Through Thucydides, we see war and peace depicted as the manifestation of an unavoidable
oscillation between tension and order.18 More importantly, it highlights the limitations of the
city and its conventions in attempting to control nature.19 As such, he does not so much
18
Cf. Strauss, ‘Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War’, in City and Man, 1978: p. 140.
19
Idem., p. 62.
10
chronicle a history as attempt to reveal universal traits of human behaviour. His intention is
the education of future generations on what “will, at some time or other and in much the same
ways, be repeated in the future (I. 22).”20
Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian wars has long been considered a classic text in
international relations. Even now, its continuing importance resides largely on its being seen
as a scientific and realistic analysis of what for many is the essence of power politics.21 He not
only chronicles the decisions, events, and consequences instigated on both sides, but also
manages to convey the difficulty of balancing intent with the way certain decisions, whether
they are defensive or offensive, will nevertheless be perceived, which depends on the nature
and circumstances that characterize the city and her individuals. One obvious lesson is
therefore understanding how easily certain behaviors can lead to unmanageable consequences
on matters of security and military build-up. So in this attempt at an objective – if not clinical
– portrayal of not only the most important characters, but the speeches they gave and the
effect it had on their audience, Thucydides illustrates the role that both individual and
collective temperament played in this Greek drama. He carefully depicts what he views as the
most important factors at play, from individual psychologies to the state systems themselves,
and presents these attentively.22 His history ultimately helps us glimpse, in the context of the
Platonic dialogues, universal aspects of human behaviour through the prism of the demands of
empire, and more importantly, what is at stake when self-interest and ambition undermine
moderation and justice.23
We should keep in mind that although many scholars agree that to the Greeks war was seen as
natural as peace, others emphasize that it was nonetheless never considered a good in itself.24
Instead, the nature of Greek warfare had as its goal the maintenance of some form of harmony,
at least to the extent that this was possible. What was regarded with more concern was stasis,
or civil strife, as this was seen to reflect internal disorder, or disease.25 This awareness of the
impermanent character of peace was reflected in the adherence to campaign seasons which as a
result firmly restricted the outbreak of war between poleis,26 and whose primary goal was
20
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, I. 22; Quoted in: Boucher, 1998: p. 69.
21
Boucher, 1998: p. 67.
22
Idem., pp. 68-9.
23
Cf., Boucher, 1998: p. 76.
24
Boucher, 1998: 54.
25
Idem., p. 55.
26
Idem., p. 55.
11
stability. Also, because relations between poleis were not overtly antagonistic27, Greek city-
states were not focused on militaristic supremacy as the means to an end,28 e.g. peace or
‘national interests.’29 Even the close-range nature of phalanx warfare – the conventional mode
of Greek warfare – although terrifyingly intense and violent for those involved, by its very
nature was meant to avert unnecessary prolongation, by making possible a clear, and swift,
victory for whomever managed to break through the phalanx of the opposite army, create
enough confusion, and overthrow the opponent’s defences.30 This changed when during the
Persian War Athens gained the advantage in combat by means of naval warfare, effectively
diminishing conventional hoplite armies as the determining factor in battle.31
Strauss seems to recognize that there is something about the ‘omnipresence of War’ that sheds
much light on the human condition, which is why he juxtaposes the teaching of Thucydides
with that of Plato and Aristotle in City and Man – a compilation of three essays analyzing
individual works these classical writers.32 Interestingly enough, Strauss inverts their order: he
begins with Aristotle even though, chronologically speaking, Thucydides came first, followed
by Plato and later Aristotle. In the end of his account on Thucydides Strauss seems to
implicitly justify this decision:
“Thucydides does not rise to the heights of classical political philosophy because he is more
concerned than is classical political philosophy with what is ‘first for us’ as distinguished from
what is ‘first by nature.’ Philosophy is the ascent from what is first for us to what is first by
nature. This ascent requires that what is first for us be understood as adequately as possible in
the manner in which it comes to sight prior to ascent. In other words, political understanding or
political science cannot start from seeing the city as the Cave but it must start from seeing the
city as a world, as the highest in the world; it must start from seeing man as completely
immersed in political life: ‘the present war is the greatest war.’ Classical political philosophy
presupposes the articulation of this beginning of political understanding but it does not exhibit
27
They did, after all, meet up to compete against each other in the Olympics and other such competitive events.
28
Idem., p. 54-5.
29
Plato has the Athenian Stranger in his Laws explain to Cleinias (a Cretan) and Megillus (a Spartan) that: “The greatest
good however, is neither war nor civil war (God forbid we should ever need to resort to either of them), but peace and
goodwill among men. And so the victory of a state over itself, it seems, does not after all come into the category of ideals; it
is just one of those things in which we’ve no choice. You might as well suppose that the sick body which has been purged by
the doctor was therefore in the pink of condition, and disregard the body that never had any such need. Similarly, anyone who
takes this sort of view of the happiness of a state or even an individual will never make a true statesman in the true sense – if,
that is, he adopts foreign warfare as his first and only concern; he’ll become a genuine lawgiver only if he designs his
legislation about war as a tool for peace, rather than his legislation for peace as an instrument of war.” (628d-e)
30
Boucher, 1998: 55.
31
Idem.,
32
Aristotle’s Politics, Plato’s Republic, and War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians by Thucydides.
12
it as Thucydides does in an unsurpassable, nay, unrivalled manner. The quest for that ‘common
sense’ understanding of political things which led us first to Aristotle’s Politics, leads us
eventually to Thucydides’ War of the Peloponnesians and Athenians.”
The Peloponnesian war began in 431 BC and lasted 27 years, despite a precarious lull in
hostilities prompted by the peace of Nicias (421-414 BC). Before all of this, around 480 BC,
the Greek city-states had been allied in defence against the Persian invasions. But when
Athens became the dominant military power as an outcome of this war, its dominance also
heightened the tensions among Greek city-states. It affected for example Athens’ relations
with members of the Delian league (to which it belonged), whose main purpose had been to
collectively offset Persian incursions into Greece.33 Although by this time34 Athens had been
granted leadership of the league – a decision approved by Sparta, with whom they still had
friendly relations – in time Athens increased its power by further taking the initiative, even
when it meant going beyond the express wishes of other members, all of whom were
supposed to hold equal vote in council. One such case was their decision to change what had
at first been naval contributions – meant to help finance the Athenian fleet’s important role in
securing and maintaining Greek independence – into regular tributes, including the later
removal of the treasury (454 BC) from neutral Delos to Athens itself. It was in this way that
the league gradually gave shape to an empire.
