The Anxiety of Freedom

Front matter

o

IMAGINATION

AND INDIVIDUALITY

Contents

Acknowledgments ix 1. Introduction I Passions of the Mind 3 Madness and the Imagination 15 Below the Threshold: Liberals and Communitarians 24

Obscured Beginnings 31

2. The Critique of Scriptural Politics 37 Scriptural Politics: An Underlying Discourse 40 Prescribing the Context 49 Paternity and Property 56 The Emergence of a Political Narrative 59 “Binding Men’s Consciences” 63

Index

Acknowledgments

This book is a reading of John Locke’s political thought, and, because it is, I am particularly indebted to the two teachers and friends who taught me how to read—Sheldon Wolin, then at Princeton University, and the late David Lachterman, then at Swarthmore College. From both of them I learned that a text is much more than a compilation of ideas which should be distilled and held up to the scrutiny of critical gaze. From both of them I learned that the activity of reading involves straining to hear distant echoes and making them clear by an active process of imaginative mutuality. It seems fitting that in a work that focuses on the imagination I should have had the guidance of Sheldon Wolin.

While at Princeton, I benefited from the help of numerous friends. Irene Applebaum, Peter Benda, Sandra Clarke, Beenu Mahmood, Kirstie McClure, Tim Mitchell, and Helen Pringle all made valuable contributions to this project. Jeff Tulis and Anne Norton have continued, through the process of revision, to offer help, criticism, and counsel. Their contribution, as they know all too well, has been indispensable.

More recently, Hayward Alker and Steven Macedo offered challenging critiques. Ellen Immergut and Bonnie Honig provided numerous insights, especially for the introduction, and helped refashion the work. Maria Clelia Guinazu helped in numerous and timely ways. I am also deeply indebted to Eva Nagy for all her help.

x Acknowledgments

Roger Haydon of Cornell University Press performed a minor miracle for this book. I am deeply grateful to him.

Joshua Cohen has read and reread more drafts of this book than either he or I care to recall. His exacting critical standards are happily matched with an intellectual generosity that is simply exemplary. He has led me to rethink a project in which I was deeply invested, and yet somehow he has made that process exhilarating.

Peter and Mary Katzenstein literally kept me going at a point when I did not think I had the physical or intellectual resources to continue. This book is evidence of their longstanding kindness and persistence. To Mary in particular I owe that special intellectual debt that stems from observing, speaking with, and listening to someone in whom ideas (and actions) are braided with deep and generous convictions.

In its original form this work owed its conception and its completion to the friendship, support, example, and faith of Yesim Arat. Through the process of revision, she has continued, despite the distance of time and space, to serve as an unerring inspiration. And finally, my debt to my wife, Tej: There are too many respects in which this work is the product of a joint effort. On every page and paragraph, I have had her advice and help. This book would not have been possible without her.

U.S.M.

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Introduction

The chief, if not only spur to human industry and action is uneasiness [of the mind].

—John Locke

The liberalism with which John Locke (1632—1704) is commonly identified has its origins in two widely shared and profoundly influential seventeenth-century assumptions: first, that human beings are by their nature free, rational, and equal; second, that they are therefore capable of murder, theft, and mayhem and are hence in mortal danger. Liberalism thus originates in ambivalence—in the need to order, if not limit, what it valorizes to be natural and emancipatory.

The commitment to constitutional government, with its authority limited by the sovereignty of the people, the emphasis on the rule of law as the means by which this authority is to be exercised, and, crucially, the identification of and protection from arbitrary abridgement of individual rights, including the right to property—these are the familiar responses, subsequently designated as liberal, to the hope and vexation that stem from these two epochal assumptions. In Locke, and more generally in the liberal tradition he has spawned, the intuitive justification for the institutions these responses define derives from the presumption that they establish determinate spheres of moral right which comport with the interests of free, rational, and equal, individuals and in so doing avert the diabolical consequences immanent in the unregulated interactions of our natural condition. Liberal politi-

I cal institutions, one might say, are motivated and guided by the artifice of embedding the interactions among individuals within normative precincts and allowing individuals to be who they are within the constraints and possibilities of those precincts.

