The End of Representative Politics?

The following notes on the future of democratic representation were inspired by Simon Tormey’s The end of representative politics (2015), launched at a Gleebooks event organised by the Sydney Democracy Network (SDN), May 15th 2015.

Camping in Barcelona, 21 May 2011 Julien Lagarde

Whatever is happening in the field of party politics within the old parliamentary democracies? Why is mass membership of political parties a thing of the past? How come politicians are so disrespected, turnout rates volatile and elections often treated as pay-back moments by angry citizens?

A handful of clues is provided by the 2015 UK General Election, whose dynamics and results have attracted great global attention and floods of commentary on such matters as the break-up of Britain, the possible exit of Britain from the European Union and the dismal failure of the Labour Party to win over those parts of the middle class convinced there’s no alternative to the mean clampdown politics of austerity. The 2015 election was undoubtedly a media event extraordinaire. For a few days, it even featured robust debate about the failings of a first-past-the-post electoral system that awarded only one seat each to UKIP, which won 3.8 million votes, and to the Greens, who won 1.1 million votes.

Voter Turnout, United Kingdom General Elections (1950 - 2015) UK Political Info

By contrast, media assessments of the ocean of public disaffection on which the ship of Westminster and its parliamentary elections are now floating have been rare. During the days following the election, for instance, I rummaged in vain to find within the British press commentaries on the steady decline of voter turnout since 1950 (the United Kingdom now ranks 76th in world turnout rankings). I also couldn’t find any analysis of the number of citizens who actually voted for the return of a Tory government now blessed (thanks to the electoral system) with a thumping absolute majority in the House of Commons. I was forced to do my own calculations, to discover (on an overall turnout of 66.1%) that a mere 24.4% of adult citizens actually cast their vote for the new Conservative government.

Journalists and public commentators wilfully or blindly ignored such figures and long-term trends. Some did lament the way television broadcasters successfully managed to push ‘horse-race’ coverage, for instance by emphasising just how close the contest was between the Conservatives and Labour, why a Labour/SNP coalition government was a real possibility, and whether or not such a government could handle the fragile economy. Other commentators chose instead to bang on about the surprise result, and why it happened. Or they noted the end of Duverger’s Law, which states that first-past-the-post systems typically produce two-party systems.

Missing in these reports was any sense of the several ways, slowly but surely, parliamentary democracy in Britain is drifting backwards, heading towards a 21st-century version of late 18th-century politics. By this provocative analogy I mean to highlight the way present-day parliamentary politics is coming to be dominated by such 18th-century facts as the capture of government by the rich, the weakening of independent parliamentary powers and the near-collapse of mass political party organisations. The regressive trend includes as well cuts to welfare support for permanently poor people (1 in 5 of the UK population, 13 million people, now live below the official poverty line). Elections that bear more than a passing resemblance to pork-barrel plebiscites, widespread public mockery and disaffection with politics on high and tough law-and-order measures designed to spy on and control ‘harmful activities’ are also part of the same backsliding.

Rough Music Politics

These are mere tendencies, yes. But they’re to be found within many other parliamentary democracies, and that is why, to extend the 18th-century simile, ‘rough music’ politics is everywhere returning to their streets, parks and fields. In practically every existing parliamentary democracy, the disaffected and excluded are expressing their annoyance in unconventional ways. Once upon a time, as Edward Thompson famously pointed out, the 18th-century poor and powerless and pissed off expressed their indignation through ritual, revelry and riot. Raucous ear-shattering noise, unpitying laughter and the mimicking of obscenities were the weapons of the weak. In France, such practices were called charivari (Italians spoke of scampanate; the Germans Katzenmusik), while in late eighteenth-century Britain the protests paraded under such strangely obsolete names as ‘shallals’, ‘riding the stang’ and ‘skimmingtons’, rowdy parades expressing moral disapproval featuring effigies of the proxy victims.

William Hogarth’s depiction of rough music during a skimmington ride Baldwin & Craddock, 1822.

The end of representative politics

Today, in the much-changed, media-saturated circumstances of the 21st-century, rough music assumes different forms, as Simon Tormey convincingly shows in his newly-published work, The end of representative politics. The book is a precious gem. A genuinely original contribution to the field, it’s a beautifully crafted slim essay with a big thesis: we are living through the end of an aura, says Tormey, the slow but sure decline of legitimacy and vibrancy of party politics and representative government. ‘We are moving, remorselessly, away from representation and representative politics towards styles and modes of politics that engage us immediately, directly, now.’ Symptomatic is the world-wide flourishing of what Tormey calls ‘immediate or non-mediated politics’: flash protests, occupations, hacking, boycotts, Facebook- and Twitter-led campaigns, circles, pinging and micro-parties. Concerned active citizens, he says, are no longer patiently prepared to wait until election time to express their concerns. Harnessing state-of-the-art media ‘they seek to make their views, anger, displeasure, known immediately, now.’

Simon Tormey (2013)

Tormey examines the causes of the declining aura of representative politics. He’s right to say that the peccadilloes of politicians and the politics of enforced austerity are not the principal drivers of the trend. There are multiple deep causes, including such peculiarly modern factors as the collapse of old collective identities, like belonging to a working class community, individualisation and the spread of globalised capitalism. The weakening of parliaments by the massive expansion of executive state powers and the outsourcing of political decisions to corporate and cross-border bodies might have been added to the list. A more thorough analysis of the rapid contemporary growth of communicative abundance would have been helpful as well. But these oversights are minor blemishes in an outstanding book that most definitely is on to something of epochal political importance.

Its potent analysis naturally prompts the curly question of whether, as the title suggests, we’re living through times that count as the end game of representative politics. ‘It’s the end of the paradigm, the “metanarrative”’, answers Tormey. ‘Much of the enthusiasm has gone for the classical model of representative politics and all the paraphernalia that went with it: a belief in the essentially benevolent or well-intentioned motives of those who would represent; a belief that our deepest needs and interests are best off in some other person’s hands than our own; a belief that joining a traditional mass party will prove the best use of our time and energies as engaged citizens. The props fall away; but the superstructure is still intact.’

History matters

The words are wonderful and the core thesis of The end of representative politics is both daring and consequential. The book offers important insights and prompts intellectual and political questions; it also triggers doubts, as every adventurous book does. We should thank Tormey for forcing us to ask after the book’s wobbly sense of history. From when dates the collapse of the paradigm of representative politics, we may ask? Through the examples he cites, Tormey leads us to think of the collapse as a pretty recent phenomenon, one that stretches back no more than a couple of decades. There’s admittedly mention of the Zapatistas and the World Social Forum as instances of the end of representative politics, but by and large the book depends upon very recent examples of what he calls DIY politics: the M-15 movement in Spain, Occupy Wall Street, Tahrir Square and the 5-Star Beppe Grillo phenomenon in Italy. They’re all good and interesting examples, to be sure; but they have the effect of obscuring the fact that since 1945 every major public issue, from civil rights and nuclear weapons to feminism, environment and disability, has been activated, publicised and pressed home by civic initiatives, networks and movements outside the zones of formal parliamentary politics.

