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Methodological Considerations on Anarchist Theory 1

[Published in French as Considrations mthodologiques sur la thorie anarchiste, Philosophie de

lanarchie: Thories libertaires, pratiques quotidiennes et ontologie, Jean-Christophe Angaut et al. (eds)
(Lyon: Atelier de cration libertaire, 2012), pp. 327-53]

1. Introductory Apologia

My previous work on anarchist theory2 has met with criticism of three kinds from scholars of
anarchism and anarchist activists: (1) fundamental criticism of my theoretical work on anarchism;
(2) methodological criticism of my philosophical approach to anarchist theory; and (3) substantive
criticism of my philosophical findings on anarchism.3 Thus, there has been criticism of what I
am doing, how I am doing it, and what has resulted from this; that is, pretty comprehensive
criticism. This was not terribly surprising: I anticipated significant criticism of my attempt to
bridge the gap between so-called political anarchism and so-called philosophical anarchism; of
my attempt, as it were, to drag Mikhail Bakunin away from his barricade and A. John Simmons
out of his classroom, and to introduce them to one another. Fortunately, most of this criticism is
easy enough to deal with, and I dont need to abandon my theoretical position just yet (though
this position, as previously articulated, certainly needs some refinement and elaboration).
I have considered the fundamental criticism (concerning the value or worthwhileness of
theory) elsewhere4, and will return to it briefly below (though it is not my main interest in this
paper). Responding to the substantive criticism in any detail would, by contrast, take more space
than is available to me here. However, I should at least note the main objections (and replies) as
I see them. They are: (a) that I reduce anarchism to liberalism (or a radicalization of liberalism);
1

I would like to thank Daniel Cohnitz for his comments on an earlier draft of this paper.

Anarchism and Authority: A Philosophical Introduction to Classical Anarchism (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007).

See the reviews by Sam Clark (Anarchist Studies, 16:1 (2009), pp. 120-22), Ruth Kinna (Contemporary Political Theory,
8:2 (2009), pp. 242-44), and Charles Masquelier (Studies in Social and Political Thought, 16 (2009), pp. 106-10), as well as
a forthcoming paper by Benjamin Franks entitled Anarchism and the Problem of Political Philosophy.

In the original version of what was subsequently published as In Defence of Philosophical Anarchism, Anarchism
and Moral Philosophy, eds. Benjamin Franks and Matthew Wilson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 13-32.
The full version of this paper has been translated into Estonian as Filosoofilise anarhismi kaitseks, Akadeemia, 2009:
10, pp. 1901-36.

(b) that I neglect central or even definitive ethical and utopian features of anarchism; (c) that I
portray anarchism in too authoritarian a light; and (d) that my account of anarchism is historically
spurious. To (a), I simply say that, on my account, anarchism actually differs greatly from
liberalism with respect to: (i) its fundamental philosophical problem (the problem of legitimacy
(the legitimacy of authority), as opposed to the liberal problem of limits (the limits of social
control)); and (ii) its ethical commitments (since anarchists are not necessarily committed to the
primary liberal value of individual freedom). To (b), I simply say that, while ethical and utopian
features are indeed important features of the anarchist tradition of thought, they are certainly not
definitive of anarchism as such since: (i) there is no shared anarchist ethical commitment (and
some anarchists reject all such commitments); and (ii) there is no shared anarchist vision of a
future society (and some anarchists reject all such visions). Incidentally, a similar point can be
made about the naive beliefs that anarchists supposedly share about human nature: there is no
shared anarchist belief about such matters (and some anarchists reject all such beliefs). To (c),
the charge that in denying that anarchism is synonymous with anti-authoritarianism (at least of
the standard, a priori variety), I admit too much authority into anarchism, I simply say that: (i) I
only acknowledge two forms of authority (parental and operative) for which an anarchist case for
legitimacy might be made (though there may be others); and (ii) I dont claim that anarchists
necessarily accept these cases (anarchists may, on consideration, accept no such cases). Finally, I
should say that I am inclined to accept (d): as a strict engagement with the history of ideas, my
previous work on anarchist theory has rather little merit. But, though I wasnt clear enough
about this at the time, it was never intended as historical work: it was intended as a systematic
philosophical study of anarchism, which made use and rather free use of the history of
anarchist ideas. Such an approach to anarchist thought may, in principle, seem highly
questionable, especially given the influence of the Cambridge School on the history of ideas, for
example.5 I would therefore like to clarify the relationship between systematic and historical
inquiry, as I now see it, before turning to methodological matters within systematic inquiry itself.
I distinguish rather sharply between two general fields of philosophy: systematic
philosophy and the history of philosophy. Systematic philosophy is a prospective discipline; the
history of philosophy is retrospective. Systematic philosophy aims to make progress in the

