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Some of the most basic concepts in anarchist theory can prove terribly slippery when we try to apply them — sometimes even when we apply them with great care. Authority is arguably the most difficult of these notions to tame, which obviously poses problems for us, given the central place of anti-authoritarian critique in anarchist analyses. So, in response to some questions that have emerged since the first post on authority and hierarchy, I want to spend just a little more time exploring the concept in the context of anarchist theory.
There are a lot of clarifications that we might attempt to make, but I want to focus on a couple of basic conceptual difficulties that the anarchist is likely to confront when thinking about authority. These difficulties are, I think, the source of most of the confusions that arise. And I am going to pay particular attention to the distinction between force and authority, which is the occasion for a number of familiar questions or critiques.
Fair warning: these “notes” attempt to cover a lot of ground, by a necessarily circuitous route, before proposing a fairly simple observation about the nature and potential origins of authority. There will be some familiar ground covered and some questions left obviously unanswered. For this, I apologize in advance, but these “notes” are really intended to highlight aspects of anarchist theory that are not, or are not yet amenable to tidier sorts of analysis.
The distinction between force and authority as concepts seems clear and difficult to deny. Force belongs to the realm of matter, while authority belongs to the realm of ideas. One is a matter of fact, while the other is a matter of right. The exercise of force depends on capacities, while the authority to exercise force depends on permissions. We can distinguish them, just as we do with the various forms of “can” and “may.” None of these specific distinctions exhausts the differences, but there seem to be no shortage of similar pairings that might reinforce them. There are familiar terms, like “power,” which may refer to either force or authority, given different contexts, and there are social theories that tie the two concepts more or less closely to one another, as when it is claimed that “might makes right.” But neither circumstance erases the fairly obvious differences.
When we use these concepts to critique governmental institutions and other archic forms of social relations, the distinctions arguably become clearer. We can point to instances where individuals have the capacity to perform some act, but not the authority — and, vice versa, instances where there is authority, but not capacity. We are familiar with the concept of a power vacuum, where structures capable of conferring authority persist, but, for one reason or another, no candidate (fully capable or otherwise) is able to assume the role of authority. We know that force is often used to enforce the dictates of authority and that force sometimes determines who will be able to wield authority — but, despite close connections, the two terms seem to remain distinct. If we understand authority in terms of permissions or prior sanctions, we may stumble a bit simply trying to work out the dynamics of “might makes right,” where sanction seems to be retroactive — but there I think we have to recognize that while the phrase is quite familiar, the difficulties our analysis might face arise chiefly from the fact that, as a system, it just ain’t all that. In any event, even proposing it seems to depend on some desire to maintain the dimension of “right,” thus of authority, separate from might or force.
Things might, however, look a bit different when we try to talk about the origins of authority. Some of our most frequently asked questions in anarchist circles relate to power vacuums, competing warlords, violent gangs, charismatic leaders, etc. — all instances that attempt to explain the emergence of authority and hierarchy by the exercise of superior or exceptional capacities. To one extent or another, all of these proposed scenarios seem to share the the logic, such as it is, of “might makes right.” Usurping force — which seems a fair characterization in most of these cases — cannot itself be sanctioned in advance by the existing authority, but can somehow be sanctioned retroactively, after some particularly successful exercise of capacities, if only because “nature abhors a vacuum.” If that’s the case, however, there must presumably be some authority that sanctions the transfer of authority, some higher authority (“nature,” “God,” etc.), which, we would have to guess, had sanctioned the previous authority before it proved itself unworthy, incapable, etc.
We might argue that all systems of authority suffer from a similar defect, depending on some higher authority that authorizes the authority in question, whether or not it acknowledges it. After all, the question of the “origin of authority” itself assumes that something, which is not itself authority, can not only create a capacity to permit or prohibit, but somehow also bring into being its authority to authorize. Ultimately, there aren’t many likely candidates, if we rule out those, like “God” or “nature,” that seem beyond our powers to verify in any very satisfactory sense. Trying to divide up authority into “legitimate” and “illegitimate” forms (presumably informing “justifiable” or “unjustifiable” hierarchies, etc.) seems, if anything, to underline the fact that, even in the minds of those who believe in authority, there seems to be some sense that authority itself needs to be authorized in some way. The result is that anyone pursuing the question to this point doesn’t seem to have many choices but to simply accept the existence of authority as a feature of existence — inexplicable to some significant degree, but nonetheless capable of sanctioning various specific, subsidiary forms of authority in human social relations — or reject the notion as, at best, some form of persistent misunderstanding of the nature of things.