The point is historical, and it’s important, if only because it reminds us that those who neglect or misunderstand the past are prone to misrecognise the present. The point is this: politicians, governments, parliaments and political parties have been under pressure for much longer than this book implies. The decline of representative politics has been coming for a generation, which implies the need to see the sea change noted by Tormey as connected to the near-collapse of parliamentary politics during the first half of the 20th century (a point developed at length in The Life and Death of Democracy) and the birth, during the 1940s, of a brand new form of democracy that I call monitory democracy.

Do Political Parties Have a Future?

This long-term transformation of democracy that began in the 1940s has decentred and de-territorialised elections, politicians and parliaments. The trend has naturally posed challenges to political parties, and raised questions about their fate. Do political parties have a future? On this point, Tormey is ambivalent. He mostly sides with the ¡Democracia Real YA! position that ‘the democracy of the representatives has come to be regarded by many as not only a rather pale imitation of the real thing, but a mechanism for preventing ordinary citizens exercising greater control over their own lives.’ But there are moments when Tormey admits that the party isn’t over. At one point he says that contemporary politics resonates with ‘the sound of anti-political politics, anti-representational representation’. In saying this, he has Podemos, Syriza and the SNP in mind: ‘Recent initiatives’, he notes, ‘suggest that even the most horizontal of activists now see that under representative or post-representative conditions the “horizontal” may need to be combined with the “vertical” to leverage alternatives for citizens during elections, to provide a focus for specific campaigns and demands.’

¡Democracia Real YA! (‘Real Democracy Now’) poster by the Mexican art collective Lapiztola Stencil Rosario Martínez Llaguno and Roberto Vega Jiménez

In these and other passages, it’s as if Tormey is neither for nor against representative politics, but just the reverse. His vexed ambivalence is entirely understandable, especially because a straightforward return to mass-membership political parties seems most improbable. During their heyday, as Robert Michels famously pointed out in his classic Political Parties (1911), political parties were powerful patronage machines. They offered paid-up members and supporters significant benefits: jobs, financial support, literacy, promises of one-person one-vote and access to state power and its resources. Parties today are ghostly silhouettes of their former selves, which raises the question: since for the foreseeable future political parties will remain indispensable conduits of access to such state resources as taxation revenues, law-making powers and policing and military force, which kind of political party has the greatest chances of success in getting out the vote, attracting the support of citizens? Are slimmed-down and flatter political parties using multi-media tactics and Google-type algorithms to turn heads, inspire hearts and to mobilise the vote viable alternatives to the old mass-membership party analysed by Michels? Or might party forms of the 21st century instead come to resemble an accountancy parties (let’s call them). Might there in future be more of what we have now, so that organised parties resemble firms of well-advertised accountants and tax advisors hungry for business? Firms that nose-pinching citizens conveniently hook up with from time to time, when the need arises (elections), to do what they have to do (deal with the state), to submit their returns (by casting their votes), then to resume their everyday lives, at a distance from the party system, all the while complaining about the performance of politicians and poking fun and spinning crabbed jokes about the sad and boring rituals of all parties, including the party for which they’ve just voted?

Hobbes and Rousseau

Tormey doesn’t declare his hand on this point. In part, I suspect, this is not just because the task of building distinctively 21st-century parties is very much unfinished, speculative and highly challenging business; or because his whole approach (as he puts it) is ‘weakly normative’. Something else is at work here: it’s called gut contempt for representation. It’s a pity the book doesn’t attempt a fine-grained genealogy of the plural meanings of representation, but enough is said to confirm that Tormey typically understands representation in its originally Hobbesian sense of substitution. In plain English, representation for Tormey is a con. It’s a deceptively ideological practice whereby those who exercise power over others falsely claim themselves to be identical with those whom they rule. Put abstractly, representation (‘Trust and respect me, I am your representative’) is supposed likeness, matching and direct correspondence. It is unity through identification, congruity, alleged similarity. The representative claims to be the self-same or twin of the represented, a Doppelgänger, a facsimile or carbon copy of the represented, a chip off the old block.

From Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan or The Matter, Forme and Power of a Common Wealth Ecclesiasticall and Civil (1651)

Tormey’s provocative image of representation as illegitimate ruling, as a vertical relationship between leaders who lead by claiming falsely that they have the interests of the led at heart, helps to explain his repeated insistence that representation is the opposite of ‘horizontal’ citizen participation, and that the task of radical politics is ‘to connect rather than represent’. Inspired by Thomas Hobbes (1588 - 1679) and Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712 - 1778), who despite their substantial differences were agreed that representation is ruling others, Tormey strikingly concludes that 20th-century Communist Parties were ‘a quintessentially representative discourse and representative form of politics’.

The Principle of Disappointment

To my mind, this understanding of representation as unification through ruling is one-sided. It downplays the way the brand new idea and practice of representative democracy, as it emerged at the end of the 18th century, contained within it the principle of popular rejection and rotation of leaders. When measured by the ancient Greek standards of democracy as self-government by the people, for the people, representative democracy was of course a defective form of government. That was Rousseau’s strong objection. Government under conditions of representative democracy nevertheless rested, ideally speaking, on the premise that ‘the people’ are ultimately ‘sovereign’. It followed from this formulation that while perfect accord between representatives and the represented couldn’t ever be achieved, steps towards self-correction could and should always be taken. In the lonely hour of the last instance, ‘the people’ must always have the final say in determining who governs. Vox populi, vox dei. But in striving for mimesis - a closure of the gap between citizens and their representatives - representative democracy, according to its own standards, constantly chased after the unattainable. Its self-inscribed, openly declared lack of perfection stemmed from the fact that it embraced the principle of disappointment: the recognition that representatives and citizens are ultimately not identical.

In the life and times of modern representative democracy, the disappointment principle was often seen as its fundamental weakness, as proof of its reactionary incoherence. Today, as Tormey correctly emphasises, public disappointment with representatives is fuelling deep disaffection with parliamentary politics. The odd thing is that defenders of representative democracy (from Thomas Jefferson to Robert Dahl) consistently saw the disappointment principle as its greatest strength, certainly in comparison to tyrannical regimes that boss and bully their subjects into submission. They hailed representative democracy as a practical new method of publicly admitting differences of opinion and apportioning blame for the poor political performance of leaders. It was seen as a brand new way of enabling citizens to complain publicly and to let off steam about their leaders and, thus, to chastise them with threatened or actual rotation of leadership, guided by such criteria as merit, performance, responsiveness and humility.