Members of this school have done some rather brilliant historical work, work of real value to systematic
philosophers (in a sense to be explained below). However, I believe that the influence of this work with its strong
contextual emphasis has proved somewhat detrimental to the practice of systematic political philosophy (or its use
of the history of ideas).
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solution (or at least the clarification or even the dissolution) of philosophical problems (by the
means to be discussed below). The history of philosophy aims to record and make sense of the
philosophical work (systematic and historical) of the past. Of course, on the basis of this
characterization, nothing follows about the value of either field of philosophy, in absolute or
relative terms. It should also be noted that this distinction (though, to my mind, rather sharp) is
not absolute. Systematic work can help us to understand the history of philosophy; and historical
work can help us to advance systematic philosophy. To offer an example from my own area of
interest, contemporary work in systematic political philosophy may facilitate a better
understanding of Godwins ethics and politics, while historical work on Godwins ethics and
politics may lead to progress in contemporary systematic political philosophy. Nevertheless, the
systematic philosopher and the historian of philosophy are, as I see them, very different
creatures creatures who look at the world, or, at any rate, its past, in very different ways;
though, of course, the same (somewhat schizophrenic) creature may adopt these very different
perspectives at different times. At the risk of overstating my point (and I intend to be somewhat
provocative here), one might think of the systematic philosophers attitude to history as that of
the resourceful scavenger surveying a rubbish dump. From this perspective, every bit of rubbish
can conceivably be put to future use: as such, it has value, but it is instrumental rather than
intrinsic. It is of no interest in itself; nor is its original use, in its original context, of any interest
(except to the extent that it might inform future use). But it is an object of real interest all the
same. That said, if it cannot be put to some future use, it might as well be ignored or forgotten
left to the resourceful scavenger of the future, or to that very different creature, the historian.
The historian is no resourceful scavenger at a rubbish dump, but an archaeologist or
anthropologist at an excavation site of ideas. Every object at such a site holds its own fascination:
it tells a fascinating story of the past, even if that past is wholly removed from the present and of
no instrumental value to the future. And herein lies the real difference in attitude: between
resourcefulness with respect to future possibilities and fascination about past facts.
My previous work on anarchist theory was primarily of a systematic nature. This point
was not as clear as it should have been. Nor did I explain, let alone justify, the methodology that
I was employing in my systematic investigation of anarchism; indeed, I took a certain
methodology for granted and simply worked with it. This largely accounts for the third category
of criticism of my work: the methodological criticism which has focused on a philosophical
approach, which, in general, is said to be exceptionally abstract (Kinna). What exactly is wrong
with this alleged abstraction, especially in the philosophical context, is not spelt out. But perhaps
3

the criticism is related to some uncertainty as to why we need a definition of anarchism at all
(Clark). Indeed, the very possibility of philosophical definitions is a continual doubt raised with
respect to (more or less) analytic approaches in political philosophy (Franks). And this doubt (as
well as some related doubts concerning the nature of political argumentation) motivates what
follows. I will therefore deal with some methodological matters concerning not just my own
work to date (which, of course, is of rather little interest in itself), but the development of
anarchist theory overall.

2. Developing Anarchist Theory

My specific question in this paper a methodological question is the following: how can we
develop anarchist theory? This question rests on two assumptions: that doing theory is
worthwhile; and that anarchist theory is in need of development. So, before we turn to our main
question, we should briefly consider the justifiability of these two assumptions.
A curious feature of the first assumption is that it strikes so many anarchists as being so
controversial; but perhaps many non-anarchists are mistaken in thinking otherwise. What reason
might there be for thinking that theory is not worthwhile? To answer this question, we need to
consider what would make theory worthwhile from the opponents perspective, or what the
standard of worthwhileness supposedly is here. If the opponent in question is thought of as an
activist of some kind, then the standard is presumably some contribution to social change. Now,
this standard is surely inapplicable to all kinds of theory (the theory developed by astrophysicists,
for example6). But lets assume that it is applicable to a certain category of theory say, social
theory or, more plausibly, to a certain category of social theory say, radical social theory
and that anarchist theory belongs to this category. In this context, the strongest form of
objection to a radical theory would be to say that it is not worthwhile because it makes (or can
make) no contribution not even an indirect contribution to social change. This objection is
difficult to maintain on factual grounds: many radical theories (concerning economic and
environmental exploitation, for example) have informed public discourse (in the mainstream and
beyond) which in turn has motivated social action (of reactionary, reformist, and revolutionary

There is some room for debate here, but to pursue this matter would lead us too far astray.

kinds). Moreover, this objection seems to rest on an assumption a (questionable) theoretical


assumption (that such activists are in no position to justify) that theory (even theory pertaining
to social action) and practice (even reflective practice) are wholly unrelated: that is, on a wholly
abstract theory-practice dualism. Indeed, by holding such a dualism, one could argue rather
differently against theory on deontological or other non-consequentialist grounds. (The objection
dealt with thus far, and modified below, is consequentialist: that is, framed in terms of a
particular good namely, social change that ought to be immediately promoted by means of
human endeavour.) The deontologist might point to a duty of activism (perhaps through some
understanding of divine will or human reason), but has difficulty in establishing that theory
necessarily violates this duty without simply asserting the abstract theory-activism dualism.
Likewise, other non-consequentialists might claim that activism is good in itself (perhaps as an
integral part of the good life), but have difficulty in establishing that theory is detrimental to this
good without simply asserting the same theoretical dualism.7
A more serious objection is the claim that a radical theory such as anarchist theory makes
an inadequate contribution to social change: perhaps it has some effect over time, but, faced with
immediate crisis, we require immediate change through (largely non-reflective) action. Thus,
from the contemporary perspective, anarchist theory is seen as a secondary pursuit that should
(at best) be reserved for those privileged enough to live in a time of non-crisis; as a matter of
fact, however, it is currently the primary pursuit of the unjustifiably privileged (such as
professional academics) in a time of crisis. The essentially pragmatic argument here can be stated
more straightforwardly in the following terms: immediate social change (of an anarchist nature)
is necessitated by current crisis; activism is more efficacious than theory with respect to the
achievement of (such) immediate social change; therefore, (as anarchists) we should now engage
in activism rather than theory. For present purposes, lets accept the second premise and that the
conclusion follows from the two premises (which, in fact, it doesnt8). The sticking point seems
to be the first premise. This may sometimes be true, and there may therefore be periods in which
we should engage in activism rather than theory. But it is doubtful whether this is always true (or
that we could make sense of what might be called the constant crisis thesis). Indeed, we may
suspect the activist of overplaying the crisis card, such that he or she is effectively in danger of
My assumption here is that certain teleologists (perfectionists, for example) are not consequentialists in a strict
sense: that they are non-consequentialistic teleologists.
7