The defining problem of modern political philosophy, and of liberalism as a salient instance of that philosophy, is the justification of political authority and its various subsidiary institutions—an authority that is required for the stability of liberalism’s normative precincts. This is so precisely because such institutions place constraints on what is taken as fundamental and natural, namely, the freedom of the individual. It is in response to this problem that the conflicts among individuals, that is, their capacity to murder and infringe on each other, are most commonly traduced as a justifying basis. Because we have interests and appetites and the acknowledged freedom to pursue such interests, and because in such pursuit we encounter others similarly motivated, and finally because such encounters can lead to violent and dire consequences, we agree, within constraints, to have our interests and freedom ordered and limited by an external authority. This is the archetypal narrative underlying the modern justification of political authority. It has a flexibility that allows it to take various forms. Interests, for instance, can be attached simply to individuals or to groups based on social and economic class, occupational commonalities, gender, ethnic associations, and various other combinations. Whatever their particular configuration, they are meant to vindicate the basic idea that a conflict of interests backed by appetites occasions the need for institutions that can ameliorate the diabolical effects of such encounters.

As a response toa historical predicament, this account captures many of the central political and social modalities of seventeenth-century England. The fact that Locke was deeply preoccupied with such sources of conflict and instability and that the political institutions he designed were meant at least in part as a redress to them is beyond credible dispute. He was writing during and in the immediate aftermath of the most turbulent and fractious years of English history: it would have been almost impossible to have remained indifferent to or complacent about the varied interests that had all but shattered the society he lived in.

Passions of the Mind

Notwithstanding the significance and reach of interests and appetites as motivators and explanators of conflict (and cooperation), they do not come close to exhausting the sources of such behavior, or of human endeavor more generally. In this book I pursue this simple insight. In contrast to the common emphasis on interests and appetites as underlying the project of liberalism, I view this project, as Locke elaborated it, as a response to cognitive concerns and specifically to a concern with the effects of the imagination and other passions associated with the mind. The contrast between the consequences of interests and the consequences of cognitive considerations is ultimately a matter of emphasis. It is not my purpose to deny the role played by the former; I am more concerned with pointing to the largely ignored significance, presence, and political implications of the latter. This contrast in emphasis does, however, have far-reaching effects on the puzzles we construct and the questions we ask of Locke, of liberalism, and of the societies most of us live in. Asa single instance of such an effect, the acknowledgment of cognitive anxieties and a concern with the implications of the imagination reveal the sense and extent to which Locke is concerned not merely with settling the boundaries between individuals, that is, questions of peace, order, and authority, but also, while being concerned with these very questions, with settling the internal boundaries of individuals. In the concluding chapter of this work, I suggest that the status we accord to what we do in private—the familiar focus of privacy rights—is itself inextricably related to the status we accord to the imagination and to the way we conceptualize the human capacity to fantasize. ! Locke is concerned not merely with individuals’ interests but also with their subjective identities. As such he is, even as a political thinker or rather perhaps because he is a political thinker, concerned with a broadly psychological issue.

Underlying individual actions are a wide range of motives and dispositions, including, of course, urges that stem from capacities we do not under many circumstances feel in full control of. The elaboration of such a claim may have its fullest expression in the psychoanalytical tradition, but the basic insight that informs it is, as Freud himself emphasized, as ancient as “the poets” and a familiar feature of ordinary experience.* One need not invoke concepts such as the “unconscious” or deeply repressed childhood fantasies to give credence to the thought that much of human action and many of the conflicts attending it derive from passions, impulses, and drives the effects of which are made more threatening by virtue of the intractable sources from which they spring. The human capacity to imagine, to fantasize, and to treat such fantasies as real have political associations that go back at least as far as Plato’s banishment of the poets from his republic.

The seventeenth century is similarly replete with the minutiae of interiority, of feelings, of autobiography, of psychologically revealing self portraits, of lonely Protestant consciences rustling

| Recently much has been written about fantasy, especially by feminist scholars. See Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990), and “The Force of Fantasy: Feminism, Mapplethorpe, and Discursive Excess,” Differences 2 (Summer 1990), 105-25; Andrea Dworkin, Pornography: Men Possessing Women (New York: Seal, 1981); Jean Laplanche, “Formation of Fantasy,” in Formation of Fantasy, ed. Victor Burgin, James Donald, and Cora Kaplan (London: Methuen, 1986). Also, Jean-Paul Sartre’s The Psychology of the Imagination (1940; London: Methuen, 1972), though not recent, remains a classic.

