Allegories of America

Front matter

f Ameria

Frederick M. Dolan

CONTESTATIONS

Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction: Allegories of America 1. The Fiction of America 2. America’s Critique of Reason 3. Cold War Metaphysics 4. Fiction and the Dilemma of Postmodern Politics 5. Practicing Political Theory Otherwise Notes Bibliography

Index vil

Acknowledgments

Introduction

In Harlot’s Ghost, Norman Mailer’s epic novel of postwar America, Harlot, an old hand at the Central Intelligence Agency answerable only to Allen Dulles, formulates a distinction between espionage and counterespionage. Espionage, he tells a group of CIA trainees, is “a middle-class activity.” It “depends on stability, money, large doses of hypocrisy on both sides, insurance plans, grievances, underlying loyalty, constant inclinations toward treachery, and an immersion in white collar work” (p. 421). Itis, in other words, thoroughly banal and straightforward, continuous with the routine duplicity of everyday professional life, utterly familiar and intelligible. But whereas espionage involves nothing more than a simple, self-aggrandizing violation of a trust, counterespionage is, in Harlot’s estimation, “damnable.” The world of counterespionage is “built on lies. Or, should we say, on inspirations?” and thrives on complexity, uncertainty, unintelligibility (p. 426).

Precisely because each of the great parties to the conflict between democracy and communism expects the other to lie, the game of counterespionage is played best by those whose loyalties are unknown, especially to themselves. Agent Hubbard, the narrator of Harlot’s Ghost, spends the middle 1950s in Montevideo trying to corrupt a minor Uruguayan communist and finds that the more experience of the CIA he acquires, the less sure he is of its aims, the more uncertain he becomes of his own motives and those of his colleagues.

As the novel unfolds, the CIA becomes an utter mystery even to the most powerful within it; when disaster strikes, the first question is always whether the perpetrator was an enemy or one of their own. Because it 7s certain that at all times one is being lied to and manipulated, even the most unpredictable historical events are interpretable: the Sino-Soviet split, for example, is a “gargantuan production in disinformation” (p. 1203). These interpretations are inherently unverifiable, but that serves only as a goad to a virtually pathological “will to know”: “The actors in this kind of venture tend to be adventurers, aristocrats, and psychopaths,” Harlot acknowledges (p. 426). The arena of counterespionage— which, as Mailer’s novel encourages us to believe, is paradigmatic for the texture of American life after World War II—is one of rumors, impressions, hypotheses, suppositions, opinions, appearances, of reflections whose aspects and attributes are continuously rearranged and reinterpreted to the point where lucidity and paranoia, freedom and totalitarianism, change places and merge.

Mailer’s evocation of the character of postwar America brings together, in both content and form, some themes I explore in this book: the spaces opened up for power in an interpretively open world; the latent metaphysics of a politics entirely given over to phantasms and simulacra but whose actors are driven by the need to reduce the interpretive ambiguity of their world to the reassuring forms of a metaphysical allegory; the affirmation of America as a privileged locus of such experiences; and the indispensability of fiction for registering the complex ironies generated by this situation. In the chapters that follow, I survey strands of the American discourse on national identity, paying particular attention to this interpretative problematic. These readings rely on a persistent feature of claims Americans make about their national political life (a feature they no doubt share with other national communities), to the effect that the American political project secures a privileged spiritual or metaphysical value. At the same time, America’s self-allegorization is also self-deconstructing, as reliant on tropes of self-creation and fictionalization as on that of the correct, mirrorlike representation of the real as a foundation fora national project. America’s discourse of national identity incessantly negotiates the two poles of, on the one hand, solid foundations or grand narratives and, on the other, the ever-present threat of the collapse of absolutes.

My reason for carrying out these readings, however, is not solely a fascination with the twists and turns of American public discourses and their theorization. Holding these readings together is the conviction that such discourses allegorize the central problematic that post-Nietzschean and post-Heideggerian reflection offers to political theory: that of speaking, acting, and judging “without grounds,” the withering away of transcendental normative principles invoked to anchor political actions, judgments, opinions.’ In the historicodiscursive events we know as “America,” the postmodern problematic assumes the form of a national myth; and American national ideology, from its canonical founding texts and speeches onward, can be shown to reflect and indeed perform the conundrums and complexities associated with the loss of grounds for action articulated first by Nietzsche and Heidegger and then by so many others. I attempt to illuminate that problematic by situating it in the context of discursive events organized by actual political conflicts, tasks, and judgments, as well as to illuminate America’s political fantasies through the postmodern problematic, and so to explore and expose the limits of each. To this end, I exploit various interpretative or hermeneutic orientations and devices, from deconstruction to the analysis of ideology. Reading the discourse of American national identity, then, is motivated by a concern for this problematic, so although I have tried to learn from historians of American political thought, my approach has been driven by my fascination with the problems I seek to expose, not by a desire for historical comprehensiveness.