There is a missing premise connecting immediacy (of ends) and efficacy (of means). But my interest here is in the
implications of such an argument rather than its validity.

crying wolf. What this suggests is that judgements need to be made as to when (on this
argument, at least) we should engage in activism and when we should engage in theory. We may
sometimes make poor judgements, of course, but no general presumption against theory (such as
that made by some anarchist activists) should be made here.
There is also a factual problem with this objection. As a matter of fact, many radical
theories arguably the most influential theories were produced in times of crisis: during the
French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, the Franco-Prussian War, and so on. How can the
activist account for this? He or she can simply argue that the theorists in question were doing
something wrong at the time (though this is rarely claimed of these theorists). But a problem
concerning the production of radical theory radical theory of real, practico-historical
significance in times of crisis remains. If we accept this empirical point, we can modify the
second premise in the above argument and offer a modest pragmatic counter-argument in favour
of theory (even in times of crisis): immediate social change is necessitated by current crisis;
radical theory can contribute (to some extent) to the achievement of immediate social change;
therefore, we should engage in theory (to that extent). Again, matters of judgement arise here as
to the extent of theoretical influence, but there seems to be some such influence.
Some theorists might, however, find this consequentialist line of reasoning
unsatisfactory. For them, radical social theory plays, among other roles, a crucial justificatory role
with respect to social change; and, in the absence of such justification, the attempt to achieve the
social change in question is immoral. In other words, those who engage in activism have a moral
responsibility to justify their actions (both in terms of means and ends) to those whom these
actions affect including other members of society who, at least initially, disagree with the
changes proposed or the means of pursuing them.9 This responsibility might be asserted on the
basis, for example, of a right of private judgement, which the imposition of social change is seen
as violating. Hence, both consequentialist and non-consequentialist cases can be made for doing
theory, to the effect that: first, it is useful for the achievement of social change, even in times of
crisis; and, second, it plays a morally necessary justificatory role.
What of the second assumption introduced above? Can we justify the assumption that
anarchist theory is in need of development? It might be claimed that political theory in general is
always in need of development, according to changing real-world circumstances and the
Many anarchists have an astonishing capacity to overlook or to explain away the fact (however unfortunate)
that their views are marginal. Thus, the other members of society in question are the vast majority.
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refinement of theoretical methods (those specific to a discipline, as well as those developed


elsewhere but fruitful for that discipline). In terms of anarchist theory per se, however, there is
some doubt about its pedigree. While this point is often exaggerated, it is perhaps true to say that
the historical body of anarchist theory is somewhat uneven. Thus, there may indeed be a need
or, in more positive terms, an opportunity for theoretical development. To offer a concrete
example, so-called political anarchism has proven philosophically deficient deficient on the
conceptual and argumentative sides to date. Put simply, political anarchists have often written
rather obscurely and argued rather poorly for their case.10 That said, so-called philosophical
anarchism has proven similarly deficient with respect to empirical matters: that is, ignorant of or
indifferent to actual political states of affairs, social movements, and so on.11 My contention is
that these deficiencies can be remedied by a meeting of political and philosophical minds in
the anarchist community, very broadly defined. What I suggest is needed in terms of anarchist
theory at least, from a specifically philosophical perspective is, therefore, the simultaneous
philosophization of political anarchism and politicization of philosophical anarchism.
To some, the suggestion that there is a need for the theoretical development of
anarchism seems arrogant as if the person proposing and undertaking the development in
question is assuming the right to speak for an entire tradition or an entire movement (a tradition
or movement which is thought by some to define anarchism). But engaging with anarchist theory
entails no such assumption: it is not an exclusive or exhaustive enterprise where any one
individual has the final word. Rather, it is a communal and open-ended enterprise where any
number of parties (individual or collective) are seen to make more or less significant theoretical
contributions (from a variety of theoretical perspectives). Moreover, these contributions are
understood to be informed (more or less directly) by social praxis, which they, in turn, may
inspire. Thus, while anarchist theory is enriched by social praxis, and a possible motivational
force for such praxis, it is also irreducible to the social praxis of the anarchist movement, as
some would have us believe.

Mikhail Bakunin, one of the better-known political anarchists, is a case in point here though he is by no means
the worst case in point and this criticism is often overstated, as I have argued (pretty erratically) elsewhere: Mikhail
Bakunin: The Philosophical Basis of His Anarchism (New York: Algora, 2002).

10

This criticism applies, in my view, to leading contemporary philosophical anarchists like Robert Paul Wolff and
A. John Simmons.
11