Put differently: from the end of the 18th century, champions of representative democracy thought of it as a new and livelier form of humble government. It was seen as a novel way of creating space to enable not only individuals but also groups and dissenting political minorities to defend their interests legitimately, and to control those who governed them by means of an open competition for power that enabled elected representatives to test their political competence and leadership skills, in the presence of others equipped with the power to trip them up and throw them out of office, if and when they failed, as surely they would in the end.

Hanna Pitkin (1931 -)

The founding principle of representative democracy was both original and powerful: ‘the people’ do not govern but they do make periodic appearances in elections in order to judge, sometimes harshly, the performance of their representatives. Electors are entitled to throw the idiots out. That is how, from time to time, they solve what Hanna Pitkin famously called ‘the paradox of representation’: that citizens have to be absent in order to be re-presented but also present in order to be re-presented. Seen in terms of the deep tension that is inherent in the process of representation, this is the whole point of elections: they are weapons for periodically cheering up the disappointed. If representatives were always virtuous, impartial, competent and fully responsive to the wishes of the represented, elections would lose their purpose. The represented would be identical with their representatives; representation would lose its meaning; the animating disjunction between what ‘is’ and what ‘can be’ or ‘ought to be’ would consequently collapse. However, since representatives are rarely (if ever) like this, and since, in the eyes of the represented, they never quite get things right and are never so worthy and persuasive, often behaving like idiots who get things badly wrong, elections function as a vital means of disciplining representatives for having let down their electors. Through elections, the friends of representative democracy concluded, electors get their chance to throw harsh words and paper rocks at their representatives – to chuck them out of office and replace them with popularly elected substitutes.

The Changing Ecology of Representation

Well, that’s the old orthodox theory. In our times, for the variety of reasons outlined in this wonderful book, ideals are being crushed by practice. Tormey makes a stimulating and persuasive case for a new democratic politics pitted against mainstream political parties. In opposition to felt injustices and mounting inequality, he is right to champion new forms of public clamour. He calls for a ‘politics of resonance’, a renewal of the sense that democracy has been kidnapped, and that it needs to be reclaimed, and lived anew within everyday life. Trouble is that the new ‘immediate or non-mediated politics’ forms of democratic politics he has in mind are everywhere, and without exception, instances of representative politics. Their lack of structure and formal leadership and avowed rejection of representation (‘United, the people do not need parties’ was the cry of protesters from Madrid’s Puerta del Sol, five years ago) are only apparent. Their reliance upon mechanisms of representation is too often disguised, or denied. Truth is they rely upon mechanisms of representation, if by that word is meant what the earliest champions of representative democracy meant: acting on behalf of others, in their name, subject to their consent.

Michael Saward and others have recently pointed out that in this sense all politics involves claim making on behalf of others, and it therefore follows from this wider definition that in the age of monitory democracy the politics of representation is not confined to elections and parties and parliaments, that is, formal parliamentary politics in the narrow sense. Often in opposition to mainstream political parties, unelected and non-party representative politics is flourishing. That’s a key reason why mainstream political parties are feeling the pinch. They increasingly find themselves competing in fields of power with other bodies claiming to be representative of their constituencies. The fundamental point is that we’re not witnessing the end of representative politics but, rather, we’re living through times in which the ecology of representation is changing, becoming more complex, and ever more dispersed. Tormey agrees, and that’s the principal insight of his excellent book: within human affairs, the central political struggle is no longer, or primarily, the battle for one person, one vote. In the age of monitory democracy, the central struggle is to establish the principle of one person, many votes, multiple representatives, wherever power is exercised.

Seen in this way, Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, Oxfam and Greenpeace are just as politically important as any political party on our planet. So, too, are citizens’ efforts to blow the whistle on institutionalised racism, or to extend rights of representation to indigenous peoples, disabled citizens and the poor. Which is to say that rather than witnessing the end of representative politics, we’re now living in times faced by a double democratic challenge: the challenge of breathing life back into political parties as trusted representatives of the wishes and needs of citizens considered as equals, and the difficult, potentially complementary struggle to extend the principles of representation into every field of power where arbitrary rule currently mangles the lives of people and their environment.

Simon Tormey (centre), Geoff Gallop (left) and John Keane (right), Gleebooks, May 15th 2015 Giovanni Navarria/SDN/University of Sydney


John Keane receives funding from the Australian Research Council. Simon Tormey and John Keane are Associates of the Sydney Democracy Network (SDN)

Why Read Tocqueville’s Democracy in America?

The following remarks on a famous work by Alexis de Tocqueville (1805 - 1859) were presented as a lecture to the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences Scholars Program at the University of Sydney, 24th April, 2015.

The young aristocrat Alexis de Tocqueville, sketch by an unknown artist Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University

Alexis de Tocqueville’s four-volume Democracy in America (1835-1840) is commonly said to be among the greatest works of nineteenth-century political writing. Its daring conjectures, elegant prose, formidable length and narrative complexity make it a masterpiece, yet exactly those qualities have together ensured, through time, that opinions greatly differ about the roots of its greatness.

Some observers cautiously mine the text for its fresh insights on such perennial themes as liberty of the press, the tyranny of the majority and civil society; or they focus on such topics as why it is that modern democracies are vulnerable to ‘commercial panics’ and why they simultaneously value equality, reduce the threat of revolution and grow complacent. Some readers of the text treat its author as a ‘classical liberal’ who loved parliamentary government and loathed the extremes of democracy. More often, the text is treated as a brilliant grand commentary on the decisive historical significance for old Europe of the rise of the new American republic, which was soon to become a world empire. Some observers, very often American, push this interpretation to the limit. They think of Democracy in America in almost nationalist terms: for them, it is a lavish hymn to the United States, a celebration of its emerging authority in the world, an ode to its 19th-century greatness and future 20th-century global dominance.

How should we make sense of these conflicting interpretations? Each arguably suffers serious flaws, but at the outset it’s important to recognise that the act of reading past texts is always an exercise in selection. There are no ‘true’ and ‘faithful’ readings of what others have written. Readers like to say that they have ‘really grasped’ the intended meanings of dead authors, whose texts belong to a context, but ‘full disclosure’ of that kind is forbidden to the living. Hemmed in by language and horizons of time and space, reading is always a stylising of past reality. Just as walking is a pale imitation of dancing, and dancing an exaggerated form of walking, so interpretations frame past realities. They are acts of narration. Acts of reading past texts are always time- and space-bound interpretations and, as one of my teachers Hans-Georg Gadamer liked to remark, all such interpretations of past texts turn out to be misinterpretations. That is why differences of interpretation are not only to be expected but, in order to prevent any one of them becoming dominant, to be welcomed, especially when they push beyond familiar horizons, towards ‘wild’ perspectives that force us to rethink things that we have so far taken for granted.