2Sigmund Freud, An Autobiographical Sketch, trans. James Strachey (New York: W. W. Norton, 1952), p. 56.

with the absence of “superiors,” and, perhaps most telling, of private diaries usually, as with Locke, written in cypher. Of the diary during this period Christopher Hill has said, “[it] does not put before us a single rounded personality, but a broken bundle of mirrors.”? It was, after all, a remarkable register or balance sheet into which were compressed the details of manifold internal struggles: of indolence and ascetic self-discipline, of spiritual deviation and rectitude, of passionate and voluptuous fantasies and literal collusions or chastisements, of work done and procrastinated, of emotions experienced and suppressed—and all this recorded and scrutinized in private. The status accorded the imagination in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries reveals it as simultaneously informing the rich efflorescence of utopian and dissenting thought and being held liable by Milton, no less, for Eve’s fateful transgression.* It is not surprising that in times when the political, theological, and scientific mold of the past millennium was being recast, the imagination would acquire almost unprecedented prestige. And yet, precisely because it was recognized for authoring these forceful effects, it was almost immediately condemned by the further potential it was assumed to embody. In England, at least, with the seventeenth century we approach and cross that cusp before which, in Michel Foucault’s words, “everyday individuality . . . remained below the threshold of description.”°

In emphasizing interests and appetites to the exclusion of other sources of human conflict and anxiety, we risk overlooking aspects of modern individuality that give it much of its richness

3 Christopher Hill, Writing and Revolution in Seventeenth-Century England (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1985), 1:259.

+“Assaying by his Devilish art to reach / The Organs of her Fancy, and with them forge / Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, / Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint / Th’ animal spirits that from pure blood arise / Like gentle breath from Rivers pure, thence raise / At least distemper’d, discontented thoughts, / Vain hopes, inordinate desires, / Blown up with high conceit engend’ring pride”; John Milton, Paradise Lost, IV: 801-9.

5 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 1979), p. 12.

and specificity and through which it is itself formed. Similarly, by viewing the basis and justification of political institutions by reference to interests and appetites, we obscure, by not acknowledging, their complex relationship with the psychological desiderata of modern individuality. And perhaps most important, by emphasizing the role of interests to the exclusion of cognitive considerations, we distort and understate the constraining effects of liberal institutions on the very individuality to which these institutions are meant to give expression.

I attempt to redress this absence, first, by elaborating the significance of certain cognitive (i.e., nonappetitive) features of human nature by displaying their manifest importance in Locke’s political thought, and, second, by revealing Locke’s response to the presence of these features and in the process suggesting how in Locke the broad contours of what one takes to be the individual derive from this response. To summarize, my central claim is that for Locke the coherence and stability of his liberalism depend on its capacity to foster successfully a particular self-understanding in which individuals come to view themselves as individuals, and that sucha self-understanding is heavily contingent on embedding individuals within liberal institutions, including, most centrally, liberal education. Locke’s view of education, despite a plethora of mundane details, is principally a response to the volatile effects he associates with the untutored or natural imagination. Above all else, it is an attempt to rein in the imagination, to anchor it in the fixity of habits, to curb its potential extravagance and depth by imbuing it with an outlook of deference to authority and social norms—in a word, to discipline and hence standardize its potential effects. Modern political philosophy since Machiavelli has often been acknowledged as emphasizing, in contrast to the ancients, the theme of political artifice, techne, and construction generally. I suggest how, despite the language of human nature, the reach of this theme includes the artificing of a particular kind of individuality.