3. Philosophical Development

If we accept that there is a need for the theoretical development of anarchism, how are we to
proceed? Clearly, a number of theoretical approaches are available: political, economic,
sociological, anthropological, psychological, philosophical, and so on. Anarchist theory is not the
specific subject matter of any particular discipline, such as philosophy. Indeed, I doubt very
much that philosophy has any specific subject matter, which is not to deny that philosophers, as a
matter of contingent fact, have their own characteristic interests. Nevertheless, the approach that
I adopt is philosophical. That I do so should not be taken to imply that this approach is the best
among the available options. It is simply one approach among many others, likewise evaluable in
terms of its fruitfulness (with respect to its contribution to our overall body of knowledge, if
nothing else). That I adopt a philosophical approach says more about my biography than anything
else; and I will not bore the reader with such details here. But what does it mean to adopt a
philosophical approach? It is presumably to approach things in a certain, specific way. It is not
simply to think or to converse or to write; it is to do these (and perhaps other) things which
could, in principle, be done in all manner of other ways in a certain, specific way. But in what
way? There is little agreement about this, even among philosophers themselves. Indeed, many
philosophers reject the notion that there is one (seemingly right) philosophical way of doing
things. Certainly, there are a number of methods available to philosophers (elenchic (after
Socrates), dialectical (after Hegel), phenomenological (after Husserl), logical-analytic (after
Russell), and so forth). But the philosophical approach is not a matter of the plurality of
philosophical methods; it is a matter of the singular, characteristic philosophical mode of thought (a mode
compatible with many methods). So, to rephrase our question once again: what is the
philosophical mode of thought?
The primary and characteristic mode of philosophical thought is argumentation, in the
same sense that the primary and characteristic mode of scientific thought might be said to be
experimentation, that of art, expression, and that of religion, representation. (My primary interest
here is not in defending a particular account of the other, non-philosophical modes of thought. I
fully appreciate that doubts arise as to whether the primary and characteristic mode of all
scientific thought is actually experimentation, and so on.) In other words, philosophers
characteristically proceed in the first place by argumentative means though, of course, they
may avail of other, less characteristic means, notably experimentation, in order to inform their
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argumentation, for example. In similar fashion, natural scientists characteristically proceed in the
first place by experimental means though, of course, they may avail of other, less characteristic
means, notably argumentation, in order to make sense of their experimentation, for example.
What this indicates is that modes of thought do not distinguish disciplines like philosophy and
science in any absolute sense: in principle, philosophers and scientists can make use of each
others modes of thought, even if they do not primarily and characteristically depend upon them.
My account of philosophy as an argumentative discipline raises questions about (a)
alternative conceptions of philosophy and (b) alternative argumentative disciplines. Alternative
conceptions of philosophy (from Plato onwards) typically characterise it in terms of: (i) an attitude
(namely, that of wonder); (ii) a goal (namely, that of wisdom); or (iii) specific subject matter
(namely Being, in classical terms at least). So, we read in Plato that: (i) This sense of wonder is
the mark of the philosopher. Philosophy indeed has no other origin (Theaetetus, 155d); (ii) the
philosopher is the real lover of [that form of] knowledge [which] deserves the name of wisdom
(Republic, 490a, 429a); and (iii) it [is] the nature of the real lover of knowledge to strive emulously
for true being or to come into touch with the nature of each thing in itself (Republic, 490a-b).
The problem with these alternative conceptions (though not necessarily with Plato in his own
context), however, is that they fail to distinguish philosophy from other disciplines:
mathematicians are presumably inspired by a sense of wonder; theologians presumably aim to
achieve wisdom; and poets presumably write about such esoteric concerns as Being. However,
it is important to note that at least one of these features distinguishes philosophy from an
alternative argumentative discipline (if it can properly be called such): that is, rhetoric. The
primary and characteristic mode of rhetorical thought may indeed be argumentation. But even
assuming that there is no significant difference between philosophical and rhetorical
argumentation (a subject which I dont intend to broach here), philosophy and rhetoric could be
said to differ with respect to their goals: wisdom (or some contribution to our overall body of
knowledge) in the case of philosophy; persuasion (or general discursive efficacy) in the case of
rhetoric. Indeed, in so far as rhetoric does not aim at wisdom, we might deny that it is a
theoretical discipline at all.
Thus far, I have claimed that philosophy is: distinguished from other theoretical
disciplines by its (primary and characteristic) mode of thought; and distinguished from rhetoric
by its orientation towards wisdom. We can add here that it is also notable for (if not
distinguishable by) its comprehensiveness. One can, in principle, argue about anything and everything
(in the pursuit of the wisdom thereof). However, this seemingly promiscuous claim should not
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be mistaken for a justification for intellectual indiscipline. Argumentation presumably has some
standards, if it is to be distinguished from mere written waffle or spoken chatter. A simple
sequence of random propositions does not constitute argumentation. Those who recognise such
a distinction assert certain logical demands on philosophical discourse. What exactly these logical
demands are demands for is a complex matter that can be studied both formally and informally.
But there are other demands too: namely, semantic demands. It is arguably insufficient to argue
well in a logical sense, in order to avoid the accusation of waffle/chatter; one should also argue
clearly. What exactly these semantic demands are demands for is also a complex matter, and we
will take it up briefly below. Thus, in philosophical argumentation, there is a logical demand for
what is traditionally termed rigour, as well as a semantic demand for what is traditionally termed
clarity. Of course, one can argue rigorously while arguing unclearly; one can also argue clearly
while arguing non-rigorously. That is to say, logical and semantic demands are not necessarily
satisfied simultaneously. Adopting a less formal attitude towards argumentation, one might still
criticise philosophy that satisfies logical and semantic demands for being uninteresting in some
sense: unduly pedantic, for example. Indeed, philosophy (and especially practical philosophy)
that views the satisfaction of these demands as an end in itself probably ought to be considered
uninteresting. But this is not a view that I endorse here, as will become apparent.
Before we move on to some problems with the philosophical development of anarchist
theory, we should acknowledge two fundamental objections to the account of philosophy
offered above. According to these objections, both the logical demands and the semantic
demands that we have been discussing are to be rejected by philosophical practitioners. Why so?
Presumably, opponents do not reject these demands simply because they are too demanding or
require too much in the way of intellectual discipline and hard work. The first objection is that
recognising logical demands results in philosophy that is too formal; or that it reduces philosophy
to the mere logical (re)construction of arguments. The second objection is that recognising
semantic demands results in philosophy that is too abstract; or that it reduces philosophy to mere
conceptual analysis in terms of necessary and sufficient conditions. The philosopher who
recognises both logical and semantic demands is seemingly guilty, therefore, of reducing
philosophy to mere logical and conceptual analysis, that is, to a crude analytic enterprise.
There are two main responses to this line of criticism. The first is to say that the
objection rests on a caricature of a certain tradition of philosophy. Few philosophers (if any)
would seriously suggest that all philosophy consists of is logical (re)construction and conceptual
analysis. Moral philosophy, for example, also consists of normative theory construction,
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substantive evaluation of moral claims, and so on. But philosophy in general still benefits from
logical and conceptual work. Conceptual work, for example, constitutes a useful preliminary for
other philosophical work in at least three senses: first, it enables philosophers to avoid mere
verbal confusion about the concepts in question; second, it enables philosophers to avoid more
substantive confusion about the problem at hand; and, third, it enables philosophers to avoid
confusion about the success conditions for what would constitute a solution to the problem at
hand. In other words, confusion is the potential price to be paid for neglecting preliminary
conceptual work. The second response to this line of criticism is to question the consequences of
the non-recognition of logical and semantic demands. It is one thing to question these demands
(and many philosophers quite reasonably do so); it is quite another thing to reject them (as some
other philosophers seem to). In fact, it is difficult to make much sense of philosophy that gives
up the ideals of argumentative rigour and conceptual clarity altogether. One may suspect such
philosophy of implicitly or unconsciously recognising these standards (to some extent or in some
form, at any rate), or of amounting to some non-philosophical discipline (potentially fruitful for
all that).