That problematic, to repeat, concerns the collapse of the very idea of a grounding theory of the political that might guide practice and judgment. Political philosophers have traditionally sought three advantages from a theory of politics. First, a theory provides an exhaustive, fully coherent account of some object of inquiry, placing its possessor in a position to make judgments about political life (and to assess the judgments of others) from the vantage of a synoptic knowledge. Second, a theory provides means for distinguishing the ideological discourse of quotidian political contestation from a political truth conceived as independent of continually shifting opinions and wills. Third, it clarifies political thought: by ordering and naming, by drawing boundaries and making distinctions, a theory separates the political from the nonpolitical, the public from the private, and so provides its possessor with a vocabulary of clear and distinct concepts with which to negotiate the confusion of public representations and discourses. These advantages enable the theorist to layclaim to a privileged, though no doubt frail and contested, authority in discussions of political life.

The founding gesture of political theory in this sense is Socrates’ invocation, in Plato’s Republic, of an invisible but theoretically intelligible realm of incorruptible forms, knowledge of which provides a foundation for political reflection that is inaccessible to the many and which serves to reduce the multiplicity of political opinions to a single, univocal metaphysical Good. As first Nietzsche, and later Heidegger, have taught us, “Platonism,” in the extended sense of the will to search for and establish a disinterested, disembodied knowledge, has governed the West’s most privileged inquiries and oriented them, since the birth of modernity, around the project of controlling the contingency of the world by recasting the latter as an ideal entity accurately represented before the subject’s gaze. From Plato to John Rawls, thinkers have enlisted the powers of theory to render political life accessible as a whole, discussable in its clearly delineated parts, and subject to true judgments.

Many in the tradition of Western political thought have debated whether a theoretical account of politics was possible and what sort, but few questioned the enterprise of theoretical understanding as the master trope for the knowledge of politics as such. Then readers of Nietzsche and Heidegger began to do just that and therefore found themselves searching for modes of political reflection that neither reduce to the everyday, ideological discourses of politics as practiced nor appeal to timeless criteria of truth and certainty to judge such practice. Allegories of America aims to contribute to this discussion by assessing the successes and failures of some notable attempts to negotiate the dilemmas encountered in this search, but also, and more particularly, by exploring this problematic in specific discursive contexts of American political thought. Its method, admittedly, is one of studied indirection. My conceit, and the rationale for carrying out a project such as this under the present title, is that narrating the story of theory’s self-deconstruction, and the attempt to fashion strategies for facing the dilemmas attendant on that deconstruction, can be seen as allegorical of broad features of American political thought itself. If the task bequeathed us by such figures as Nietzsche and Heidegger is, roughly speaking, the problem of finding a vocabulary for the identification and discussion of political matters in the absence of assured foundations, methods, approaches, sources, and procedures supplied by the canon of European metaphysics, then one might approach their narratives (for they can no longer safely be called theories) as allegorical of America’s perennial anxiety over its own identity and over what authorizes its actions, of America’s continually renewed attempt to found and refound a polity in the absence of a legitimating or reliable foundational discourse.

I think of Nietzsche and Heidegger, and even more so their better readers, as offering us allegories rather than theories in the etymological sense of the former term: these authors write narratives intended to contest dominant, public meanings attached to traditional Western concepts and practices by discerning in the latter another, larger significance. And just as they deconstruct the canon of Western metaphysics, I seek to put their allegories to work in American political thought, culture, and ideology to effect, explore, and reflect on parallel dislocations and disruptions of meaning. In America, to put it bluntly, the postmodern or postmetaphysical problematic— the problem of acting without grounds and in the absence of the constraints of traditional absolutes— assumes the status of a national mythology, so that Nietzsche’s and Heidegger’s narratives help reveal “another” layer of significance alongside the conventionally established, public meanings of America. By the same token, putting their postmetaphysical narratives to work in the context of American political thought helps to sharpen and focus the dilemmas these narratives offer to political reflection in ways that a more straightforward theoretical argument might not capture. In sum, Allegories of America explores the political stakes of the questionability of theory by, in Slavoj Zizek’s phrase, “looking awry” — thinking through concrete exemplars meant less to illustrate a theoretical thesis than to provide perspective on it.’