Around the same time (462-461 BC) when Athens became a full-fledged democracy the
Persian fleet was completely destroyed (Persia would nevertheless continue to remain a
potential threat). It was particularly under the leadership of Pericles – who encouraged the arts
and learning, and who would use much of the wealth coming from abroad in grand domestic
projects, such as the Parthenon – that Athens would enjoy some of its best years, despite the
growing tensions. On the other end of the growing divide, Sparta was also having difficulties
with members of her own confederation, the Peloponnesian league. Most worrisome for
Sparta was the choice of some of members to become democratic, which in the context of
Athenian expansionism made Sparta feel more vulnerable. This intermission between wars, in
33
Initially a loose coalition of independent states; many in fact joined as a result of Athens’ military achievements against the
Persians (e.g. Themistocles), while others in reaction against Spartan arrogance (e.g. Pausanias).
34
Thucydides refers to this period as the Pentecontaetia.
13
other words, itself oscillated between moments of relative calm and peace and those
punctured by revolt and fighting.
Thucydides famously explained that the reason why the Spartans decided to go to war, aside
from certain antagonistic military decisions that had already ignited intra-state bellicosity, was
“because they were afraid of the further growth of Athenian power, seeing, as they did, that
the greater part of Hellas was under the control of Athens"35 The Athenian empire was itself
the result of this long process of growing strategic dominance, and the gestating fear it had
produced. This meant that both states were continuously, when not involved in subduing
revolts or actually fighting against each other, in a state of military preparedness. Indeed,
Thucydides places the primacy of psychology as the causal mechanism underpinning the
justifications given to matters of self-interest, including economic factors. It was in this sense
that the ‘Law of Nature’ was used to explain why a strong state, when confronted with states
challenging its role in areas vital to its interest, will eventually find itself compelled to subject
the weaker to its power; neglecting to do so would effectively undermine its own security by
allowing the weaker state to seek dominance. And this too, being in accordance with the
weaker state’s own best interests, is entirely natural.36 Even in an alliance, dissent and revolt
from neighbouring states must, for similar reasons, be subdued; even more so when an enemy
is seeking to take advantage of the situation. All this goes to show that far beyond being a
simplistic depiction of imperialistic logic, Thucydides’ account is meant to demonstrate how
even the highest or most vital aspirations of the human condition will eventually subvert
attempts at an otherwise neutral state of affairs. And yet, despite this constant state of flux,
there are conditions which reveal when a state of disequilibrium has reached dangerous
proportions, such as in the case of an overextension of power.
The question of extremes must be prefigured by a consideration of why it was Athens that
became the dominant power in the region. The differences between Sparta and Athens are in
this sense significant. We know that Athens was ‘open to the world,’ as Pericles had
proclaimed in his famous Funeral Oration (winter of 431-430 BC). And while this may have
resulted in grand temples and monuments, Thucydides explained Athens’ outward perspective
as a product of necessity – a limited self-sufficiency due to a lack of natural resources, viz.
fertile soil. But since her land was thereby of less interest to others, Athens was able to
35
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, I. 88
36
Boucher, 1998: 76. See also Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, I. 76, VI. 85.
14
develop in relative calm. Sparta, on the other hand, had fertile soil and was geographically
isolated, therefore not motivated by necessity to explore beyond what it possessed or required.
Instead, its attention was fixed on its defence, and thus on military training and organization.
Its society reflected this inwardness. Philosophy and the arts were forbidden, while commerce
and foreign influence were kept at a minimum. Although Athens was the first to deviate from
the barbaric style of life in pursuit of more luxury, the Spartans were the first to establish a
certain mode of life that in its republican simplicity and egalitarian structure would give it
longevity.37 Its discipline and social regulation were said to be the result of its four hundred
year old constitution, combining aristocratic, monarchic, and democratic elements.38
Thucydides recognizes near the end of his account that as far as he knew, the Spartans were
the only ones whom had managed to develop prosperity and moderation at the same time.39
For this reason, Thucydides warns us not to be led by appearances; the buildings and temples
left standing after a society has vanished do not necessarily reflect the power of the state or its
people. Sparta may not have left much archaeological evidence of its status behind, especially
in comparison to the glory of Athens, but, as Thucydides experienced, her power was proven
when she “liberated Greece from the rule of the tyrants and, above all, [by being] the leader of
the Greeks in the Persian war.”40
Looking at the Persian Wars also helps us discern what gave Athens the impetus with which it
developed the characteristics that would distinguish her from all other Greek cities-states: her
courage and daring led by intelligence.41 But this fundamental characteristic came about
through necessity, precisely because war had forced them to unshackle themselves from the
traditional constraints of law and convention. This was most notably illustrated when at the
Battle of Salamis42 the Athenians, lead by Themistocles, took the bold risk of abandoning
their city in order to face the Persians on their ships. This resolve guided by intelligence
(gnome, sometimes referred to as reason in contrast with chance, tyché)43 also represented a
37
Leo Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, p. 146.
38
Boucher, 1998: 70.
39
Leo Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, p. 146.
40
Idem.,.
41
Consider the following remarks by Pericles from his Funeral Oration (as recorded by Thucydides): "Rather, the admiration
of the present and succeeding ages will be ours, since we have not left our power without witness, but have shown it by
mighty proofs; and far from needing a Homer for our panegyrist, or other of his craft whose verses might charm for the
moment only for the impression which they gave to melt at the touch of fact, we have forced every sea and land to be the
highway of our daring, and everywhere, whether for evil or for good, have left imperishable monuments behind us."
(Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, II. 41)
42
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, I. 74.1-2, 75.1; Referenced in: Leo Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian
War, p. 171.
43
Boucher, 1998: 78.
15
break with traditional practice and custom, of which piety is a good example. These are the
qualities that, according to Thucydides, grounded Athenian power and made her worthy of an
empire. Even the Corinthians in the Debate at Sparta and Declaration of War spoke of an
innovative Athenian character that prefers “hardship and activity to peace and quiet,”44
whereas the Spartans were characterized as moderate and conservative, and thus less willing
to take risks.
There were also conservative Greek states and parties that envied the Spartan constitution.
Cimon, leader of the conservative faction in power in Athens before Pericles, would criticize
the radical process of democratization under the reforms of his opponent and successor.
Pericles believed this process to be necessary, for the demos constituted a potential military
resource of political strength, and in addition the naval fleet was primarily manned by
members of the lower class. But despite its strengths and achievements, Athenian democracy
would nonetheless begin to disintegrate following the death of Pericles in 429 BC. The
demagoguery of his successor, Cleon, and the political disorder that would follow, may seem
to vindicate Cimon’s apprehension about democracy, though it is nonetheless important to
point out, in line with Donald Kagan, that even Cimon did not challenge the rule of citizen
law once he came back from his exile on 451 BC, which bears out the political strength of
democratic principles.45 All the same, even Pericles at times found himself at the opposite end
of public scrutiny, and would often have to rely on his extraordinary oral skills to steer
popular support where necessary. In fact, it was Pericles’ exemplary character – a
combination of Athenian daring and moderate piety – that had sustained Athens for so long.46
Thucydides writes that Athens was "in name a democracy but, in fact, governed by its first
citizen,"47 i.e. Pericles. Still, after the plague hit Athens (430 BC) and Pericles fell, Athenians
abandoned all conventions and self-discipline. Faced with the prospect of death, and
ineffective oracles, they discarded law and piety to the gods, thereby accelerating their
descent towards barbarism and moral abandon.
44
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, I. 70; Referenced in: Boucher, 1998: 78.
45
Kagan, 1989: pp. 79, 135-36.
46
Boucher, 1998: pp. 78-9.
47
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, II. 65.
16
Three events help illustrate the interplay of nature, justice, and piety, which play such an
important role in Thucydides’ account. Because it is precisely the change that these notions
underwent in the wake of Thucydides that Strauss brings forth in his writings, it will be
helpful to look at these in some detail.
1) In the Mytilenian revolt (428-427 BC), the Mytilenians reacted against Athenian attempts
to forcefully subject them against their wishes. They claimed that this was a violation of their
alliance, and beseeched the Spartans for help: “Be the men, therefore, that the Hellenes think
you and that our fears require you to be” (3.14).48 Cleon in turn regarded this as an act of
hostility against Athens, whose imperial ambitions he felt were completely justified, being as
they were the result of necessity. In advocating for the punishment of all the Mytilenians, he
downplayed the role of justice and compassion by insisting that their enemies would have
come to the same decision. His argument was that sparing a wounded enemy would likely
bring more ruin on all parties in the long run. (More on this below)
2) The Melian dialogue (415 BC) was an important dialogue that preceded the reaction
against Melos, around the end of the Peace of Nicias, when the Athenians had decided to take
over the island of Melos. Until then, despite its status as a Spartan colony, Melos had
remained neutral in light of Athenian naval dominance. The Athenians, however, had made
various attempts to sway the Melian government to join their side. The context of this
dialogue therefore demonstrates the only two alternatives the Melians were left with: war or
slavery. It took place behind closed doors – and thus away from the Athenian people who
might otherwise have been deceived by the Melian ambassadors – but in the presence of the
Athenian army. It is this fact that the Athenians use as the starting point of the debate. Strauss
took notice of how the Athenians sought to establish a rule for the dialogue: “The issue is not
what is just but what is feasible—what the Athenians can do to the Melians and the Melians
can do to the Athenians; questions of right arise only when the power to compel is more or
less equal on both sides; if there is so great inequality as between Athens and Melos, the
stronger does what he can and the weaker yields.”49 Although the Athenians had assumed the
Melian ambassadors, “i.e. the leading men as distinguished from the people,”50 were
knowledgeable of this principle, this turns out to be a flawed evaluation. When the Melians
48
Quoted in: Boucher, 1998: 73.
49
Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: 185.
50
Idem.,
17
pointed at the threat that other neutral cities may pose if Melos’ neutrality was violated, the
Athenians explained the difference between mainland cities and island cities. But this
argument was in fact an underhanded way of bringing up the matter of right in
contradistinction to interest. Still, the Athenians replied that they had nothing to fear from
neutral mainland cities, who themselves knew they did not pose any threat to Athenian power,
and in view of this that Athens would not feel compelled to subjugate them unnecessarily.
Island states, on the other hand, do pose a threat; they may choose to give up their neutrality
at any given moment and ally themselves with the enemies of Athens. The mere existence of
island states not under the absolute influence of Athens can be misinterpreted as a sign of
weakness, and is therefore against her interests.
In this segment of the dialogue Strauss notes that, when the Athenians accidentally spoke of
‘freedom’ in relation to the mainland cities, the Melians took up the issue as something that
they would defend at all costs. In this manner they expanded from the topic of interest to one
about nobility: to capitulate to power is a sure mark of cowardice. The Athenian’s rebuttal
pointed out that it is in fact a sign of moderation, a virtue characteristic of proud Spartans. The
Melians then countered by saying that the outcome of a war depends not only on power, but
also chance, so there remained hope for them. Chance itself, according to the Melians,
depends on the divine (Strauss notes that the Melians had not brought up the divine in relation
to power), and the divine favours the just. The Spartans are meant to compensate for the
weakness of the Melians, arguing that it is in the Spartan’s interest to do so. As far as the
divine is concerned, the Athenias argued that were not acting impiously:
As for good will from the divine, neither do we suppose that we will fall short. For we are
neither claiming as our right nor are we doing anything outside of human belief with regard to
the divine or human wish with regard to themselves. For we think, on the basis of opinion,
regarding the divine, and on the clear basis of a permanent compulsion of nature, regarding the
human, that wherever they have the might, they rule. And we neither laid down the law nor are
we the first to have used it as laid down, but we received it in existence and we will leave it
behind us in existence forever; and we use it in the knowledge that both you and others, if you
came to have the same power as we have, would do it too.51
51
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; V. 105. 1-2. Quoted in: Bolotin, 1987: 14.