Democratic Literature

It is the spirit of ‘wild reading’ that infuses the following notes on Tocqueville’s ‘classic’ work. When approached one hundred and seventy years after its first publication as a four-volume set, Democracy in America teaches us more than a few things about the subject of democracy. But what exactly can we learn from it? It may seem far-fetched, but the first striking thing about the text is not just that it is the first-ever lengthy analytic treatment in any language of the subject of democracy but a treatment whose narrative form both mirrors and amplifies (‘mimics’) the dynamic openness of its subject matter: a way of life and a method of handling power Tocqueville repeatedly calls democracy. Democracy in America is a democratic text. Striking is its openness, its willingness to entertain paradoxes and juggle opposites, its powerful sense of adventure constructed from extensive field notes gathered by means of a grand adventure.

Map of Tocqueville’s adventure through the United States, May 1831 - February 1832

It may not seem obvious, but this sense of adventure has everything to do with the spirit of ‘democracy’. Democracy in America brilliantly captures and mimics in literary form the growth of an open, experimental society, a dynamic political order deeply aware of its own originality. Its grasp of these qualities of democracy was undoubtedly nurtured by Tocqueville’s peripatetic through the young American republic. It opened his eyes, widened his horizons, and changed his mind about democracy. In 1831, for nine short but action-filled months, the 26-year-old young French aristocrat (1805-1859) travelled through the United States. Accompanied by his colleague and friend Gustave de Beaumont, he ventured almost everywhere. Like a well-briefed tourist, he rode on steamboats (one of which sunk), found himself trapped by blizzards, sampled the local cuisine, and slept rough in log cabins. He found time for research and for rest, and for conversation, despite his imperfect English, with useful or prominent Americans, among them John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson and Daniel Webster.

Setting out from New York, he travelled upstate to Buffalo, then through the frontier, as it was then called, to Michigan and Wisconsin. He sojourned two weeks in Canada, from where he descended to Boston and Philadelphia and Baltimore. Next he went west, to Pittsburgh and Cincinatti; then south to Nashville, Memphis, and New Orleans; then north through the south-eastern states to the capital, Washington; and at last back to New York, where he returned by packet to Le Havre, France. At the beginning of his journey, in New York, where he sojourned from May 11th for some six weeks, Tocqueville was openly hesitant about this bustling market society whose system of democratic government was still in its infancy. ‘Everything I see fails to excite my enthusiasm,’ he wrote in his journal, ‘because I attribute more to the nature of things than to human will.’

Château Tocqueville

Talk of the God-given nature of things appears from time to time between the lines of Democracy in America. Seemingly still under the influence of the political false starts of his native France, the ‘nature of things’ principle stands in some tension with its sense of adventure, with its feeling for the novelty of democracy as a transformative experience. But Tocqueville, the slightly built son of a count from Normandy - the Château Tocqueville still stands, within sight of the harbour of Cherbourg - was soon to change his mind about democracy. Sometime during his stay in Boston (7 September - 3 October, 1831), Tocqueville became a convert of the American way of life. He began to talk of ‘a great democratic revolution’ now sweeping the world from its American heartlands. He was persuaded that ‘the advent of democracy as a governing power in the world’s affairs, universal and irresistible, was at hand’. He became convinced that ‘the time was coming’ when democracy would triumph in Europe, as it was doing in America. The future was America. It was therefore imperative to understand its strengths and weaknesses, he thought. And so, on January 12th 1832, just before boarding his packet for France, he sketched plans to bring to the French public a work about democracy in America. ‘If royalists could see the internal functioning of this well-ordered republic,’ he wrote, ‘the deep respect its people profess for their acquired rights, the power of those rights over crowds, the religion of law, the real and effective liberty people enjoy, the true rule of the majority, the easy and natural way things proceed, they would realise that they apply a single name to diverse forms of government which have nothing in common. Our republicans would feel that what we have called the Republic was never more than an unclassifiable monster…covered in blood and mud, clothed in the rages of antiquity’s quarrels.’

Tocqueville’s epiphany produced a string of extraordinary insights, as well as paradoxes. Consider his claim in Democracy in America that the political form known as democracy, all things considered, extinguishes the aesthetic dimension of life. It produces no lasting works of art, no poetry, no fine literature. Lacking a leisure class, he reasoned, the young American democracy cultivated people with practical minds. ‘The language, the dress, and the daily actions of men in democracies are repugnant to conceptions of the ideal’, he wrote. The whole ‘philosophical method’ of democracy is pragmatic, centred on the effort of individuals to make sense of their world by harnessing their own individual understanding of things. Even in matters of religion, ‘everyone shuts himself up tightly within himself and insists upon judging the world from there’.

The often-beautiful narrative prose, self-conscious reflection and fragmented ‘open text’ structure of Democracy in America contradicts this thesis. Democracy in America is arguably a great work of modern democratic literature, a highly engaging and thought-provoking text that markedly stands at right angles to the dull-witted science of politics that is today dominant in the American academy, and elsewhere. The point can be put in a different way: Tocqueville positively contradicted himself. He failed to foresee the many ways in which the young American democracy, with its palpable ethos of equality with liberty manifested in simple body language, tobacco-chewing customs and easy manners, would give rise to self-consciously democratic art and literature. Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass (1855), a celebration of the potential boundlessness of the American experiment with democracy and of the power of the poet to rupture conventional language springs to mind. So also does the greatest of all nineteenth-century American novels, Hermann Melville’s Moby-Dick (1851), a tale that warned against the hubris and self-destruction that awaits all those who act as if the world contained no boundaries, rules or moral limits. Tocqueville’s Democracy in America stands tall among these ‘classics’. It is in fact their progenitor.


But there’s more to say about Democracy in America: much more, in fact. Democracy in America is a genuine breakthrough in the understanding of democracy as a unique political form, as a whole way of life that is fundamentally transformative of people’s sense of being in the world. Standing behind Tocqueville’s fascination with democracy is his awareness of its profound role in shaping modern times by stirring up people’s sense of the contingency of things. The four-volume work is still regarded, justifiably, as one of the great books about the subject, in no small measure because at a crucial moment in the democratic experiment in America Tocqueville managed to put his finger on several sources of its dynamic energy. For Tocqueville, it is not just capitalism and the law-enforcing territorial state that define modern times. The ‘great democratic revolution’ marks off modernity from the prior world structured by what he repeatedly calls ‘aristocracy’. Democracy is a sui generis but seemingly irreversible feature of the modern age.

It is true there are more than a few hints that Tocqueville, backed by the belief that God stands in favour of democracy, is tempted by evolutionary thinking, of the kind (in much more secular form) that later gripped Fukuyama’s grand generalisation of the 1776 revolution as the beginning of the end of history. Yet in contrast to Fukuyama and others, Tocqueville insisted there is no certain progress at the level of ‘general evolution’. Tocqueville emphasises to his readers that democracy challenges settled ways of thinking and speaking and acting. It reveals that humans are capable of transcending themselves. Really striking is Tocqueville’s grasp of the way democracy breaks down life’s certainties and spreads a lived sense of the mutability of the power relations through which people live their lives. For him, democracy is the twin of contingency.