Why question theory? The questionability of the theoretical enterprise, formulated most deeply by Nietzsche and Heidegger and first brought to bear in a sustained manner on political thought by Hannah Arendt, has since been forcefully restated by Jean-Francois Lyotard, among others.’ Nietzsche’s “diagnosis” of theory as an expression of a dangerous Socratic will to “correct existence” lies behind what Lyotard presents as a conflict between the pious and the pagan in the history of Western thought.* According to Xenophon, Socrates’ conversation concerned the need to distinguish “what is pious, what is impious,” and the foremost example of piety is Platonism, the essence of which lies in the assertion that justice or freedom in their purity and perfection are ideas’ The corollary, says Lyotard, is that they exist nowhere perfectly: for Platonism, justice “can be accomplished only if it is first correctly thought out and described”; we require a theory of justice or freedom or equality to enable us to establish these practices in actual political life. Lyotard emphasizes that this theoretical (or philosophical) approach to politics, which ties the evaluation of the political realm to the establishment of an accurate theoretical description (of justice or freedom), makes essentially no reference to actual political contexts and indeed devalues such contexts insofar as they fail to live up to the truth of the political, as independently established with the help of reliable philosophical procedures. Such procedures are pious because they inevitably imply “the representation of . . . a lost origin, something that must be restored to a society in which it is lacking.” 6

As Lyotard stresses, this “piety” goes far beyond Socrates and Plato themselves and indeed determines virtually the entire history of Western attempts to think the political:

We are dealing with discursive orderings whose operations are dual, something that is characteristic of the West: on the one hand, a theoretical operation that seeks to define scientifically, in the sense of the Platonic epistéme, or in the Marxist sense, or indeed in some other one, the object the society is lacking in order to be a good or a just society; on the other hand, plugged into this theoretical ordering, there are some implied discursive orderings that determine the measures to be taken in order to bring [society] into conformity with the representation of justice that was worked out in theoretical discourse. (p. 21)

The essence of pietism, then, is the attempt to offer a complete, self-contained, context-independent, true description of some object that also serves as a standard by which to judge particular contexts and events. What makes this operation “pious” is just that the object of such theoretical discourse is by definition never fully actualized in any given state of affairs; it is always lost, absent, in need of recovery. But that fact, for Lyotard, is disastrous; for it opens the door to the nihilism preeminently explored by Nietzsche and regarded by him as constitutive of late, post- Enlightenment modernity. From the pious, theoretical, “philosophical” perspective, polities thatare actually alive and kicking cannot but acquire a ghostly, “as-if” quality, as mere imperfect approximations of the true normative ideal. Though such a perspective is sustainable given a belief in a realm of truth that legitimates the actual as an imperfect approximation, the results are disastrous, as Nietzsche emphasizes, once the Platonic will to truth has devoured itself and its theoretical gaze has been exposed as only another mythology. In that event, given the absence of any perspective other than the pietistic, one is abandoned to a world of appearances that remain “mere” appearances, relatively valueless and without connection to a more substantial reality. Despite the best efforts of those who would “complete” the project of Enlightenment, the pietistic perspective is inseparable, in Nietzsche’s view, from specifically modern logics of repression and nihilism because, for the pious, anything that departs from the principle of the ideal is by that very fact excluded, marginalized, or otherwise devalued.’

Lyotard’s Nietzschean skepticism toward the very idea of a political theory suggests connections with some aspects of Heidegger’s and Arendt’s projects. For Nietzsche, theory is the symptom of a resentful desire to “correct existence,” a desire that is limiting and repressive in its own right and issues eventually in what he calls “the devaluation of the highest values,” the destruction of any and all unquestioned, authoritative principles of action and judgment.® Heidegger too, of course, is suspicious of the West’s project of theoretical clarification, and indeed his diagnosis of the modern epoch of technology as the simultaneous realization and closure of Western metaphysics’ project of accurately representing the world owes much to his encounter with Nietzsche’s thought.? Arendt’s skepticism toward a normative, “pietistic” theory of politics is rooted in her conception of free political action as initiatory, as that which brings into existence what could never even have been anticipated or imagined. For her, a norm could serve only to delimit the inherent open-endedness of action that she wishes to preserve.'° Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Arendt all offer reasons to be suspicious of “theory” as the organizing trope of political thought and action and to attempt to articulate and explore the ideological effects of the search for grounds, principles, and transmundane sources to guide political action. The reference in Chapter 5 to “practicing political theory” does not so much call up the general problem of postmodern political theory as it does announce an attempt to practice it by putting the problematics of these authors to work in concrete texts, contexts, and discourses of American political thought, ideology, and culture: to read them “after” these theorists both in the sense of reading in their wake and in the sense of seeking to understand their ideas and formulations “otherwise,” through alien contexts and concerns.