18
Here we have a clear portrayal of the ancient Greek perspective on divine law. It shows how
the divine realm does not condition behaviour, but justifies it. Because its interpretation is
restrained to the level of what is demonstrated by a natural order, it does not force man to act
according to higher principles. The divine only ‘sanctifies’ conventions and natural necessity.
But it also sustains hope. The dialogue eventually reveals that the strongest arguments of the
Melians are ultimately rooted in hope: hope that the divine favours the just, and hope that the
Spartans will see that it is in their best interest to aid Melos. This, though, is not yet enough.
As Strauss states, when departing the Athenians leave the Melians “with the remark that they
are the only ones who regard the future things as more evident than things seen, and who
behold the unevident by virtue of wishing it as already occurring; their ruin will be
proportionate to their trust in Sparta and in chance and in hopes. As appears from the sequel,
the Athenian predictions comes true.”52 The Athenians ultimately slaughtered their men and
enslaved their women and children.
3) Immediately following this account, Thucydides mentions the Sicilian expedition (415-417
BC), which in fact turned into a disaster. Against Pericles’ earlier advice for prudence and
moderation, the Athenians unduly, and unwisely, over-extended themselves. According to
Thucydides fear was not the only factor behind the choices the Athens eventually made, but
so were self-interest and the desire for glory.53 It was actually Pericles himself who had
planted the seeds of encouragement and daring that would play themselves out in the pursuit
of Sicily – a quest which had long been a desire of Athens’. But as Strauss writes:
Those who contend that there is a connection between the Melian dialogue and the Sicilian
disaster must have in mind a connection between the two events which Thucydides intimates
rather than sets forth explicitly by speaking of the emancipation of private interest in post-
Periclean Athens. The Melian dialogue shows nothing of such an emancipation. But it contains
the most unabashed denial occurring in Thucydides’ work of a divine law which must be
respected by the city or which moderates the city’s desire for “having more.” The Athenians on
Melos, in contradistinction to Callicles or Thrasymachus,54 limit themselves indeed to asserting
the natural right of the stronger with regard to the cities; but are Callicles and Thrasymachus
52
53
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; I. 75; Referenced in: Boucher, 1998: 72.
54
Callicles is an interlocutor in Plato’s Gorgias who attempts to separate the virtues of wisdom and courage as central to
those of moderation and justice. (Seth Benardete, Plato’s ‘Laws’: The Discovery of Being, Chicago: University of Chicago
Press (2000); pp. 23-4.) Trasymachus is an interlocutor in Plato’s Republic who contends that justice is in the interest of the
stronger. On the view of Trasymachus and Socrates’ refutation see: Strauss, Plato, in: 1987: pp. 37-40.
19
not more consistent than they? Can one encourage, as even Pericles and precisely Pericles does,
the city’s desire for “having more” than other cities without in the long run encouraging the
individual’s desire for “having more” than his fellow citizens? Pericles was indeed dedicated
wholeheartedly to the common good of the city but to its common good unjustly understood. He
did not realize that the unjust understanding of the common good is bound to undermine
dedication to the common good however understood. He had not given sufficient thought to the
precarious character of the harmony between private interest and public interest; he had taken
that harmony too much for granted.55 [emphasis mine]
Thucydides nonetheless states that the Sicilian expedition could have succeeded with better
leadership.56 Although Nicias – whom had instigated the brief period of peace in the middle
of the war – had tried to dissuade the Athenians from ceding to their ambitions, he in fact
fuelled it when his calculated exaggerations on the need to expand the force of the expedition
were taken seriously. Because the Athenians were already resolved to undertake the
expedition, Nicias’ words, far from discouraging Athenians, added to their confidence. In fact,
they fell ‘in love’ with the expedition – a feeling rooted in their ‘erotic’ love for their city that
Pericles himself had promoted.57 But Nicias had also laid the foundation for the later
dismissal of one of Athens’ most skilled commanders by putting into question his integrity.
Nicias’ suggestion that Alcibiades’ private interests did not reflect Athens’ public interests
was no mere defamation, but based principally on his aim to prevent the expedition. The
accusation was technically true in terms of conventional or ‘civic virtue’ – but that does not
mean that Alcibiades’ interests were not themselves a reflection of the private interests of
those in the Athenian assembly, or that these at bottom deviated from the good of the city;
supposedly the public good.58 Strauss mentions that Thucydides “is less sure than Nicias that
Alcibiades’ concern with his own aggrandizement is simply opposed to the interest of Athens,
and he is quite sure that the success of the Sicilian expedition depended decisively on
59
Alcibiades’ participation in it on the side of the Athenians.” There is a tension between
courage and moderation being depicted here.
The effect was nevertheless that the Assembly voted to send both Nicias and Alcibiades to
Sicily, convinced that the experience and moderation of Nicias and the daring character of
55
Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: pp. 193-94.
56
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; II. 65. 11; cf. VI. 15.3-4; Referenced in: Bolotin, Thucydides, in: 1987: 15.
57
Bolotin, Thucydides, in: 1987: 20.
58
Idem., p. 23.
59
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; VI. 15; Quoted in: Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: 204.
20
Alcibiades would prove a powerful combination. But events took a turn for the worst from the
beginning. Just before departing, statues of Hermes (Hermai) – among other things, a god of
trade and commerce – were mysteriously desecrated overnight. This act of impiety, along
with the more serious suggestion that someone had profaned the [Eleusinian] mysteries by
disclosing its secrets to the uninitiated, was interpreted as a bad omen, and cast the whole
enterprise under a negative light. It was also used against Alcibiades by his political
opponents, some who had pushed for his impeachment, and even death, although the final
decision was eventually postponed. This was short-lived. Soon after setting sail his opponents
took advantage of his absence and accused him of further spurious crimes propped up by
dubious ‘witnesses’.60 When word was sent from Athens demanding his recall, Alcibiades,
instead of standing trial, fleed to Sparta, eventually helping them in their war against Athens
(towards the end of the war he does return to play an important role defending Athens, though
not before having also helped the Persians, who had been looking to take advantage of the
situation).