4. Philosophical Methodology

On the basis of the considerations above, I conclude that philosophy is a comprehensive


argumentative discipline oriented towards wisdom that is subject to logical and semantic
demands. The question now is whether and, if so, how this discipline can contribute to the
development of anarchist theory. I contend that it can do so, but that this can only be
demonstrated by examining how. Accordingly, I turn to some methodological issues in anarchist
philosophy.
Anarchist philosophy is a tradition of argumentation that arrives at or seemingly
justifies anarchist conclusions. This distinguishes it from dogmatic anarchism (where anarchist
conclusions are simply taken for granted) and what might be termed (in a pejorative sense)
ideological anarchism (where anarchist conclusions are somehow striven for). Whether this
distinction between philosophy and ideology or between the factual and intentional arrival at
particular conclusions can actually be maintained is a questionable matter for all philosophers;
but we will assume for now that the distinction makes sense, even if it sometimes breaks down
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in philosophical practice. The basic questions that arise here for anarchist philosophy, then, are:
(a) what are anarchist conclusions? (or what is the outcome of anarchist argumentation?); and (b)
how are they arrived at? (or, at a minimum, what is the starting-point for anarchist
argumentation?).
Lets examine the second question first: the question of argumentative starting-points. To
rephrase our question in pretty crude terms: what do philosophers have to work with in the first
place? Ideally, they might be in possession of certain fundamental truths revealed by some
supernatural entity, rationally self-evident, or whatever the case may be from which they could
proceed deductively in order to arrive at absolute convictions in various fields of philosophical
inquiry. So, in the field of moral philosophy, for example, it might be a fundamental truth that all
men have a series of inalienable rights; and this truth might be recognised by all or all those
who are worth taking seriously, in light of their naturally-endowed faculties of mind and sociallyendowed education. From this moral starting point, we could proceed to conclusions about
social practices, relations, and institutions which, in principle, we might all agree upon,
notwithstanding the complexities of deductive reasoning. Unfortunately, it is doubtful that there
are such fundamental truths, at least in the broad field of practical philosophy. And even if there
were such truths, the fact of the matter is that we generally disagree quite fundamentally about
them. So, assuming for the present that we lack such certain, universal argumentative startingpoints, to what on earth can we appeal in the first instance?
One possible answer to this question is: to our intuitions. Of course, further questions
follow from this answer. First: what are intuitions? And, second: what evidential weight do
intuitions carry? There is significant debate about these matters in contemporary philosophy. But
I am going to suggest answers that strike me as both (relatively) uncontroversial and plausible, at
least from the perspective of the practical (and especially the political) philosopher. That is to
say, I dont wish to make any generalized claims about the role of intuitions in all areas of
philosophy. Even assuming that philosophers in different areas are dealing with the same kind of
thing when they are dealing with intuitions, it seems to me that intuitions could still do a
different kind of work with a different degree of theoretical value in the different areas. In
any case, it is doubtful that they are dealing with exactly the same kind of thing: that the
classification intuitions that are employed in (say) epistemology and (more debatably) moral
philosophy are the same kind of thing as the factual intuitions that may be employed in political
philosophy in the way that I discuss below. One notable difference is that factual intuitions,
unlike classification intuitions, are elicited as responses to real states of affairs (as opposed to,
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say, thought experiments), about which they may constitute (truth-apt) judgments (with
propositional content) of (un)desirability and causality. Thus, factual intuitions may be complex,
though immediate, judgments which can be reconstructed as follows: state of affairs x holds; x is
(un)desirable; and x is caused by y. I will introduce some examples of such intuitions shortly, but
we need to back-up a little first.
Very generally, I take intuitions to be judgments of a certain kind. Such judgments are
principally characterized by their immediacy: that is to say, they are elicited pre-reflectively or
pre-theoretically (though this should probably be understood in relative terms: some reflection
and even some theorization is arguably necessary in order to arrive at an intuition). In other
words, intuitions are typically elicited in philosophical practice as the initial and direct response
to a problem (however adequately this problem may be formulated). Because of this, they are
often asserted rather tentatively (or simply reported), as feelings, hunches, suspicions,
misgivings, and so forth. This notion of intuitions suggests that there is nothing especially
remarkable about them. At any rate, they are not necessarily (a) the product of some special
faculty of mind, or (b) formed prior to experience, or (c) entirely uninfluenced by earlier
reflection, background knowledge, and intellectual formation. One might then wonder what
evidential value they have. My effective answer is: rather little. Intuitions are a point of departure
for theoretical reflection. They are revisable, if they subsequently prove false or (as is likely)
simply too imprecise. There is no reason to suppose that they are widely shared (across cultures,
generations, genders, social classes, and so on), let alone universal. (Experimental investigation
demonstrates pretty compellingly that they are not.) Indeed, they frequently appear to be