This book, then, works through the dilemmas presented by the questionability of the theoretical enterprise by exploring how theory is thrown into question in the context of American political thought, as a site in which the modern or postmodern problematic takes on the aspect of nationhood. Chapter 1, “The Fiction of America,” highlights the theoretical significance of John Winthrop’s attempt simultaneously to discover and to invent a metaphysical origin for the American nation in his sermon “A Modell of Christian Charity.” Fixing the fabulous, fictionalizing dimensions of the Puritan project by drawing on the work of Jean-Luc Nancy and Philippe Lacoue- Labarthe on “the fiction of the political,” this chapter articulates the “ontotheological” aspect of American national identity: Winthrop’s sermon is shown to figure America as a peculiarly distilled, simplified, and even exaggerated political deployment of the fundamental tropes of European metaphysics as Nietzsche, Heidegger, and their late twentieth-century readers understand them. In Chapter 2, “America’s Critique of Reason,” I explore the contest between the purportedly Newtonian rationality of the Federalists and the “hermeneutics of suspicion” of the anti-Federalists in the public debate over the U.S. Constitution. That dispute is framed here in terms of the Habermasian ideal of a public sphere and its critics, emphasizing the limits of the “cynical” reason of unmasking and suspicion (with the help of Sloterdijk’s and Zizek’s philosophical and psychoanalytic understanding of modern cynicism). Anticipating some of the concerns of Chapters 4 and 5, “America’s Critique of Reason” also demonstrates the unavoidability of fictions in opening up and preserving public spaces and exposes the dilemmas posed by the idea of a democratic public sphere.

“Cold War Metaphysics,” the third chapter, shows how a variety of discourses claiming to represent the “real” America during the postwar period constitute an attempt (again reflecting the protocols of a foundationalist metaphysics dedicated to grounding action and judgment in correct representation) to reduce the complexity of the world to the measured forms of a grand allegory. Cold War discourse in America is metaphysical because it is organized around what Derrida calls “fear of writing,” that is, the anxiety provoked by the effects of nonobligated or unmotivated linguistic signs. This chapter attempts to isolate “fear of writing” at a number of levels, from the intelligence estimates of the National Security Council and the scientistic ideology of postwar American political science to the political scandals and popular culture of the period. Framing the problem in terms of related but contradictory Hobbesian and Lockean strains in American political vocabularies, the chapter explores how the metaphysical dimensions of Cold War discourse push almost to the breaking point an American “identity crisis” organized around these two figures.

Chapter 4, “Fiction and the Dilemma of Postmodern Politics,” exploits the fact that whereas our “official,” “serious,” “representational” discourses studiously avoid considering problems such as those articulated in earlier chapters, the fictional counterworlds of novelist William Burroughs and poet James Merrill make the loss of normative foundations, and the need to make strong political judgments, key themes of their major works. This chapter asks what it would mean to take their fictions seriously as thought and philosophy, its guiding question being Habermas’s distinction between “serious” and “fictive” discourse. The reading of Merrill, especially, suggests that devices marginalized by Habermas as “fictive” harbor crucially important critical resources.

This last theme is taken up in the final chapter, “Practicing Political Theory Otherwise,” which explores the appropriating of what the tradition marginalizes as “fictive” for the purposes of “serious” political discourse. The means for this exploration is a reading of Arendt’s narrative practice of political theory as she applies it to the American founding in On Revolution. My aim is to articulate the significance of Arendt’s highly idiosyncratic approach to the practice of political theory, one that takes the form of what she calls simply “storytelling.” Through the figure of Arendt’s reflections on the American Revolution, this chapter reflects on the inner and mutually illuminating relationships among and between the workings of foundationalist metaphysics, the practice of political theory, and the question of America.