The point is not often noted by readers of Tocqueville, but it is of fundamental importance when trying to come to terms with the ‘spirit’ of democracy. What we learn from Democracy in America is that democracy nudges and broadens people’s horizons. It tutors their sense of pluralism. It prods them into taking greater responsibility for how, when and why they act as they do. Democracies encourage people’s suspicions of power deemed ‘natural’. Citizens come to learn that ‘perpetual mutability’ is their lot, and that they must keep an eye on power and its representatives because prevailing power relationships are not ‘natural’, but up for grabs. In other words, democracy promotes something of a Gestalt switch in the perception of power. The metaphysical idea of an objective, out-there-at-a-distance ‘reality’ is weakened; so, too, is the presumption that ‘reality’ is stubborn and somehow superior to power. The fabled distinction between what people can see with their eyes and what they are told about the emperor’s clothes breaks down. ‘Reality’, including the ‘reality’ promoted by the powerful, comes to be understood as always ‘produced reality’, a matter of interpretation - and the power to seduce others into conformity by forcing particular interpretations of the world down others’ throats.

The Spirit of Equality

What are the wellsprings of this shared sense of contingency? Why does democracy tend to interrupt certainties, impeach them, enable people to see that things could be other than they presently are? Tocqueville might have been expected to say that because periodic elections stir things up they are the prime cause of the shared sense of the contingency of power relations. Not so. Tocqueville actually thought that elections trigger herd instincts among citizens. He worried that ‘faith in public opinion’ might well become ‘a species of religion, and the majority its ministering prophet’. Though frequent elections ‘keep society in a feverish excitement and give a continual instability to public affairs’, periodic elections are not seen by Tocqueville to be the core dynamic of democracy. The proximate cause of the ‘spirit’ of restlessness of democracy lies elsewhere: it is above all traceable to the way democracy unleashes struggles by groups and individuals for greater equality.

Tocqueville reminds us in Democracy in America that the core principle of democracy is the public commitment to equality among its citizens. The reminder seems lost these days on most politicians, political parties and governments. It’s true that Tocqueville showed little interest in the finery of contested understandings of the meaning of equality. He was no doubt aware of Aristotle’s famous distinction between ‘numerical equality’ and ‘proportional equality’, a form of equal treatment of others who are considered as equals in some or other important respect, but not others. Yet Tocqueville openly sided with Aristotle’s view that democrats ‘think that as they are equal they ought to be equal in all things’. Equality is for him not the equal right of citizens to be different. Equality is sameness (semblable). Proof of its allure was the way the new American democracy unleashed constant struggles against the various inequalities inherited from old Europe, thus proving that they were neither necessary nor desirable. Democracy, argued Tocqueville, spreads passion for the equalisation of power, property and status among people. They come to feel that current inequalities are purely contingent, and so potentially alterable by human action itself.

Tocqueville was fascinated by this trend towards equalisation. In the realm of law and government, he noted, everything tends to dispute and uncertainty. The grip of sentimental tradition, absolute morality and religious faith in the power of the divine weakens. Growing numbers of Americans consequently harbour ‘instinctive incredulity of the supernatural’. They also look upon the power of politicians and governments with a jealous eye. Government structured by the good blood of monarchs is anathema. They are prone to suspect or curse those who wield power, and thereby they are impatient with arbitrary rule. In the field of what Tocqueville calls ‘political society’, government and its laws gradually lose their divinity and charm. They come to be regarded as simply expedient for this or that purpose, and as properly based on the voluntary consent of citizens endowed with equal civil and political rights. The spell of absolute monarchy is forever broken. Political rights are extended gradually from the lucky privileged few to those who once suffered discrimination; and government policies and laws are subject constantly to public grumbling, legal challenges and alteration.

Thanks to democracy, something similar happens in the field of social life, or so Tocqueville proposed. The American democracy is subject to a permanent ‘social revolution’. Himself a self-confessed sentimental believer in the old patriarchal principle that ‘the sources of a married woman’s happiness are in the home of her husband’, Tocqueville nevertheless pointed to a profound change in the relationship between the sexes in American society. Democracy gradually destroys or modifies ‘that great inequality of man and woman, which has appeared hitherto to be rooted eternally in nature’. The more general point he wanted to make is this: under democratic conditions, people’s definitions of social life as ‘natural’ or ‘taken for granted’ are gradually replaced by self-consciously chosen arrangements that favour equality as sameness.

Democracy speeds up the ‘de-naturing’ of social life. It becomes subject to something like a permanent democratisation. This is how: if certain social groups defend their privileges, of property or income, for instance, then pressure grows for extending those privileges to other social groups. ‘And why not?’, the protagonists of equality ask, adding in the same breath: ‘Why should the privileged be treated as if they were different, or better?’ After each new practical concession to the principle of equality, new demands from those who are socially excluded force yet further concessions from the privileged. Eventually the point is reached where the social privileges enjoyed by a few are re-distributed, in the form of universal social entitlements.

That at least was the theory. On the basis of his travels and observations, Tocqueville predicted that American democracy would in future have to confront a fundamental dilemma. Put at its simplest, it was this: if privileged Americans try, in the name of such-and-such a principle, to restrict social and political privileges to a few, then their opponents will be tempted to organise themselves, for the purpose of pointing out that such-and-such privileges are by no means ‘natural’, or God-given, and are therefore an open embarrassment to democracy. Democratic mechanisms, said Tocqueville, stimulate a passion for social and political equality that they cannot easily satisfy. He thought there was much truth in the view of Jean-Jacques Rousseau that democratic perfection is reserved for the deities. The earthly struggle for equalisation is never fully attainable. It is always unfinished. Democracy lives forever in the future. There is no such thing as a pure democracy and there never will be a pure democracy. Democracy (as Jacques Derrida later put things) is always to come. ‘This complete equality’, wrotes Tocqueville, ‘slips from the hands of the people at the very moment when they think they have grasped it and flies, as Pascal says, an eternal flight’.

The less powerful ranks of society, including those without the vote, are especially caught in the grip of this levelling dynamic, or so Tocqueville thought. Irritated by the fact of their subordination, agitated by the possibility of overcoming their condition, they rather easily grow frustrated by the uncertainty of achieving equality. Their initial enthusiasm and hope give way to disappointment, but at some point the frustration they experience renews their commitment to the struggle for equality. This ‘perpetual movement of society’ fills the world of American democracy with the questioning of absolutes, with radical scepticism about inequality, and with an impatient love of experimentation, with new ways of doing things, for the sake of equality. America found itself caught up in a democratic maelstrom. Nothing is certain or inviolable, except the passionate, dizzying struggle for social and political equality. ‘No sooner do you set foot upon American soil then you are stunned by a type of tumult’, reported Tocqueville, stung by the same excitement. ‘A confused clamour is heard everywhere, and a thousand voices simultaneously demand the satisfaction of their social needs. Everything is in motion around you’, he continued. ‘Here the people of one town district are meeting to decide upon the building of a church; there the election of a representative is taking place; a little farther on, the delegates of a district are hastening to town in order to consult about some local improvements; elsewhere, the labourers of a village quit their ploughs to deliberate upon a road or public school project.’ He concluded: ‘Citizens call meetings for the sole purpose of declaring their disapprobation of the conduct of government; while in other assemblies citizens salute the authorities of the day as the fathers of their country, or form societies which regard drunkenness as the principal cause of the evils of the state, and solemnly pledge themselves to the principle of temperance.’