Recognition of this impasse seems to be one of the more important lessons of our examination of authority. — And we could probably stop right there, simply dispensing with the notion of authority at all, treating it as a kind of persistent figment of the social imagination, if our only concern was to construct accounts of the world consistent with the anarchist critique. In the work of general anarchist theory that I’m currently writing, for example, I don’t see any particular reason to make use of the notions of authority or hierarchy — except in some critical and historical analyses. The same is true in many of our discussion in forums like r/Anarchy101. But the point in those cases is very precisely to show that we can give an adequate account of anarchistic social relations without those concepts. The fact remains that, for now, authority is a persistent figment indeed, which means that we probably need to — very carefully — extend our commentary just a bit.
Authority has been naturalized in archic societies and there doesn’t seem to be any denying that it plays a role, that it has a certain social power — perhaps even a certain force — in existing societies. That would seem to challenge some of what we have already said, to plow through distinctions that otherwise seem quite clear. In order to avoid making what follows excessively philosophical, I am just going to take a quick look at some passages from Proudhon’s The Federative Principle, where he also naturalizes authority — but in his own inimitable way — and see if perhaps there is one more important lesson we can learn.
Allow me to quote the revelent passage in its entirety:
The political order rests fundamentally on two contrary principles, AUTHORITY and Liberty: the first initiator, the second determiner; the latter having free reason as its corollary, the former the faith which obeys.
Against this first proposal, I do not think that a single voice is raised. Authority and Liberty are as old in the world as the human race: they are born with us, and are perpetuated in each of us. Let us note only one thing, to which few readers would pay attention on their own: these two principles form, so to speak, a couple, whose two terms, indissolubly linked to each other, are nevertheless irreducible to one another, and remain, whatever we do, in perpetual struggle. Authority invincibly presupposes a Liberty that recognizes it or denies it; Liberty in its turn, in the political sense of the word, also supposes an Authority that treats with it, restrains it or tolerates it. Remove one of the two, the other no longer makes sense: Authority, without a Liberty to challenge, resist or submit to it is an empty word; Liberty, without an Authority to counterbalance it, is nonsense.
The principle of Authority, familial principle, patriarchal, magisterial, monarchic, theocratic, tending to hierarchy, centralization, absorption, is given by nature, is therefore essentially fatal or divine, as one wishes. Its action, resisted, hampered by the contrary principle, can indefinitely expand or be restricted, but without ever being able to be annihilated.
The principle of Liberty, personal, individualistic, critical; agent of division, of election, of transaction, is given by the mind. An essentially arbitral principle, therefore, superior to the Nature that it makes use of, to the fatality that it dominates; unlimited in its aspirations; susceptible, like its opposite, to extension and restriction, but just as incapable as the latter of being exhausted by development or of being annihilated by constraint.
It follows from this that in every society, even the most authoritarian, a portion is necessarily left to Liberty; likewise in every society, even the most liberal, a portion is reserved for Authority. This condition is absolute; no political combination can avoid it. In spite of the understanding whose effort incessantly tends to resolve diversity into unity, the two principles remain present and always in opposition. The political movement results om their inescapable tendency and their mutual reaction.
All this, I admit, is perhaps nothing very new, and more than one reader will ask me if this is all I have to teach him. No one denies either Nature or Mind, whatever darkness envelops them; there is not a publicist who dreams of taking issue with Authority or Liberty, although their reconciliation, separation and elimination seem equally impossible. Where then am I proposing to come from, in recasting this commonplace?