idiosyncratic, though this in itself does not establish their falsity. Their value, in other words,
consists in their usefulness as an argumentative starting point. One needs to start somewhere,
and immediate, revisable judgments (typically accompanied by some degree of factual and
theoretical knowledge) seem to be as good a place to start as any.
Take moral philosophy as an example. Quite often, intuitions serve to raise initial doubts
in moral philosophy doubts, for instance, about the acceptability of strictly consequentialist
notions of moral action. In themselves, these intuitive doubts do no more than cause pause for
thought. Taken somewhat more seriously (or argued through), they may lead to the imposition
of certain moral constraints on consequentialist reasoning. Taken more seriously still (or argued
through further), they may lead to a fundamental revision in consequentialist theory or even to
its rejection. The path from doubt to constraint to revision to rejection (if such a path is taken) is
an argumentative one; it is best thought of as a winding as opposed to a straight path (following
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a method of reflective equilibrium, perhaps); but it is a path on which the first step taken is
intuitive.
Where, then, does anarchist argumentation start? What is the anarchist intuition? The
historical evidence suggests that there isnt a single anarchist intuition, but a family of intuitions
which not only resemble one another, but which are conceptually bound together. Indeed, I
would argue that these anarchist intuitions are part of an extended family of radical intuitions which,
in turn, are part of an extended family of critical intuitions which, in turn, are part of an extended
family of moral intuitions. The basic moral intuition at issue might be expressed in the following
terms: wrongs should be exposed (and possibly righted). Faced with a state of affairs that strikes
us as wrong, most of us (I speculate) feel that we ought to do something about it, or at least to
speak out against it. (This doesnt entail actually doing so, of course.) We may not have any
sophisticated argument to support this feeling initially, but we feel it all the same. The basic
critical intuition in question might be expressed as follows: there is something wrong with
existing society (or existing social practices, relations, and institutions). Many of us (I speculate)
feel that the (local, regional, or global) society in which we live is somehow disordered or unjust.
Again, we may not have any sophisticated initial argument to support such a feeling but we
still feel it. As for the basic radical intuition at issue: this might be expressed as the feeling that
there is something fundamentally wrong with our society perhaps related to its basic distribution
of socio-political power. Some of us (it seems fair to say) feel that the disorder or injustice of our
society is not a superficial matter, but is, as it were, built into the defining practices, relations, and
institutions of the society. We believe, in other words, that our society is deeply disordered or
unjust, even if we are not yet in a position to justify such a judgment. Finally, I would express the
anarchist intuition in the following terms: there is something fundamentally wrong with our
society that is importantly (if not ultimately) related to its authoritative practices, relations, and
institutions. In other words, a basic problem of our disordered or unjust society is authority. But
a significant degree of argumentation would be required to support this judgment which may,
after all, turn out to be false.
Even if other anarchists accept the methodological claims made here, as well as the
characterization of intuitions themselves, they may dispute the manner in which I have expressed
the anarchist intuition. Perhaps it has more to do with power, or domination, or hierarchy, or the
state. Perhaps. But the least we can say is that there are strong conceptual ties between these
intuitions, ties which become apparent as part of the conceptual analysis of authority. More
problematically, other anarchists seem to believe in the sufficiency of their intuitions both as
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the basis for an anarchist outlook and for related social practice. Such a brand of intuitive
anarchism ignores both the possibility that the judgments in question, wholly unjustified as yet,
may simply be false. Moreover, it is faced with the fact that many people if not the vast
majority of people do not share the intuitions in question; or that they make very different
judgments. What is taken to privilege anarchist intuitions in and of themselves, let alone justify
the associated transformative social practice? It should be noted here that intuitive anarchism is
not synonymous with the dogmatic form of anarchism referred to above. The dogmatist takes
anarchist conclusions for granted (perhaps having once reached them, never to question them
thereafter). The intuitive anarchist, on the other hand, has not reached any conclusions. Thus,
while dogmatic anarchism represents a deformation of anarchist philosophy, intuitive anarchism
which resists any argumentation from its intuitive starting-point (and final destination) is
simply non-philosophical.
While I have made somewhat modest claims for anarchist intuitions, I certainly oppose
the attempt to explain them away, as is fairly common procedure. Thus, the psychologist might
be inclined to point to some pathological basis for such deviant judgments (in virtue of their
deviance). However, I take it that the deviance or, at any rate, the marginality of judgments
has no obvious bearing on their truth or falsity (though it often leads us to doubt their truth as a
matter of fact). If the anarchist intuition is mistaken, it has nothing to do with the limited
number of people who happen to share it.
So far, I have argued that the starting-point for anarchist argumentation (at least as I
pursue it) is a certain intuition about authority. The obvious question that follows is: where do