Civil Society

Tocqueville was certainly impressed by ‘civil society’ (société civile). He was not the first to use the term in its modern sense (see my earliest works Democracy and Civil Society and Civil Society and the State), but he did find the new American republic brimming with many different forms of civil association, and he therefore pondered their importance for consolidating democracy. Tocqueville was the first political writer to bring together the newly-invented modern understanding of civil society with the old Greek category of democracy; and he was the first to say that a healthy democracy makes room for civil associations that function as schools of public spirit, permanently open to all, within which citizens become acquainted with others, learn their rights and duties as equals, and press home their concerns, sometimes in opposition to government, so preventing the tyranny of minorities by herd-like majorities through the ballot box. He noted that these civil associations were small-scale affairs, and yet, within their confines, he emphasised how individual citizens regularly ‘socialise’ themselves by raising their concerns beyond their selfish, tetchy, narrowly private goals. Through their participation in civil associations, they come to feel themselves to be citizens. They draw the conclusion that in order to obtain others’ support, they must often lend them their co-operation, as equals.

Tocqueville’s account of democracy in America shows, at a poignant moment in the nineteenth century, just how popular thinking had become self-conscious of the novelty of civil society under democratic conditions. Tocqueville called upon his readers to understand democracy as a brand new type of self-government defined not just by elections, parties and government by representatives, but also by the extensive use of civil society institutions that prevent political despotism by placing a limit, in the name of equality, upon the scope and power of government itself. Tocqueville also pointed out that these civil associations had radical social implications. The ‘great democratic revolution’ that was underway in America showed that it was the enemy of taken-for-granted privileges in all spheres of life. Under democratic conditions, civil society never stands still. It is a sphere of restlessness, civic agitation, refusals to cooperate, struggles for improved conditions, the incubator of visions of a more equal society.

Pathologies of Democracy

Tocqueville’s Democracy in America is worth reading for yet one more reason: it is the first-ever analysis of democracy to dissect democracy’s pathologies, and to do so in a manner that remained basically loyal to the spirit and substance of democracy as a normative ideal. Readers of Democracy in America often brush aside this point. While they admit that Tocqueville was well aware that democracy is prone to self-contradiction and self-destruction, they note that he tended to exaggerate the momentum and geographic extent of the busy levelling process that was underway in America. According to this view, Tocqueville, who was blessed with a remarkable sixth sense of probing the difference between appearances and realities, sometimes, when looking at life in the United States, swallowed whole its own best self-image.

He wasn’t the only nineteenth-century visitor to be charmed by the new democracy. Consider the Italian fashion of visiting the new democratic republic, to see what it was like. ‘Hurrah to you, oh great Country!’, wrote one traveller, shortly after Tocqueville had published his great work. ‘The United States is a free land, essentially because its sons drink together the milk of respect for each others’ opinions…this is what makes them beautiful, and their air more easily breathable for us who are thirsty for freedom from old Europe, where the liberties we have gained with so much blood and pain have for the most part been suffocated by our mutual intolerance.’ Another Italian traveller expressed similar excitement. ‘Ah, this is the democracy that I love, that I dream of and yearn for’, he wrote, contrasting it with the ‘presumption and snobbishness’ guarded back home by the ‘people of high rank’. The same visitor was struck by the way American citizens casually wore caps and hats, how they spurned moustaches, chewed tobacco, and liked to chew the fat, hands in pockets. ‘Simple people, simple furniture, simple greetings’, he wrote, adding that Americans ‘extend you their hand, ask you what you need, and quickly respond.’ Still another visitor brimmed with exuberance. ‘There is no lying by officials. Truth, always truth. No prejudices, no red tape. From every street corner come the cries of a people intoxicated with hope and immortal charity: “Forward! Forward!”’. He added an immodest prediction: ‘Just as Rome impressed the seal of its laws and its cosmopolitan culture on the old world of the Mediterranean, and Romanised Christianity, so the federated democracy of the United States will prove to be the guiding model for the next political phase of humanity’.



Tocqueville was much less sanguine about the fledgling American democracy. Many of his observations were both astute and prescient, for instance concerning the grave political problem of slavery. Tocqueville was perhaps the first writer to show at length why modern representative democracy could not live with slavery, as classical assembly-based democracy had managed to do, admittedly with some discomfort. He highlighted how the ‘calamity’ of slavery had resulted in a terrible sub-division of social and political life. Black people in America were neither in nor of civil society. They were objects of gross incivility. Legal and informal penalties against racial intermarriage were severe. In those states where slavery had been abolished, black people who dared to vote, or to serve on juries, were threatened with murder. There was segregation and deep inequality in education. ‘In the theatres gold cannot procure a seat for the servile race beside their former masters; in the hospitals they lie apart; and although they are allowed to invoke the same God as the whites, it must be at a different altar and in their own churches, with their own clergy.’ Prejudice even haunted the dead. ‘When the Negro dies, his bones are cast aside, and the distinction of condition prevails even in the equality of death.’

Lurking within these racist customs was a disturbing paradox, Tocqueville observed. The prejudice directed at black people, he noted, increases in proportion to their formal emancipation. Slavery in America was in this sense much worse than in ancient Greece, where the emancipation of slaves for military purposes was encouraged by the fact that their skin colour was often the same as that of their masters. Both within and outside the institutions of American slavery, by contrast, blacks were made to suffer terrible bigotry, ‘the prejudice of the master, the prejudice of the race, and the prejudice of colour’, a prejudice that drew strength from false talk of the ‘natural’ superiority of whites. Such bigotry cast a long shadow over the future of American democracy, to the point where it now seemed to be faced not only with the equally unpalatable options of retaining slavery or organised bigotry, but also with the outbreak of ‘the most horrible of civil wars’. Tocqueville’s political forecast was understandably gloomy: ‘Attacked by Christianity as unjust and by political economy as prejudicial, and now contrasted with democratic liberty and the intelligence of our age, slavery cannot survive. By the act of the master, or by the will of the slave, it will cease; and in either case great calamities may be expected to ensue. If liberty be refused to the Negroes of the South, they will in the end forcibly seize it for themselves; if it be given, they will long abuse it.’