Left alone, Nicias, competent but lacking in daring and ‘untainted’ by hybris, made crucial
mistakes at crucial times. When overwhelmed by the Peloponnesian force, Nicias deferred
decisive action in the hope that Athenians at home would come to the conclusion that their
cause was lost unless reinforcements were sent or the navy recalled. Although he eventually
received support from Demosthenes, even this proved insufficient. At this point the only
alternative was to return to Athens and rearm while there was still time and they continued to
maintain naval superiority. Yet despite the vociferous requests from his soldiers, Nicias was
unwilling to undertake any such action without explicit orders. Keeping in mind the
suspicious nature of Athenian democracy, he was actually more scared of being accused of
taking bribes from the enemy.61 But the decision was eventually forced upon him when things
took a turn for the worse, and a lunar eclipse was perceived as a bad omen by both him and
his men. Despite their adverse conditions, Nicias gave in to piety, taking the decision to
remain in place until the prescribed “thrice nine days” of the soothsayers had passed.62 The
Syracusans then unexpectedly took the initiative – ‘became Athenians’ – and overtook Nicias
and his fleet, forcing them to leave their dead and wounded behind.63
60
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; VI. 53, 60.1 – 61.1; Bolotin, Thucydides, in: 1987: 23.
61
62
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; VII. 50.3-4; Quoted in: Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978:
206.
63
21
During this whole ordeal Nicias endeavoured to keep the hopes of his troops up, speaking of
how chance was on their side, confident that virtue and piety – qualities he believed in, and
was seen, to embody – would favour them with salvation. As Strauss comments, Nicias and
his Athenian army showed in deed what the Melians had argued in speech.64 More to the
point, Nicias’ speech and deeds reflected his own private hopes and interests. He held his
reputation, based on his known decency and piety, to be unassailable because of his
conventional virtue, i.e. his devotion to established custom.65 But because his piety and
‘public virtue’ were based on convention, there was no other measure of his virtue except
conventional virtue itself, meaning that his actions and speeches were in fact attempts to
reconcile public interests with his own private hopes and interests.66 This was reflected in his
“choice to die ‘privately’ in Sicily.”67
Strauss gives an instructive analysis of these events that deserves to be stated in full:
The Sicilian expedition, or rather its cause, not only the stasis, is a kind of grave sickness but a
noble sickness. Thucydides speaks of the eros of the Athenians for the Sicilian expedition.
Pericles had called upon the Athenians to become lovers (erastai) of their city (II 43.1). It was
the community of lovers of their city who desired to adorn their beloved with the jewel Sicily.
One could say that ‘Athens in Sicily’ is greater than Pericles’ Athens according to Pericles
himself: it surpasses all other “everlasting memorials of evils” (II 41.4) which Athens has left
anywhere. The eros of the Athenian for Sicily is the peak of his eros for his city, and that eros
is his full dedication to his city, the willingness to sacrifice, to forget everything private for the
sake of the city, a willingness which finds an appropriate and hence not unambiguous
expression in what Pericles says in his Funeral Speech about the aged parents, the widows, and
64
Idem., p. 209.
65
Strauss states the important role that Nicias plays in Thucydides’ account of the war in a footnote: “The unique
significance of Nicias consists in the fact that he is the representative par excellence of moderation in the city of daring. As
the pious gentleman warrior who is concerned with his military renown and with omens, he represents also the class of
readers primarily addressed by Thucydides whose work deals above all with war and with omens (cf. I. 23.2-3); that work is
best understood if one reads it as primarily addressed to the Niciases of the future generations, potential pillars of their cities
who will be attracted as a matter of course by the account of the greatest war which was so great because of the large number
of battles as well as of omens. Among those primary addressees there will be some who can learn to raise their sights beyond
Nicias or who can ascend. That ascent will be guided in the first place by Thucydides’ explicit praise of men other than
Nicias: of Themistocles, Pericles, Brasidas, Pisistratus, Archelaus, Hermocrates, and Antiphon. But it will also eventually be
guided by Thucydides’ praise, only silently conveyed, of Demosthenes and Diodotus.” (Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian
War, in: 1978: 202n. 68.) I explain the importance of Diodotus below.
66
67
Idem., p. 25.
22
the orphans of the fallen soldiers. Or, as Alcibiades indicates, only glory after death brings
about the perfect harmony between the private and the public (VI 16.5). If the highest eros is
that for the city and if the city reaches its peak in an eros like that of Athens for Sicily, eros is
of necessity tragic or, as Plato seems to suggest, the city is the tragedy par excellence. In
accordance with all this, Athens’ defeat is her triumph: her enemies have to become in a
manner Athenians in order to defeat her; she is defeated because she has succeeded in
becoming the teacher of Hellas. As for Sparta, her victory, whether due to Apollo or not, is of
interest only as the reverse side of Athens’ defeat.”68
As Strauss states, Thucydides’ “quest for truth”69 is to demonstrate the ‘universal in the
singular event.’70 He believes that the Peloponnesian war – in contrast with earlier wars,
namely the Trojan war – is the greatest of wars, the absolute war, because it engulfed not only
all of Greece, but even included barbarians.71 Moreover, the principal cities were at their peak
at the outbreak of war. Greece was at its peak. The war then reveals the peak of Greekness
through motion, which is then followed by descent. Before the war, Greece was at its greatest
rest, which is when the essence of Greekness reached its peak. This peak is only understood in
terms of what it so greatly contrasts – barbarism – for before becoming “Greeks” the Greeks
had to overcome the universal and original state of barbarism. Strauss adds in this context that
“just as humanity divides itself into Greeks and barbarians, Greekness in its turn has two
poles, Sparta and Athens.”72 For this reason, Strauss suggests, Thucydides felt it so important
to question the importance of the Trojan war and the authority of Homer. He does this by
demonstrating that “human wisdom rather than anything else is the core of Greekness.”73 The
peak of Greekness and their decline (re-barbarization) – the contrast demonstrated by the
‘greatest motion’ – therefore demonstrates the ‘limits of all human things’, and consequently
why the work of Thucydides, according to Strauss, “is a possession for all times.”74
The accomplishment of Thucydides, then, lies in his demonstration that the ‘greatness’ of the
Peloponnesian War derives from its revealing that which transcends the city, and this then
illustrates the universal in the singular event. This is demonstrated by Athens, who, though
68
69
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; I. 20.3; Quoted in: Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978:
143.