we go, or how do we proceed, from this intuitive starting-point? It seems as if our argument
must have something to do with authority. But before we can enter into substantive
argumentation about authority, reach any conclusions about authority, or even formulate a
problem of authority, some clarification is seemingly desirable (if not, in strict terms, necessary).
So, what exactly do we mean by authority? What is this authority that intuitively troubles us?
In order to satisfy the kind of argumentative or logical demands mentioned earlier, therefore, it
would seem helpful (at the very least) if we could satisfy some conceptual or semantic demands.
And in order to satisfy these demands, we may engage in a process of conceptual analysis (fairly
loosely defined at this point). Such analysis is a problematic matter, with respect to what it is
supposed to involve (and the role of intuitions therein, for example), its possibility, and even its
desirability. But we might think of the ideal of conceptual analysis here as the specification of
necessary and sufficient conditions for the application of terms. So, for example, one might
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establish that social power and rightfulness are necessary conditions, together sufficient, for
the application of the term authority. Thus, what authority means in each and every instance,
in each and every context, is captured by such an analysis. It could not possibly mean anything
else (if the analysis is properly conducted).
Understandably, such analysis raises suspicions, especially in the case of normative terms
like authority. Surely, it could be the case at least as a matter of convention that in some
other possible (not to mention actual, historical) context authority might mean something else:
it might be reducible to social power (entailing nothing about rightfulness); it might involve
further seemingly necessary conditions (such as maleness); or it might mean something wholly
unrelated to all of this. Without getting into a prolonged discussion of these matters, let us grant
that the objection holds: that the ideal of conceptual analysis, so understood, is (at best) merely
an ideal. But a case can still be made for conceptual analysis in practical philosophy: a
methodological case for analysis that yields what might be termed non-arbitrary stipulative definitions.
Thus, without attempting to make a substantive case for analysis as a theoretical activity that
yields some kind of conceptual truths, a methodological case could be made for analysis: to
establish no more than that it facilitates substantive moral evaluation, or the evaluation of moral
phenomena (like authoritative relations) understood at a certain level of generality (in terms of
authority). In the former, substantive sense, conceptual analysis might be regarded as a
philosophical end in itself. In the latter, methodological sense, conceptual analysis is regarded as
a means towards an ethical end. From the methodological perspective, the purpose of analysis is
not the discovery of a priori meaning, but the stipulation of meaning for present theoretical
purposes. And the justification for this kind of analysis rests on its theoretical usefulness: on a
claim that moral philosophy, for example, is better served by doing it than not (insofar as it
facilitates the solution of theoretical coordination problems, for example).
But is the stipulation which results from such analysis always an arbitrary affair, such that
blackness can be defined in terms of whiteness or anything else in violation of the
conventions of a given linguistic community (however the bounds of this community are
determined), for instance? I claim not: theoretically justifiable stipulation (at any rate, for ethical
purposes) must be a non-arbitrary affair; otherwise, all subsequent evaluation is wholly
immaterial, and the ethics that emerges is a complete abstraction. The measure of nonarbitrariness, as I understand it here, is the apparent necessity of at least some of the conditions
specified. Thus, non-arbitrary stipulation entails some respect for the conventions of a given
linguistic community. So, for example, the definition of authority in terms of social power is
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non-arbitrary: from the viewpoint of the linguistic community to which most of my readers
presumably belong, authority is necessarily a form of social power. Or, if it is not, then we need
to revise our analysis of authority quite fundamentally and seek to specify other seemingly
necessary conditions. However, apart from the specification of such necessary conditions, we
generally specify other contentious conditions in order to produce more adequate definitions and
to maintain a certain level of theoretical coherence and quite reasonably expect to revise these
conditions in the course of our argumentation. So, for example, the definition of authority in
terms of rightfulness might appear to be contentious and likely in need of revision though it
may still prove (evaluatively) useful for immediate theoretical purposes.
At this point, we should consider anarchist objections to conceptual analysis even of
the kind depicted above (consisting in the methodologically justifiable stipulation of seemingly
necessary and more contentious conditions for the application of terms). The general objection
to conceptual analysis seems to be that it involves the ahistorical or use-independent fixing of
meaning. Thus, conceptual analysis is an arbitrary affair, and a (consciously or unconsciously)
concealed one at that. Worse still, from an anarchist perspective, this kind of fixing is an
authoritarian act on the part of some intellectual though precisely what authoritarianism
means itself stands in need of some fixing here. In any case, while the kind of analysis depicted
above does involve the fixing of meaning (or its stipulation), it does not fix meaning in a
wholly ahistorical or use-independent manner. Indeed, it does so (non-arbitrarily) with due
respect for the conventions of a given linguistic community; that is, in a non-ahistorical and
nonuse-independent fashion.