Tocqueville’s white-skinned suspicion of black people should be noted, as should his accurate spotting of the poisonous contradiction between slavery and the spirit of modern representative democracy. He was right as well to be anxious about the magnitude of the problem. By 1820, at least ten million African slaves had arrived in the New World. Some 400,000 had settled in North America, but their numbers had multiplied rapidly, to the point where all the states south of the Mason-Dixon line were slave societies, in the full sense of the term. Even in New England, where there were comparatively few slaves, the economy was rooted in the slave trade with the West Indies. As David Brion Davis has pointed out (in Challenging the Boundaries of Slavery), Afro-Americans did the hard and dirty work of the democratic republic. They cleared forests, turned the soil, planted and tendered and harvested the exportable crops that brought great prosperity to the slave-owning classes. So successful was the system of slavery that after 1819 Southern politicians and landowners and their supporters within the federal government agitated for its universal adoption. As a mode of production, and as a whole way of life, slavery went on the warpath, as Abraham Lincoln made clear in his not inaccurate claim that Slave Power was hell-bent on taking over the whole country, North as well as South.

The aggressiveness of Slave Power during the 1820s and 1830s disturbed the dreams of some Americans; it forced them to conclude that the American polity required a re-founding. Reasoning with their democratic hearts, they spotted that slavery was incompatible with the ideals of free and equal citizenship. These same opponents of slavery were to some degree aware of a contradiction that lurked within the contradiction. The problem, simply put, was whether or not the abolition of slavery could be done democratically, that is, by peaceful means such as petitioning and decisions by Congress, or whether military force would be needed to defeat slavery’s defenders.

In the end, as we know, armed force decided, bringing with it four years of terrible misery. An ugly struggle between two huge armies that locked horns 10,000 times, the Civil War was the first recorded war between two aspiring representative democracies, whose political elites were prone to think of themselves as defenders of two incompatible definitions of democracy. The conflict was in a way a clash between two different historical eras. The military crushing of the Southern fantasy of Greek democracy, in the name of a God-given vision of representative democracy, proved costly. Death, disability and destitution ruined hundreds of thousands of households, on both sides. There were an estimated 970,000 casualties, 3 per cent of the total population of the United States. Some 620,000 soldiers died, two-thirds from neglect and disease.

Connecting the Dots to Despotism Greg Groesch/The Washington Times


Perhaps the most profound intuition of Democracy in America has to do with the long-term problem of despotism in the age of democracy. The complex story it tells arguably remains highly relevant for our times.

Tocqueville was acutely aware of the dangers posed by the rise, from within the heart of the new civil society, of capitalist manufacturing industry and a new social power group (an ‘aristocracy’, he called them) of industrial manufacturers, whose power of control over capital threatens the freedom and pluralism and equality so essential for democracy. (In Democracy in America Tocqueville does not consider workers as a separate social class but rather as a menial fragment of la class industrielle. Here Tocqueville stood against Marx and sided with such contemporaries as Saint-Simon, for whom workers and entrepreneurs comprised a single social class: les industriels. This partly explains why Tocqueville later reacted in contradictory ways to the events of 1848; as François Furet and others have pointed out, he interpreted these events both as a continuation of the democratic revolution and, rather spitefully, as a ‘most terrible civil war’ threatening the very basis of ‘property, family and civilisation’.) This new ‘aristocracy’ applied the division of labour principle to manufacturing, he noted. This dramatically increased the efficiency and volume of production, but at a high social cost. The modern system of industrial manufacturing, he claimed, creates a manufacturing class, comprising a stratum of workers, who are crowded into towns and cities, where they are reduced to mind-numbing poverty, and a stratum of middle class owners, who love money and have no taste for the virtues of citizenship.

Tocqueville was among the first political writers to spot that a middle class gripped by selfish individualism and live-for-today materialism was prone to political promiscuity. A class of so-called citizens ‘constantly circling for petty pleasures’ could easily be persuaded to sacrifice their freedoms by embracing an ‘immense protective power’ that treats its subjects as ‘perpetual children’, as a ‘flock of timid animals’ in need of a shepherd. Against Aristotle (‘a government which is composed of the middle class more nearly approximates to democracy than to oligarchy, and is the safest of the imperfect forms of government’), Tocqueville argued that in fact the middle class have no automatic affinity with power-sharing democracy. Francis Fukuyama has said recently that ‘the existence of a broad middle class’ is ‘extremely helpful’ in sustaining ‘liberal democracy’. But what Tocqueville long ago pointed out is that under democratic conditions, especially when the poor grow uppity, the middle class might well display symptoms of what might be called political neurasthenia: lassitude, aching fatigue and general irritability about social and political disorder. Guided by fear and greed and professional and family honour and respectability, they would be happy to be co-opted or kidnapped by state rulers, willing to be bought off with lavish services and cash payments and invisible benefits that brought them stable comforts.

With good reason, looking into the future, Tocqueville worried not only about the decline of public spirit within this middle class. Yes, he was particularly exercised by its tendency to pursue wealth for the sake of wealth. That is why he worried his head about such bad ‘habits of the heart’ as cupidity and selfishness, possessive individualism and narrow-minded cunning. But his worries ran deeper than this. Unlike Marx, Tocqueville predicted that both fractions of the new manufacturing class would press for government support of their interests, for instance through large-scale infrastructure projects, such as the provision of roads, railways, harbours and canals. They would regard such projects necessary for the accumulation of wealth, the nurturing of equality and the maintenance of social order. When done in the name of the sovereign people, as Tocqueville expected it would, government intervention and meddling in the affairs of civil society would choke the spirit of civil association. It might well lead, Tocqueville argued, to a new form of state servitude, the likes of which the world had never before seen.

The point is sketched in the fourth volume of Democracy in America, in ‘What Type of Despotism Democratic Nations Have to Fear?’ ‘I think the type of oppression threatening democratic peoples is unlike anything ever known’, he wrote. Unlike past despotisms, which employed the coarse instruments of fetters and executioners, this new ‘democratic’ despotism would nurture administrative power that is ‘absolute, differentiated, regular, provident and mild’. Peacefully, bit by bit, by means of democratically formulated laws, government would morph into a new form of tutelary power dedicated to securing the welfare of its citizens - at the high price of clogging the arteries of civil society, thus robbing citizens of their collective power to act.

Tocqueville was sure that the fundamental problem of modern democracy was not the frantic and feverish mob, as critics of democracy from the time of Plato had previously supposed. Modern despotism posed an entirely new and unfamiliar challenge. Feeding upon the fetish of private material consumption and the public apathy of citizens no longer much interested in politics, despotism is a new type of popular domination: a form of impersonal centralised power that masters the arts of voluntary servitude, a new type of state that is at once benevolent, mild and all-embracing, a disciplinary power that treats its citizens as subjects, wins their support and robs them of their wish to participate in government, or to pay attention to the common good.