As the term itself suggests, individuality can take various forms, and the phenomenon to which it refers can similarly be variously described. One such account is found in Albert Hirschman’s important and highly suggestive book The Passions and the Interests. Hirschman draws attention to the emergence and acknowledgment of self-interest as a socially salutary mode of behavior by a variety of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century authors.® The moral and political endorsement of self-interested behavior was valorized through a contrast with the unpredictable and often violent consequences attached to the passions. Hirschman gives a fascinating account of how the old Christian association between avarice and sin was uncoupled to popularize and advocate the pursuit of self-interest. But to appreciate fully the originality of these advocates one must be clear about what they were opposing and the long-standing legacy they confronted. The preference for self-interest arose because it gave human actions a predictable and stable course in contrast to the passions, with their characteristically elusive underpinnings and volatile effects. Whereas the former encouraged a cautious attitude of calculation—balancing risks and benefits—the latter typically involved single-minded behavior with ruinous side effects. Similarly, whereas behavior governed by the interests was characteristically “cool and deliberate,” the passions were widely disparaged as leading to impulsive, heated, and irrational acts. Hirschman’s focus is almost exclusively on the aristocratic and militaristic passion for glory, with its ideal of conquest and its bloody effects.’

Despite Hirschman’s rather narrow focus on glory, the point he makes regarding the passions as the mark of a particularly

6 Albert Hirschman, The Passions and the Interests: Political Arguments for Capitalism before Its Triumph (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977).

7For an interesting critical discussion of Hirschman, see Stephen Holmes, “The Secret History of Self-Interest,” in Beyond Self-Interest, ed. Jane Mansbridge (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), pp. 267-86.

subversive kind of behavior has a broader plausibility and an ancient association. Ancient and modern literature is replete with lists of specific passions such as anger, envy, and melancholy, the effects of which are singled out as conspicuous expressions of a special deformity with marked social consequences. Perhaps any generalization regarding the composition of such lists and their underlying justification is bound to be inadequate without considerable contextual support, although the salience of passions with an obvious cognitive component is revealing. Despite this important caveat, three features stand out which distinguish certain passions and explain the widespread antipathy and suspicion they have provoked at least, though not exclusively, since the seventeenth century.

There is above all the aspect of an absence of self-control. Our common parlance still captures the sense in which particular passions lead to outbursts or even moments of paralysis that are unified by the fact that they are understood to stem from an absence of deliberative intervention. Saint Augustine identifies precisely this feature in his interpretation of the fall from innocence when Adam and Eve cover their genitals. For Augustine, the shame ascribed to this moment is of secondary significance and is, in any case, explained by the fact that, having eaten from the forbidden fruit and thus splintered the unitary divine force that informed the world, Adam at least finds his genitals moving “on their own accord.” Because that original transgression releases a force that humans beings manifest but over which they have in fact only an illusionary and partial control, Adam and Eve’s disobedience expresses a hubris to which the piety and quietude of faith are the only redress. It is not surprising that sexuality and the passions associated with it should come to symbolize in the Western tradition what Foucault calls the “seismograph of . . . subjectivity.”8

Linked to this absence of self-control is a second feature that

8M. Foucault, “Sexuality and Solitude,” in On Signs, ed. Marshall Blonsky (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985), p. 368.

underlies the impugning of various passions. Passions have an air of mystery attached to them. Unlike interests, whose justifications as motivators of human actions can be gleaned from the surface because they are acknowledged as interests only when some plausible advantage can be said to accrue from them, the passions, even though they are named and as such have a denominal identity, often designate a person only as being under the governance of an inscrutable motive. In this, the madman, the neurotic, and the divine, or at any rate the religious enthusiast, are the objects of shared suspicion.

Finally, and again closely linked with an absence of self-control, is the aspect of misguided excess. We identify passion, as the term in its common usage itself suggests, with activities and impulses in which some presumed limit is transgressed and where, as it were, the destination of the activity is either unknown, insatiable, or willfully denied. This feature is perhaps best captured by the familiar expression “to be blinded by passion.”?

As becomes evident in Chapter 3, Locke identifies and impugns the imagination with all three of these threatening features. Still, a focus on the imagination and cognitive features more generally is largely absent in interpretations of Locke’s political thought, as is a recognition of the extent of his ambivalence about the human capacities he acknowledges as natural. It is as though we have read and accepted the term “natural” with a premodern solemnity associated with dispositions and attributes chiseled in granite. Yet, it is around the very terms “nature” and “naturalness” that the most creative artifices of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century theorizing are constructed. In Bacon, Vico,

Descartes, and, conspicuously, Hobbes, the term “nature” is deployed as an elaborate pun in which a concept resonant with ancient echoes of universality and necessity is serviced to promote a program replete with contingency and artifice. !°