70
Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: 143; See also: Bolotin, Thucydides, in: 1987: 31.
71
Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War; I. 1.2; Quoted in: Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: 155.
72
73
Idem., p. 158.
74
Idem., p. 157.
23
perhaps not a better city than Sparta, vindicated herself through her ‘natural gifts’: her
individuals.
One telling example is Diodotus, whom appears only once in the narrative, and is further not
mentioned in other sources. In fact, he does not even seem to have intervened in politics
except in this one case mentioned by Thucydides.75 Diodotus’ speech is a skillful argument
against Cleon meant to prevent the Mytileneans from being killed by the Athenians as
punishment for their crimes. His main argument is that the wisdom of capital punishment
must take into account that regardless of its attempts to deter further or more reprehensible
crimes, in the long-run “nomos is powerless against human physis” – i.e. convention is
powerless before human nature.76 But this does not mean that he disregards the question of
justice. His argument is a reply to that of Cleon whom had “based his argument above all on
the consideration of justice and secondarily on the consideration of expediency”, disregarding
‘compassion’ and ‘mildness’ as if the latter were “wholly incompatible with empire (40.2-
3).”77 Even so, Diodotus does not appeal to compassion and mildness, but instead ‘pretends’
to ignore the argument based on justice by arguing on the basis of expediency alone, only to
go back to the question of justice and the possibility of a plea of innocence once he has put his
audience in a mood favourable to such a consideration. As David Bolotin explains, Diodotus’
deception is based on his awareness that he would have been suspected of weakness, in light
of Cleon’s argument, and of betraying Athens’ interests.78 Diodotus therefore draws a link
between the city’s freedom and her empire as ‘the greatest things’, and for that reason more
important than justice. He also spoke out that all men, both privately and publicly, are
ultimately moved to some form of transgression; in other words, no law or convention will
ever restrain their nature. But since Diodotus knew this, then it cannot be the case that he was
referring to law, which is public, in his argument. This means that he was applying the
Athenian argument for empire to men in private (i.e. individuals), and as such did not equate
the ‘primacy of the good’ with the city, but with the individual; “the ultimate good is the good
of the individual.”79 So he deceives the Athenians by suggesting that he considers the city’s
75
76
77
Idem.,
78
Bolotin, Thucydides, in: 1987: pp. 30-1.
79
Idem., p. 31.
24
best interests as “the greatest things”, knowing that otherwise they wouldn’t have listened to
his advice, and this then justifies the Athenian’s suspicions that it is private self-interest that
motivates their speakers. Either way, they ultimately did follow his advice, even if based on
self-interest.
This speech, in the context of the whole, is important. Strauss writes that Diodotus’ speech
contrasts the ‘thesis of archeology ’ – Greek culture emerged from an ‘original barbarism’ or
‘weakness of the ancients’ – with a belief in progress allied to an ‘innovating Athens’.80 In
making the distinction between nomos and physis, the suggestion that emerges is that in the
past capital punishment was ‘softer’ – for even the ‘gravest of crimes’ were at one point not
punished – and it was only to deter the ineffectiveness of such a state of affairs that capital
punishment was introduced. This in a way matches Thucydides’ archeological thesis, which
in itself implies the ‘certainty of progress’ culminating in an ‘innovating Athens.’ But Strauss
notes that Thucydides does not explicitly praise Athens as he does Sparta and Spartan
moderation. What's more, Thucydides ‘barely hints’ at the existence of rich and powerful
non-Greek (i.e. barbarian) societies before the arrival of Greek societies. It is thus significant
that, although this ‘belief in progress’ is not directly refuted by Thucydides himself, it is by
Diodotus. Strauss subsequently concludes that it is Diodotus’ speech – an “act of humanity
which is compatible with the survival of Athens and even of her empire” – that “properly
reflects [Thucydides’] thought on the political plane.”81
What Strauss shows us – particularly in the context of Plato and Aristotle – is that already in
Thucydides we see an inkling of this political appreciation of what distinguishes virtue based
on convention and that which is considered natural. It is this one speech in particular that
80
Strauss also mentions that Plato sketched a comparable account “from the beginning up to the century in which he and
Thucydides were born” in the Laws. It begins with the Flood (Laws,677), and presumably ends with the fall of Athens (700a-
703), which Plato explains (and Strauss reminds us) in the context of changes in nomoi, a term referring to both ‘laws’ and
songs or hymns. The parallel with the divergence from musical standards as ‘laid down by the Muse’ (700d) to the
‘authority’ of public pleasure is meant to show how this individual (and democratic) conviction of taste could inevitably lead
to a reckless ‘theatrocracy’ where no authority can safeguard the possibilities of a ‘musical meritocracy.’ Plato concludes this
section of the dialogue with the Athenian stating that “a lawgiver should frame his code with an eye on three things: the
freedom, unity and wisdom of the city for which he legislates.” (701d). Strauss himself writes, in comparing Plato’s
archaeology with Thucydides’, that Plato “explains how the good Athenian regime which obtained at the time of the Persian
war, the ancestral regime, was transformed into the extreme democracy of his time. He traces this change to the wilful
disregard of the ancestral law regarding music and the theatre: by making no longer the best and the wisest but the audience
at large the judges of songs and plays, Athens decayed.” (Strauss, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: 237.)