To say that the approach I have adopted in this book puts me at odds with political theory as such is true only to the extent that one assumes traditional notions of theory — for example, that a clear line can be drawn between the fictive and the literal and that theoretical truths of the sort that yield insight into political life are invariably found with the latter, optional fancies with the former. Perhaps I can make this point more clearly by appealing to Michael Oakeshott’s distinction between the “theorist” and the “theoretician” in order to suggest that my interpretations of ideology and metaphysics in American political discourse are an attempt to construct a kind of middle ground between the two. For Oakeshott, a theoretician is one who insists that acquiring a theoretical vocabulary about something can actually enhance one’s ability to do the thing in question —as if a theory of morality would make one a better judge of moral conduct. That claim is what has given theory a bad name and theorists a dubious reputation; it is the reason, for example, that the cave dwellers of Plato’s Republic wish to murder the returning theorist: instead of giving interesting reports about exotic travels which are valuable in themselves, the theoretician maintains he now knows more about their world than they do and that they therefore must adopt his vocabulary. The solution to this problem is to insist on the autonomy of theory, on its value as sheer storytelling and adventuring: if the returning theorist would limit his claim to being able to put what the stay-at-homes do in a different context, he could be accepted as a member of their community, though perhaps an eccentric one.

As appealing as calls for the autonomy of theory may be, and as necessary as they are in the context of an instrumentalizing society, in the end I find myself dissatisfied with an approach that, in Wittgenstein’s famous phrase, “leaves everything as it is.” Instead, I have chosen to explore the possibilities of the stance of the theoretician—one who wishes not just to return to the community and be accepted by it at the price of insisting that the journey need have no consequences for our self-descriptions but who cannot resist the temptation to redescribe the warp and woof of political discourse in light of these adventures. Such a stance entails all the risks Oakeshott describes, and my gamble is simply that it can be brought off, that there are ways in which the returning adventurer can tempt the stay-at-homes to hear him or her out and to feel the force of his or her redescriptions. This approach places me in the tradition of the theoretician rather than the theorist—“a deplorable character [who] has no respectable occupation.” !! From Oakeshott’s point of view, I risk becoming a rank Platonist. The gamble is that the occupation of tempting readers to redescribe American political discourse in other terms can be a respectable one if it is done with the right touch, in the right manner. Does it all come down to manners? If so, I must try to mind mine. What can that mean, in this context, but exploring theses not to prove or disprove them but to discover the consequences of entertaining them?

Chapter One

In Hannah Arendt’s reading of the founding of the American Republic, the Declaration of Independence is a model of how to resolve what she calls the “spiritual perplexities” that accompany the Enlightenment’s sense of freedom from the authority of ancient traditions. According to her interpretation, the American revolutionaries faced, with inherited habits of thought, an entirely unprecedented concatenation of events beyond the capacity of that thought to address. The problem bequeathed by their sense of freedom from tradition was that such freedom brought with it the dissolution of the “absolutes” upon which political authority traditionally rested, thus raising the question of how to found a new republic in the absence of any divine or transcendental authority to justify and anchor the regime. The solution —highly unexpected, given the Enlightenment’s antipathy to tradition—was to reinvent in modern terms the classical Roman idea that the act of foundation is itself authoritative.! According to Arendt, such a problem could not have arisen during the virtually unbroken “continuity of tradition” stretching from the first centuries of Christianity through the development of the European sovereign nation. In this tradition, the law, as command, needed “a divinity, not nature but nature’s God, not reason but a divinely informed reason, . . . to bestow validity on it.”?

The American escape from this tradition, in which the secular must be grounded in and ratified by the transmundane, occurred,

Arendt asserts, not owing to the development in America of a modern, posttraditional mode of thought but rather to the unexpected vagaries of political life in the New World as the early European settlers experienced it:

From the weight and burden of this tradition the settlers of the New World had escaped, not when they crossed the Atlantic but when, under the pressure of circumstances—in fear of the new continent’s uncharted wilderness and frightened by the chartless darkness of the human heart—they had constituted themselves into “civil bodies politic,” mutually bound themselves into an enterprise for which no other bond existed, and thus made a new beginning in the very midst of the history of Western mankind. (P. 194)

In emphasizing the invention of America as the collision of European habits of thought and action with alien and inhospitable shores, Arendt repeats familiar tales of American “exceptionalism”: bereft of traditional European institutions, the colonists could rely only on mutual promises as the basis of political stability, and hence they developed a political culture based more than any other on “promises, covenants, and mutual pledges” (pp. 181-82). European traditions came to grief faced with the sheer unprecedentedness of the demands of American experience.