° The idea of passions as blinding has far-reaching importance for Hobbes. See Butler, “Force of Fantasy.” 10The theme of naturalness and artifice inaugurates Hobbes's Leviathan:

It is the inculcation and consolidation of specific selfunderstandings, forged in response to Locke’s recognition of particular features of the mind as fundamental to a stable order, that protect the determinate spheres and moral rights associated with liberalism. The profound and pervasive anxiety regarding these natural cognitive tendencies necessitates their reconstitution along with a specification of the possibilities for their expresssion. When Locke at the outset of the Second Treatise declares that we “must of necessity find out another rise of Government . . . [and] another Original of Political Power,” he immediately follows this ambitious propaedeutic with the announcement that we must find “another way of designing and knowing the Persons” who are to have political power."' In light of Locke’s anxieties and apprehensions pertaining to the mind, his remark regarding the need to design the persons who are to have political power can be seen as having literal importance.

This process of design or reconstitution is what in Chapter 4 I call the formation of individuality and it is in the course of this formation that I characterize Locke as trying to limit the acceptable forms individuality can take. At the center of Locke’s theory of individuality is an emphasis on self-control and moderation, both of which are seen as derivative of the correct exercise of reason. These may very well be important virtues for individuals who, in the pursuit of their interests, run up against similar individuals. But, if the argument I am making is correct, Locke valorizes these virtues by reference to a wholly different anxiety or problematic, and they thus have a different set of effects and

“Nature (the Art whereby God hath made and governes the World) is by the Art of man, as in many other things, so in this also imitated, that it can make an Artificial Animal”; Leviathan, ed. C. B. Macpherson (New York: Penguin, 1968), p. 81.

11 John Locke, Two Treatises of Government, 2d ed., ed. Peter Laslett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), p. 286. Hereafter cited as Preface, First Treatise, or Second Treatise.

implications—a different normative status. They are urged on individuals in response to the natural consequences of their imaginations, and hence they should be seen as attempts to delimit and mold the particular expressions of the imagination. In this response to the imagination—this attempt to regiment it, to prescribe and standardize its content, to make it submit to conventional authority—Lockean liberalism, while forming the individual, compromises his or her full potential and thus betrays an underlying conservatism.

The argument I am making is not one in which individuality is tied to a libertine imagination, to unschooled instincts, or to rationally uncontrolled urges. Nor am I proposing a Sartrean view in which the world of action is wholly determined by the possibilities of a imagined universe. !? It is not therefore an argument against reflective and deliberative intervention in behavior. Instead my point is to show how in Locke rationality and the means for its inculcation, such as his pedagogy, function to close off forms of individual self-expression, to raise barriers against the eccentric; they are deployed to construct, consolidate, and impose a norm of “normality.” In the face of motives that may be inscrutable, excessive, and singularly willful, and that may therefore issue in actions at odds with accepted and prevailing practices, Locke urges a transparency that all but requires adherence to a commonality of rather traditional norms and purposes.

What is ultimately revealing and disturbing in Locke’s treatment of the imagination is that it is spurred by an anxiety about

12 What I have in mind in making this comment are such remarks as the following: “It is necessary to reverse the common opinion and acknowledge that it is not the harshness of a situation or the suffering it imposes that leads people to conceive of another state of affairs in which things would be better for everybody. Iż is on the day that we are able to conceive of another state of affairs, that a new light is cast on our trouble and our suffering and we decide that they are unbearable”, Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel E. Barnes (New York: Washington Square Press, 1966), pp. 434-35, emphasis added.

rather than a confidence in the potential effects of an individual’s inwardness. The imagination is the expression of such inwardness; it represents a reflexivity that resists and even challenges the control and disengagement or, to use Charles Taylor’s wonderfully appropriate and evocative term, the “punctuality” Locke hopes to promote and affirm. !? This outlook underlies the puzzle of how a philosophy ostensibly committed to individual freedom and difference is transformed into an ideology of conformity with an anxious concern about individual conduct. In this book I attempt to draw out some of the implications that bear the enduring marks of the anxiety and temerity underlying Locke’s affirmation of freedom and individuality.