I will say it: it is that all political constitutions, all systems of government, federation included, can be reduced to this formula, the Balancing of Authority by Liberty, and vice versa;…
This is classic Proudhon, in that he presents what he considers a “commonplace,” against which not “a single voice” is likely to be raised, but he presents it in terms that we might reasonably suspect would draw objections from far more than one voice. He establishes a series of parallel conceptions: Authority is connected to initiation, to Nature and to “the faith which obeys,” while Liberty is connected to determination, to Mind and to “free reason.” Liberty is in some sense “superior” to Authority, but both principles are to be balanced, indeed are balanced, he suggests, in “all systems of government,” suggesting a range of possible strategies for achieving equilibrium. There’s a lot of interesting stuff going on here, but I’m not sure it’s the stuff people expect from a discussion of authority.
Proudhon’s account is perhaps never entirely clear. There are reasons to regret that he never got around to writing the fuller examination of the federative principle that he intended. But, in broad strokes, we have authority presented as something initiated by Nature and accepted, if it is accepted, by an obedient faith. Liberty, on the other hand, is connected to the reception — perhaps the interception — of what is initiated by nature, with reasoned examination, reflection and determination.
Without going too far into the interpretation of Proudhon’s work, I think we can at least suggest that this conception of things does provide us with some tools for those critical and historical analyses, without, in the process, committing us to anything at odds with anarchist theory. But these are certainly not orthodox or even particularly familiar conceptions, and some of what it would be most useful for us to know about them in our own context seem to be among the gaps in Proudhon’s own exposition. So, at least in the short term, we will probably have to be a bit creative in how we approach these senses of authority and liberty.
Let’s begin with another, more familiar instance of an anarchist at least generalizing, if perhaps not quite naturalizing expertise: Bakunin’s “authority of the bootmaker.” The source in this case is again rather imperfect, as “God and the State” is an unpolished fragment of the much larger, unfinished work The Knouto-Germanic Empire and the Social Revolution — and as its best-known passage immediately follows a break in the manuscript, before which Bakunin was at least using a rather different rhetoric, if not making a different point. Here is an excerpt that straddles the interruption, containing two aspects of Bakunin’s thought on experts and authority:
It is the characteristic of privilege and of every privileged position to kill the mind and heart of men. The privileged man, whether politically or economically, is a man depraved intellectually and morally. That is a social law that admits no exception, and is as applicable to entire nations as to classes, companies, and individuals. It is the law of equality, the supreme condition of liberty and humanity. The principal aim of this treatise is precisely to elaborate on it, to demonstrate its truth in all the manifestations of human life.
A scientific body to which had been confided the government of society would soon end by no longer occupying itself with science at all, but with quite another business; and that business, the business of all established powers, would be to perpetuate itself by rendering the society confided to its care ever more stupid and consequently more in need of its government and direction.
But that which is true of scientific academies is also true of all constituent and legislative assemblies, even when they are the result of universal suffrage. Universal suffrage may renew their composition, it is true, but this does not prevent the formation in a few years’ time of a body of politicians, privileged in fact though not by right, who, by devoting themselves exclusively to the direction of the public affairs of a country, finally form a sort of political aristocracy or oligarchy. Witness the United States of America and Switzerland.
Consequently, no external legislation and no authority—one, for that matter, being inseparable from the other, and both tending to the enslavement of society and the degradation of the legislators themselves.
Does it follow that I drive back every authority? The thought would never occur to me. When it is a question of boots, I refer the matter to the authority of the cobbler; when it is a question of houses, canals, or railroads, I consult that of the architect or engineer. For each special area of knowledge I speak to the appropriate expert. But I allow neither the cobbler nor the architect nor the scientist to impose upon me. I listen to them freely and with all the respect merited by their intelligence, their character, their knowledge, reserving always my incontestable right of criticism and verification. I do not content myself with consulting a single specific authority, but consult several. I compare their opinions and choose that which seems to me most accurate. But I recognize no infallible authority, even in quite exceptional questions; consequently, whatever respect I may have for the honesty and the sincerity of such or such an individual, I have absolute faith in no one. Such a faith would be fatal to my reason, to my liberty, and even to the success of my undertakings; it would immediately transform me into a stupid slave and an instrument of the will and interests of another.