81
25
Strauss suggests “reveals more of Thucydides himself than does any other speech.” This is
why Thucydides presented “his whole wisdom in the form of a narrative interspersed with
speeches which is severely limited to things political, which is severely political—which is
silent about what is at present called Athenian culture.” Further on, Strauss clarifies this
statement by adding : “Wisdom cannot be ‘said.’ It can only be ‘done.’”82
Strauss points out that by understanding the thought of Thucydides through his work “one
sees with one’s own eyes that Athens was in a sense the home of wisdom.” His work is the
product of “her power and wealth…her defective polity…her spirit of daring innovation…her
active doubt of the divine law.” It is only through Thucydides that Pericles accomplishes
everlasting glory. Thucydides ‘rides the tiger’ by looking beyond the delusions endemic to
any healthy city – those that are just as capable of propelling it to great heights as dragging it
to its doom. Strauss is unequivocal in stating what this represents:
In Athens…two heterogeneous universalisms become in a way fused: the fantastic political

universalism becomes tinged, colored, suffused, transfigured by the true universalism, by the love
of beauty and of wisdom as Thucydides understands beauty and wisdom, and it thus acquires its
tragic character; it thus becomes able to foster a manly gentleness. The “synthesis” of the two
universalisms is indeed impossible. It is of utmost importance that this impossibility be
understood. Only by understanding it can one understand the grandeur of the attempt to overcome
it and sensibly admire it.83
Strauss classifies Thucydides as a ‘philosophic historian’, as opposed to the ‘scientific’ or

‘realist’ label sometimes prescribed to him in modern times, and agrees with Hobbes – who
was greatly influenced by Thucydides – by quoting from him that in a good history “the
narrative doth secretly instruct the reader, and more effectually than can possibly be done by
precept.”84 He “antedates essentially, i.e. not temporally, the distinction between history and
philosophy”85 by discovering in the “singulars” of his time the “universal” through a concern
with what is “first for us”. This ascent would be carried out further by Plato, who could be
82
Idem., p. 231. cf. pp. 237-238.
83
84
Hobbes, English Works (ed. Molesworth) VIII, pp. viii, xvi-xvii, xxii, xxix, and xxxii; Quoted in: Strauss, Thucydides’
Peloponnesian War, in: 1978: 144.
85
26
said “to have discovered in a singular event—in the singular life of Socrates—the universal
and thus to have become able to present the universal through presenting the singular.”86
In this context, the drama of Socrates and his relation with Athens reveals how a democracy
itself is a result of decay, yet at the same time the best means possible for purification. This
decay comes about by unfettered desire no longer guided by eros. When individuals go
beyond their natural ends in search for unnecessary things that do not pertain to their well-
being (cf. notion of ‘harmony’), dissatisfaction succeeds the uneven conditions that arise, and
these in turn breed conflicts. But the need for a restoration of justice precludes education of
justice, resulting in a form of justice that “will no longer be effective naturally” because some
sort of compulsion will become necessary. Hierarchies are then created. In seeking the highest
philosophy becomes the ‘art of arts’, and this is reflected in the mythical character that
Socrates’ conversation on the education to piety displays (cf. the ‘Myth of Er’ at the end of
the Republic). This is meant both for the educated and the educators. But it is also meant to
show “the ‘mythical’ character of theology, or the gravity of failing to raise and answer the
question: ‘what is a god?’, or, ‘who are the gods?’”.87 With this fundamental question Strauss
concludes his account of Thucydides’ Peloponnesian Wars. As pointed out earlier, City and
Man illustrates a reversal that may suggest a descent from the ‘heights of classical political
philosophy’ to that which is ‘first for us’: “man as completely immersed in political life.”
***
86
Idem., p. 143.
87
Leo Strauss, The City and Man, p. 98.
27
How are we to understand this account of Thucydides in relation to Strauss’s notion of

‘esoteric’ writing? To begin with, we can take up Strauss’s own concluding remarks in On a
Forgotten Kind of Writing:
At the very least the observations I have made will force historians sooner or later to abandon the
complacency with which they claim to know what the great thinkers thought, to admit that the
thought of the past is much more enigmatic than it is generally held to be, and to begin to wonder
whether the historical truth is not as difficult of access as the philosophic truth.88
If anything, Strauss’s reading of Thucydides reveals how the very “quest for truth” also
played a role in Thucydides’ account of historical events. This quest, however, was given
shape in the form of a narrative meant to bring to the fore the most relevant aspects that
resulted in the Peloponnesian War. Because Thucydides considered war to be an expression
of human nature, he placed great emphasis on the different public speeches given by various
individuals. However, these speeches further reveal another fundamental aspect underlying
the Peloponnesian war: the tension between nomos and physis – convention and nature. It is
this aspect of Thucydides’ account that Strauss is attempting to reveal; and it this aspect
which lies at the basis of his turn to classical philosophy following his rediscovery of the
‘esoteric tradition.’ The struggle between convention and human nature, penetratingly
revealed by Thucydides in his depiction of the Athenian polis – its abandonment of piety, the
logic of empire and its effects, the influence of eros on its demos, and most importantly for
our purposes: the tension between public and private speech as depicted in the case of
Diodotus. All these are aspects that will return – though in a more highly developed form – in
the work of Plato and Aristotle, and to varying degrees thereafter. It is this lineage of thought
that Strauss is attempting to reveal in City and Man, which thereby represents a descent from
classical political philosophy (Aristotle) to its foundation in the pre-philosophic [natural]
consciousness of Thucydides; i.e., “the ‘common sense’ understanding of political things.”89
One discerns from these accounts a highly variegated conception of truth concerning
knowledge of human nature and knowledge of the whole. This is the problem that Strauss
wants us to view in contradistinction to the historicist perspective. This is also the reason why,
for example, Bevir’s criticism that “the assumption that philosophers know the truth
88
Leo Strauss, ‘On a Forgotten Kind of Writing,’ in 1988: p. 232.
89
Leo Strauss, The City and Man, p. 240.