It is acommonplace in studying Hobbes and Locke to refer to the naturalistic conceptions of human beings that underpin their political commitments. Often overlooked is the extent and manner in which these foundations have an ambivalent relation to the very political commitments they are meant to undergird. In Hobbes, the fear the sovereign inspires is an expression of both his power to coerce and his capacity to get individuals to restrain their own passions. Similarly in Locke, even though the mechanisms of restraint and the passions are different, institutions are meant to effect a change in what is taken to be the naturalistic core of human beings. In both Hobbes and Locke, and of course conspicuously in Rousseau and Hegel, political institutions fur-

83 Charles Taylor, “Locke’s Punctual Self,” in Sources of the Self (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1989), pp. 159-76. Taylor identifies Locke with the culmination of a tradition of “inwardness” which had its greatest expression in St. Augustine. At the moment of this culmination, inwardness is transformed into a concern with disengagement and control. Taylor’s chapter on Locke has several stunning and far-ranging insights, but it does, I believe, understate the extent to which Locke’s thought is riddled with anxiety about those features of the mind that cannot be marshaled for purposes of control and responsibilty, such as the imagination. Judith Shklar is, I think, right when she speaks of a underlying sadness in Locke’s thought, a sadness linked with “a perpetual uneasiness”; see Judith Shklar’s review of Sources of the Self in Political Theory 19 (February 1991), 105-9.

nish the conditions for a transformed self -understanding—a self-understanding that buttresses political institutions as credible expressions of moral norms. The rights associated with a stable Lockean liberalism, I am suggesting, require that individuals view themselves in a specifically Lockean manner.'* And this perspective is principally fashioned through Locke’s elaborate regime for the education of young children. In this context, I am urging that we give to Locke’s writings on education the same conceptual centrality that Rousseau’s writings on education have long since been accorded with respect to his political thought. It is in his educational writings, the political significance of which is all but explicitly acknowledged in the Second Treatise, that one sees not simply Locke’s ambivalence about our natural capacities and tendencies but also the degree to which these tendencies must be molded before the child is self-conscious. To put it differently, we see the extent to which the self-consciousness of the mature adult and citizen is the product of careful and detailed pedagogical crafting.

The claim that there are conditions for self-understanding must, however, in the context of Locke at least, be sharply distinguished from the postmodernist claim that there is no truth about selves independent of the way they understand themselves. Whatever tilt one gives this antiessentialism, whether in the direction of Richard Rorty’s spirited and eclectic pragmatism or in the way of Gilles Deleuze’s proto-Marxist affirmation of schizophrenia, it does not serve the prosaic task of interpreting Locke. John Dunn and numerous other scholars have amply confirmed that Locke’s thought, notwithstanding the various

14] am indebted to Joshua Cohen for this formulation. The issue of self-understanding and its relationship to political institutions is often discussed in terms of the social bases of self-respect, which Rawls featured as an important primary good. See Joshua Cohen, “Democratic Equality,” Ethics 99 (July 1989), 727-51; Will Kymlicka, Liberalism, Community, and Culture (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), pp. 61-63, 192-93; and Nancy Rosenblum, Another Liberalism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), especially pp. 153-86.

transitions it straddles, is firmly anchored by theological axioms that vitiate such postmodernist claims as credible interpretations.!5

The claim that institutions have a transformative, and not merely regulative, character is a fairly commonplace one. The transformative character of political and social institutions has ancient associations. Max Weber refers to the magical significance attached to primitive contracts as instances of ancient political and even private institutions. Contracts were viewed as magical acts precisely because it was assumed that “the person would ‘become’ something different in quality (or status) from the quality he possessed before. Each party must thus make a new ‘soul’ enter his body.”!® Freud writes of “the nature of the mental change” effected in individuals by their association to a political leader, a change with transforming effects at both individual and group levels. He links this change, in an analysis suggestive both of Hobbes and of Weber’s discussion of charisma, with the fear of leaders and the memory this provokes of paternal domination.!’ For Nietzsche, covenants and contracts, both ancient and modern, effect their significance in the violence and cruelty they inflict on the mind and the body—a violence registered in a deeply personal “guilt and suffering” the effects of which invariably endure beyond the terms of the covenants and contracts.'® This widespread acknowledgment of the transformative effects of political and social institutions underscores the