If I bow before the authority of the specialists and declare myself ready to follow, to a certain extent and as long as may seem to me necessary, their indications and even their directions, it is because that authority is imposed upon me by no one, neither by men nor by God. Otherwise I would drive them back in horror, and let the devil take their counsels, their direction, and their science, certain that they would make me pay, by the loss of my liberty and human dignity, for the scraps of truth, wrapped in a multitude of lies, that they might give me.
There are some familiar notions here, starting with the opposition between authority, characterized here as privilege and “the mind and heart,” which it tends to “kill.” This is, Bakunin says, “a social law that admits no exception, and is as applicable to entire nations as to classes, companies, and individuals,” and “the principal aim of this treatise is precisely to elaborate on it, to demonstrate its truth in all the manifestations of human life.” In the paragraphs prior to the break, Bakunin doesn’t mince words. Authority has its own overwhelming agenda and effectively cancels out whatever expertise might have excused authoritarian privilege. We don’t just have the possibility of rights without capacities: the right to command seems destined to “kill” the capacity to do so according to any standard but that of maintaining privilege.
Consequently, no external legislation and no authority—one, for that matter, being inseparable from the other, and both tending to the enslavement of society and the degradation of the legislators themselves.
Then we have the break in the manuscript — and suddenly we’re bowing to cobblers.
Except that Bakunin’s conception of authority in this section seems as idiosyncratic as Proudhon’s in The Federative Principle.
If I bow before the authority of the specialists and declare myself ready to follow, to a certain extent and as long as may seem to me necessary, their indications and even their directions, it is because that authority is imposed upon me by no one, neither by men nor by God.
With these unfinished texts, it’s hard to know how seriously to take the details, but, for better or worse, all that we have to work with is the text as Bakunin left it. So we are left grappling with a form of “bowing” to “the authority of experts” which is at once “necessary” and “imposed… by no one.” Bakunin recognizes no “infallible authority” and thus has no “absolute faith,” as “Such a faith would be fatal to my reason, to my liberty…” This would seem to be a fairly explicit rejection of the inescapable authority that Proudhon proposes, expressed in Proudhon’s own terms. Authority requires faith and is opposed to reason. It is a very anarchistic statement of principle — but to what extent is the principle practicable? Bakunin talks about comparing the opinions of experts, accepting them in a partial manner, etc. — practices that would seem to entail a rather complete rejection of authority (by nearly any definition), as well as a skeptical response to even well-established expertise. But he still seems to be left with instances where it remains necessary to “bow” “to a certain extent and as long as may seem to me necessary.”
And is necessity ever anything but absolute?
We can understand why Bakunin would bow to necessity, and Proudhon has given us reason to believe that the same would have been true for him. Necessity is perhaps not itself a force, but it tends to manifest itself forcefully, through some sort of material exigency. But is there any reason why Bakunin might bow to expertise as expertise? Or, to ask the question in a different way, is there anything inherent in the expertise of someone else that can create a necessity for us?
Necessity would seem to be absolute, while expertise always seems to have limits. In “God and the State,” Bakunin’s analysis continues in these terms:
I bow before the authority of exceptional men because it is imposed upon me by my own reason. I am conscious of my ability to grasp, in all its details and positive developments, only a very small portion of human science. The greatest intelligence would not be sufficient to grasp the entirety. From this results, for science as well as for industry, the necessity of the division and association of labor. I receive and I give — such is human life. Each is a directing authority and each is directed in his turn. So there is no fixed and constant authority, but a continual exchange of mutual, temporary, and, above all, voluntary authority and subordination.
This same reason prohibits me, then, from recognizing a fixed, constant, and universal authority-figure, because there is no universal man, no man capable of grasping in that wealth of detail, without which the application of science to life is impossible, all the sciences, all the branches of social life. And if such a universality was ever realized in a single man, and if be wished to take advantage of it in order to impose his authority upon us, it would be necessary to drive that man out of society, because his authority would inevitably reduce all the others to slavery and imbecility.