In Arendt’s account, this response to the New World led to a form of political authority in which the traditionally legitimating reference to absolute principles or transcendental imperatives was replaced by a practice of perpetual political transfiguration driven by the constant reinterpretation of the fundamental, founding, “constitutional” law. “The very authority of the American Constitution,” Arendt writes, “resides in its inherent capacity to be amended and augmented” (p. 202). But delimiting the origins of the phenomenon of an almost infinitely plastic, augmentable, amendable interpretive authority to the experiences of the Europeans after crossing the Atlantic—as Arendt does when she insists on the trope of American exceptionalism, in which the raw experience of the New World shatters and relativizes European “absolutes” of long standing —needlessly brackets a whole field of prior American political discourse. The continuing presence of that discourse is, moreover, responsible for the persistent attachment of a sense of the sacred to an allegedly secular national project? John Winthrop’s sermon “A Modell of Christian Charity,” delivered not after crossing the Atlantic but during the voyage of the members of the Massachussetts Bay Company, suggests that the problematics of an interpretive authority show up in many dimensions other than constitutional interpretation, which for Arendt becomes “the true seat of authority in the American Re-

Winthrop’s sermon, as it has come down to us, is paratextually marked as an event:

A MODELL OF CHRISTIAN CHARITY.

Written On Boarde the Arrabella, On the Attlantick Ocean.

By the Honorable John Winthrop Esquire.

In his passage, (with the great Company of Religious people, of which Christian Tribes he was the Brave Leader and famous Governor;) from the Island of Great Brittaine, to New-England in the North America. Anno 1630

His discourse is dramatically /ocated spatially, geographically, temporally, and authorially: the sermon is uttered by John Winthrop, governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, on board the flagship Arbella, in the Atlantic Ocean, during the voyage from England to America in 1630. To emphasize that the text begins by alerting us to these facts is, perhaps, to cheat a bit, as the manuscript on which it is based is not in Winthrop’s hand. According to the editors of the Winthrop Papers, the original was probably copied and circulated for some years after the establishment of the community, by which time its founders were presumably being mythologized.* However that may be, it is possible to hear something other than mythologization in the simple emphasis on date, place, time, and occasion, because these are peculiarly political markers as well. Political discourses are preeminently concerned with particular times, dates, and places; with circumstances facing particular communities at particular moments. Dating and locating the speech would then not only signify an attempt to monumentalize the accomplishments of the founders of the community but also indicate the concretely political character of this speech. In singling out such facts as who they are, where they are going, and what they are doing, the subtitle of the sermon stands in a certain degree of contrast to the title in so far as it draws attention to the character of its audience as a body politic. As such, that audience is a community concerned less with timeless truths or metaphysical verities than with those truths embedded in histories, places, events; in intentions, actions, consequences.

The place named in the subtitle, however, is ambiguous: Winthrop’s sermon is uttered “on the Attlantick Ocean,” a geographic rather than a political space, and one situated, moreover, between two worlds: Great Britain and North America, Old England and “New-England.” And this fact alone, I want to hazard, embodies and conveys something about the kind of political discourse Winthrop’s speech is. Anachronistically relying on, and metaphorically extending to the political, Thomas Kuhn’s distinction between “normal” and “revolutionary” science, we might distinguish normal and revolutionary political discourse.’ As normal science involves approaching scientific inquiry guided by a paradigmatic exemplar and integrating puzzling and apparently idiosyncratic facts into the terms of a dominant, uncontroversial theory, so normal political discourse addresses political experiences and problems within the framework of settled practices, institutions, assumptions, concepts, and values. And as revolutionary science involves the invention of a new approach to scientific inquiry and a new theory that displaces the semantic horizon of its predecessor by way of accounting for anomalous facts, so revolutionary political discourse involves the reinvention of conventional terms of appeal, contestation, and adjudication. Normal political discourse relies on agreed-upon names, procedures, expectations; revolutionary political discourse aims to invent these. Of course there need be no simple relationship between revolutionary political discourse and revolutionary political action. Ancient discourses can obscure the birth of the new, and sometimes the old can be preserved only with the most radical transformation of its conceptual articulation. The relationship between political discourse and political action, as Marx shows brilliantly in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, is always complexly ironic and overdetermined.