5. Defining Anarchism

To this point, I have claimed, methodologically, that a point of departure for anarchist
argumentation is a certain anarchist intuition (or one of a family of such intuitions); and that we
proceed from this starting point by means of the conceptual analysis of relevant terms. After
this, we engage in the substantive evaluation of relevant moral phenomena (those picked out by
our intuitions and clarified by our analysis). And, ultimately, we arrive (as anarchists, if such we
are) at anarchist conclusions about these phenomena. Of course, at all stages of this
methodological sequence, we may revisit the other stages of our argument in order to revise our
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intuitions, stipulative definitions, substantive arguments, and conclusions. But, crudely


characterised, this is one direction that anarchist argumentation may be seen to take.
Having considered how anarchist conclusions might be reached, a final question remains
for this paper: what constitutes an anarchist conclusion? Presumably, an anarchist conclusion
(understood in my terms) is a conclusion about the moral phenomenon of authority. But what
kind of conclusion? A caricature of this conclusion would be that all authority is to be rejected
in principle. Is this anti-authoritarian conclusion the anarchist conclusion properly understood?
It would seem not (as a matter of fact) since many anarchists argue (i) that at least some forms of
authority are justified (if not legitimate12) and (ii) that even if this were not the case, it could be
the case (but transpires not to be). (Nevertheless, it is worth noting that some anarchists do
reach the anti-authoritarian conclusion, and reject all authority in principle. Thus, there is an antiauthoritarian brand of anarchism, though it is relatively uncommon.) Initial caution is therefore
called for in the characterization of anarchist conclusions. But, minimally, the anarchist seems to
conclude that all forms of authority are questionable and at least some of them are illegitimate if
not wholly unjustified. As such, his or her position can be defined as one of scepticism towards
authority.
There are, however, a number of objections to such an account. For some, it is simply
mistaken, in so far as the principal object of anarchist concern (sceptical or otherwise) is not
authority but, say, the state or hierarchy. The problem with an anti-statist alternative (anarchism
defined as the rejection of the state), however, is that it is too reductive to constitute even a
minimal definition. The focus of anarchist concern is not the state as such, but the authority of
the state (as well as other social powers); or not simply what the state does, but that it claims to
rightfully do so (in a similar way to other social powers). What the state does could be (and
sometimes is) done by other socio-political agents; but these other agents do not claim the same
intriguing rights that the state claims for itself.13 Similarly intriguing rights are claimed in
different ways and on different scales by any number of social powers (familial, religious,

On this distinction, see Justification and Legitimacy in A. John Simmons, Justification and Legitimacy: Essays on
Rights and Obligations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 122-57.

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Anarchists recognise this point with respect to the states positive functions (e.g., distribution of certain social
goods), but often overlook it with respect to its negative functions (e.g., exercise of coercive force). Such functions
(positive and negative) could, in principle, be performed by the Mafia. But the Mafia, unlike the state, has never been
a particular object of anarchist concern. Presumably, this is because the Mafia does not (or does not appear to) claim
the kind of special rights that so trouble anarchists.
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educational, economic, etc.), and these have also attracted the sceptical attention of anarchists. If
the state appears to attract disproportionate attention, this is most likely related to the extent of
its social power and is thus, after all, more or less proportionate.
There are two ways of defining anarchism in relation to hierarchy. The first, antihierarchical definition all hierarchy is to be rejected in principle is as implausible as the antiauthoritarian definition introduced above. Anarchists seem to regard at least some hierarchies
(real or conceivable) as justified (if not legitimate); that is, at minimum, as practically necessary (if
not otherwise desirable). Arguably, all forms of self-government and self-management require
(or even benefit from) some such social configuration, however this differs from traditional topdown forms. Even bottom-up social configurations appear to constitute hierarchies (as
opposed to completely horizontal social configurations), even if they are inverted in some way.
At any rate, there are grounds to suspect that inverted hierarchies are still hierarchies, however
justifiable or legitimate these may be.
A more promising alternative definition of anarchism is scepticism towards hierarchy. I
have to say that I am unsure exactly how anarchism so understood would actually differ from
anarchism as I understand it (as scepticism towards authority). One reason for this is that little
analysis has been conducted as yet of the concept of hierarchy, which consequently remains
rather obscure (philosophically). I can only speculate about the difference in emphasis (if nothing
else) between hierarchy and authority. Hierarchy is primarily a sociological concern: the type of
social configuration that sociologists seek to describe and explain. Authority, by contrast, is
primarily a philosophical concern: the type of normative power that philosophers seek to analyse
and evaluate. Perhaps the difference in emphasis here is largely a contingent matter (and there
are obvious historical counterexamples, such as Webers sociological treatment of authority).
Nevertheless, the very normativity of the concept of authority would appear to distinguish it
from the concept of hierarchy and to lend it to philosophical investigation.
Other objections to my definition of anarchism are based on the assertion that it is
inadequate rather than mistaken. It ignores the distinctive social, political, and economic ends
(perhaps utopian) of anarchism, as well as its means of pursuing them (notably through
prefigurative social praxis). That is to say, it reduces anarchism to its critical element (even if it
accurately identifies the object of anarchist criticism). The diversity of anarchist means and ends
a fascinating topic in its own right should certainly be examined in an adequate study of
anarchism. But this very diversity precludes the possibility of any general definition of anarchism
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which factors in means and ends. Related to this point is a final objection to my definition: that
there is no need for any such definition of anarchism. Perhaps defining it doesnt involve any
authoritarian fixing of meaning; but it is still unnecessary. I concur: in a strict sense, it is
unnecessary for the theoretical investigation of anarchism. But it is still useful. That is, it is useful
to have some minimal sense of what we mean by anarchism in mind when we are discussing it
and especially evaluating it. Of course, we may have to revisit and revise our definition in the
course of our discussion. But this possibility in itself doesnt undermine the general
methodological approach outlined in this paper.

6. Concluding Remark

In this paper, I argued that: (1) the development of anarchist theory is worthwhile; (2) the
development of anarchist theory is necessary; (3) the philosophical development of anarchist
theory is one possible avenue for such development; (4) philosophy as such might be understood
as a comprehensive argumentative process oriented toward wisdom; (5) such a process is
subject to logical and semantic demands; (6) such a process, so far as anarchism is concerned,
might depart from a certain intuition about authority; (7) such a process, so far as anarchism is
concerned, might benefit from the analysis of the concept of authority; (8) this analysis might
involve the specification of seemingly necessary and other contentious conditions for the
application of the term authority; and (9) anarchist argumentation arrives at conclusions that,
minimally, can be defined in terms of scepticism towards authority.
These arguments doubtless raise all manner of problems, both from the
metaphilosophical and the political points of view. At the most general metaphilosophical level,
there are probably problems with my conception of philosophy. More particularly, there are
probably problems with my conception of the philosophical (or, more specifically, ethical) role
of intuitions and conceptual analysis. Politically, there are probably problems with my
conception of anarchist intuitions, anarchist conclusions, and the definability of anarchism. By
no means do I claim to have solved all such problems. But I do hope to have clarified and
motivated such methodological matters to a certain extent.

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