It seems fair to observe that this analysis, while arguably insightful and potentially useful, is not presented in terms that allow us to apply it without a considerable amount of interpretive work and general tidying of the language. We’re presented with an “authority” that is “imposed” on the individual by their own reason — a faculty that Bakunin, like Proudhon, associates with liberty. But the context, which establishes the foundation for what we are likely to recognize as anti-authoritarian, egalitarian social relations, is all about the limits of reason.
It would appear that the element that determines the persistence of authority is not the capacities of others, but our own incapacities. Bowing to cobblers seems like a provocative notion — particularly alongside familiar questions about the “authority” of brain-surgeons, etc. — but then there comes a time when we need shoes, but don’t know how to make them, at which point we are force to consider all of the various things that we need but don’t have the means to produce in our complex societies. Our condition is one of mutual interdependence, with the sum of our various incapacities, and the potential “subordinations” they entail, being far greater than our individual capacities and potential instances of “directing authority.” If we are to try to balance one against the other at any given moment, it isn’t clear that the relative increase in “authority” over “subordination” achieved in those moments where an individual is allowed to lead does much to change their general “subordination.” Then we must factor in the fact that all of this is presumably arranged on a purely voluntary basis, leaving us to deal with the notion of “voluntary subordination,” which certainly doesn’t add much clarity to the overall picture. But, finally, we must also account for the fact that Bakunin at least seems to acknowledge that this “voluntary subordination” is, at the same time, necessary, at least for a time.
It seems to me that, individually, we are not meaningfully subordinate, as individuals, to other individuals, nor are they meaningfully subordinate to us in those moments when it is our turn to lead in some specific context. We seem to be more or less equally different — and interdependent in ways that mean our individual lives and experiences are almost certain to have a large social element. In the context of this kind of analysis, it isn’t clear to me that the notion of authority adds any clarity to our understanding of social dynamics. (The same seems true for hierarchy.)
We might, on the other hand, be subordinate to the mass of other individuals with whom we are socially connected — society, perhaps humanity in a complex, global civilization — but, while society might have a recognizable existence of its own, that existence still seems to be an expression of human individuals interacting, and interacting with their environment, in relations of mutual interdependence. There seem to be opening to this sort of analysis in the thought of both Bakunin and Proudhon, but also explicit attempts to show why it should be rejected. In the memoirs on property, for example, Proudhon acknowledges that individual human beings will always find themselves in debt to society, but in later works, where he was exploring the real existence of “collective persons,” he took care to deny their superior standing. (“[The State] is itself, if I may put it this way, a sort of citizen…” — Theory of Taxation.)
What remains, then, to be accounted for in these accounts of more or less naturalized “authority”? With Bakunin, we still have to account for the force of necessity, which seems to take us outside the realm of voluntary relations, which seems like to once again involve the individual’s share of incapacity. With Proudhon, there is the association of authority with an initiating function and the question of the persistence of authority despite the opposition of reason. In the “common sense” of authoritarian societies, there is the recognition of authority as a ubiquitous necessity of social organization and order.
What strikes me about what remains is that all of the elements that the anarchist Proudhon and Bakunin seem inclined to naturalize as “authority” are products of the realm of facts and force. Bakunin is really concerned with the effects of human incapacity in the face of complex material realities. Proudhon is particularly concerned with what he described as the “immanent spontaneity” of social collectivities. The “authority” of nature or of already existing social collectivities seems to consist entirely of forces exerted by them, which reason is either powerless, for one reason or another to confront — resulting in some share of authority in the eventual balance — or which is subject to the interventions of reason — which tips the balance toward “liberty” in Proudhon’s terms. Nature and society on one hand; human reason and liberty, transforming nature and society on the other: nothing here depends on anything outside the broadly material realm.
And when we try to account for the perceived ubiquity of authority in these terms, perhaps we are just left with the more-or-less Feuerbachian hypothesis that any presumed higher authority is really a misunderstood human capacity, misunderstood in large part because it is a collective capacity.
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