28
contradicts Strauss’s own commendable ambition of understanding authors as they

understood themselves”90 ultimately falls short of what is most crucial to the work of Strauss.
Bevir takes as axiomatic Strauss’s distinction between esoteric and exoteric writing, which is
why he eventually grounds his whole critique on the dichotomy between true and false
beliefs. But as I previously mentioned, it is the distinction between the quest for truth and a
tacit acceptance of opinion as truth that is the real core of the esoteric tradition according to
Strauss. As he writes in response to a similar criticism by M. Yvon Belaval:
I did not suggest that one can make the study of the history of philosophy independent of every
philosophic postulate. History of philosophy necessarily presupposes the persistence of the same
fundamental problems. This, and this alone, is the trans-temporal truth which must be admitted.91
That is not to say that asking whether or not Strauss truly grasped the ‘truth’ of Thucydides’
account, and if so, how this can be determined, is thereby precluded. It is probably the case
that such a question will always remain valid precisely because it reveals a fundamental
hermeneutic problem intrinsic to the modern historical consciousness: its distant relation to
ancient ontology mediated by classical writings. In this we can follow the stance taken up by
Gadamer, who agreed with Strauss “inasmuch he also regards the ‘fusion of history and
philosophical question’ as inevitable in our thought today.”92 He also mentions the important
contribution Strauss’ revelation of “hidden relationships in the Platonic dialogues” had on
developing hermeneutic awareness – adding that this is best approached on the basis of “our
own relation to the actual problems that concern Plato.” Though the notion of ‘hidden
relationships’ does seem refer to a dialectical aspect underlying hermeneutics, this way of
formulating Strauss’ contribution also helps demonstrate the most problematic aspect of
Strauss’s teaching, or rhetoric: insofar it cannot demonstrate the ‘what is’ that these
‘problems,’ on the surface, are meant to reveal, it may ultimately be exoteric. Indeed,
Gadamer thinks that “when Strauss argues that in order to understand better it is necessary
first to understand an author as he understood himself, he underestimates the difficulties of
understanding, because he ignores what might be called the dialectic of the statement.”93 I
think Gadamer is wrong in thinking that Strauss disregards what he refers to as the ‘dialectic
of the statement.’ If anything, Strauss was well aware of the interpretive challenge of the
90
Bevir 1999: 150.
91
Leo Strauss, ‘On a Forgotten Kind of Writing,’ in 1988: p. 229.
92
Hans-Georg Gadamer, ‘Hermeneutics and Historicism (1965),’ 2004: p. 533.
93
Ibid., 533.
29
philosophical, and political, statement, which is clearly demonstrated in his discussions where
he points to the difference between ‘private’ and ‘public’ speech. I have tried to reveal this
aspect of his work as is evident in his study of Thucydides; particularly in the relation
between ‘courage’ and ‘moderation,’ which also helps reveal the necessary tension between
philosophy and the city. So it is certainly not the case that Strauss underestimated the
“difficulties of understanding.”
Instead, the relation between speech and writing is used to show what it is taken for granted in
speaking of ‘theory’: modern thought’s adjudication to nature, and eventually, the act of [free]
will, is reflected in the inevitable accommodation of speech and writing according to the
circumstances of a particular time. What is problematic about this argument is the implicit
presupposition of a ‘historical consciousness’ allowing us to make a distinction between
‘modern’ and ‘natural’ consciousness in the first place. However, just as Strauss’s work may
help foster a better understanding of the “essential connection between hermeneutics and
writing,” which Gadamer considers to be rooted in classical Greek thought, and most
explicitly in the Platonic dialogues, it is precisely the ‘historicity’ of the problem of ‘nature’
that Strauss is attempting to invoke in his Platonic studies. But this in turn brings to the fore
the role of the Ideas in the Platonic dialogues, which, needless to say, lies beyond the scope of
this paper. I would nevertheless be willing to assume that such an investigation would require
a closer reading of Strauss’s investigations into Socratic virtue, both from the perspective of
Plato and Xenophon. For the moment it is best to keep in mind that, at root, Strauss’s
philosophy exhibits a serious political commitment. And this, I think, is partly revealed in
Strauss’s reading of Thucydides.
30
Bibliography
Benardete, Seth. Plato’s ‘Laws’: The Discovery of Being, Chicago: University of Chicago Press (2000).
Bevir, Mark. The Logic of the History of Ideas, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006.
Bolotin, David. ‘Thucydides,’ in History of Political Philosophy, 3rd ed., Leo Strauss and Joseph Cropsey
eds.Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1987 [1963].
Boucher, David. Political Theories of International Relations, Oxford: Oxford University Press (1998).
Gadamer, Hans-Georg. ‘Hermeneutics and Historicism (1965),’ in Truth and Method, 2nd edition: 2004
[1975]; p. 533.
Smith, Steven B. Reading Leo Strauss. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2006.
Strauss, Leo. Persecution and the Art of Writing. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1952.
—., City and Man. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1978 [1964].
—., Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1983.
—., ‘Plato’, In History of Political Philosophy, 3rd ed., Leo Strauss and Joseph Cropsey eds. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 1987 [1963].
—., What is Political Philosophy?. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1988 [1959].
—., Jewish Philosophy and the Crisis of Modernity. Ed. Kenneth Hart Green. Albany: State University of
New York Press, 1997.
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Finley, New York: Penguin Classics, 1972 [1952].
31

K.R. Knoester - The Motion of History in The Esoteric Tradition - Leo Strauss On Thucydides (Rough), Print

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The Motion of History in the Esoteric Tradition – Leo Strauss on Thucydides and the ‘History of the Peloponnesian War’

The Motion of History in the Esoteric Tradition – Leo

Kristiaan Rodrigo Knoester

that he experienced philosophy as a guide in search of knowledge, discovering in it a

In Athens…two heterogeneous universalisms become in a way fused: the fantastic political

Strauss classifies Thucydides as a ‘philosophic historian’, as opposed to the ‘scientific’ or

How are we to understand this account of Thucydides in relation to Strauss’s notion of

contradicts Strauss’s own commendable ambition of understanding authors as they

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