The thesis was certainly bold, and original. Tocqueville was the first modern political writer to see and to say that a new form of despotism born of the dysfunctions of modern representative democracy might well be our fate. He taught us that in the age of democracy forms of total power can only win legitimacy and govern effectively when they harness the trimmings and trappings of democracy – when they mirror and mimic actually-existing democracies, in order better to go beyond them. When we look back at the long crisis that gripped democracies a century after Tocqueville wrote, wasn’t the totalitarianism of Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia and Pol’s Cambodia marked by more than a few democratic features in this sense? And when we look today at the new despotisms of the Eurasian region, Russia and China for instance, shouldn’t we ask whether these regimes are simulacra of Western democracies now bogged down in various dysfunctions and pathologies? Don’t they make us wonder where our own so-called democracies are heading? Might they be signals of the emerging fact, unless something gives, that despotism is once again fated to play centre stage of our political lives in the coming years of the 21st century? Do we not have to thank Alexis de Tocqueville for warning us that they may well be the future of democracy?

Lithograph portrait of Alexis de Tocqueville Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University


John Keane receives funding from the Australian research Council.

Francis Fukuyama’s Political Order and Political Decay

On the eve of the collapse of the Soviet empire, the American political scientist Francis Fukuyama surfed to fame after pronouncing the global victory of the idea of American-style ‘liberal democracy’. Nearly three decades later, things look grim for his ‘end of history’ thesis, though close readers of the latest book by Fukuyama will surely conclude that although his thinking has since become guarded by qualification, and by convolution, his old story of American triumph in the world of ideas hasn’t fundamentally changed.

Political Order and Political Decay: From the Industrial Revolution to the Globalization of Democracy is the second volume of Fukuyama’s investigation of the origins, evolution and decay of political institutions. Its lengthy argument can be summarised in a single sentence: without the prior establishment of a well-armed and functional territorial state, and without an independent judiciary responsible for overseeing the rule of law that robust state power then makes possible, modern liberal democracy simply cannot happen. No state, no rule of law, no democracy is the complex algorithm that structures the book’s six hundred plus pages, in support of his view that liberal democracy centred on free elections remains the world’s number one political preference.

Fukuyama admits of troubles in the house of democracy. American government, ‘hardly a source of inspiration around the world at the present moment’, resembles a bloated and dysfunctional ‘vetocracy’ distorted by lobbyists and big money. A third of the parliamentary winners of India’s 2014 elections, he notes, are facing criminal indictments, including serious charges such as murder, kidnapping and sexual assault. Fukuyama worries as well about the shrinking middle class, which he deems the social bedrock of liberal democracy. But all this decadence in the realm of ‘specific evolution’ is seen by him as remediable (how it’s to be fixed, he doesn’t say).

The bigger historical picture is different, and the future bright. On a higher, long-term plane ‘liberal democracy constitutes a universal evolutionary model’. It is guaranteed by the ‘clear directionality’ of ‘the process of political development’ that is pushed and pulled by long-term ‘general evolution’ trends. They ‘dictate the emergence of certain broad institutional forms over time’.

Some readers won’t much fancy the jargon, so let’s reach for the vernacular, to explore Fukuyama’s unaltered conviction that liberal democracy has the winds of long-term evolutionary trends in its sails. The longue durée (long term) is important to Fukuyama, above all because the modern territorial state has become the indispensable kingpin of political order. If there is no state, there can be no rule of law, or liberal democracy. Fukuyama’s point can be read as a back-door critique of the farcical American-led failure to build functioning states in Afghanistan, Iraq and Libya. It’s also a sobering reminder that liberal democracy can’t be built by liberal democratic means. The type of democracy favoured by Fukuyama once required the bloody business of imposing political order on people, without their active consent. Today, the liberal democratic road to Washington remains steep, rough and rocky. It necessitates above all the establishment of political order through the state, followed by the imposition of legal restraints on state power. It is then, and only then, that free elections can take root and flourish among people living inside territorial states.

Fukuyama is an honest liberal who dares to remind his readers that liberal democracy is the offspring of the modern territorial state. The end result proved advantageous in several ways. As Fukuyama notes, with only passing references to the bloody American exception, the modern liberal state reduced civil wars. It legalised and legitimated social divisions, enabled the growth of civil society and facilitated the grand-scale enfranchisement of peoples for whose welfare it provided. And in international affairs, fixed state boundaries provided room for manoeuvre for any given liberal democracy, enabling its citizens and representatives to act with a measure of autonomy upon the outside world.

Liberal democracy in state form certainly had downsides. In the whole violent business of state building, peoples who lacked the capacity to become a modern state were typically left behind, as ‘stateless people’ and ‘asylum seekers’; or they became the raw material of colonisation, or victims of forcible removal and outright annihilation. The United States and other democracies in ‘homespun’ territorial form also waged war on other peoples, and still do. These nasty effects of liberal democracy are downplayed by Fukuyama. It is as if tawdry realities in the world of ‘specific evolution’ are excused by the positively universal gains of liberal democracy at the level of ‘general evolution’. Hence Fukuyama’s conclusion: even though liberal democracies such as the United States suffer decadence and do not currently live up to their ideals, the end of history thesis that liberal democracy is the only game in town remains intact.

The taxonomy of Political Order and Political Decay is grand, so splendid that at times it resembles Jorge Luis Borges’ famously fictional celestial emporium of benevolent knowledge. With the help of metaphors and insights dawn from evolutionary biology, economics, political science and modernisation theory, Fukuyama provides enlightened liberal democratic answers to every conceivable scholarly and political query. Or so it seems. The scope of the book is certainly breathtaking: national cases as different as Costa Rica, Italy, China, Nigeria, Japan and Britain are analysed with a sure hand. Yet as the narrative unfolds, and especially as we move closer to our own times, the grand emporium of liberal knowledge comes to resemble an untidy street market: forces extraneous to the analysis are randomly introduced in an effort to keep the story going. Fukuyama grows less sure of himself. Factors such as market forces, public trust and unintended consequences (Machiavelli’s fortuna) are suddenly summoned, to explain why things are not going as well as might be expected for liberal democracy at the ‘specific evolution’ level.

All these factors (and more) are surely needed to make sense of the complex history and fate of democracy in modern times. Democracy is far too complicated and contingent, its spirit and practical wanderings much too promiscuous and rebellious, to be tied down in reductionist - undemocratic - Grand Theory formulations of the kind Fukuyama uses to prop up his ‘end of history’ fable. That’s why, in this new book, factors such as capitalist markets and public trust and national identity serve to undermine the tidy elegance of the modern state, rule of law, liberal democracy taxonomy. Such factors equally threaten Fukuyama’s basic conceptual distinction between two levels of evolution. That distinction bears more than a passing resemblance to the mythical Judaeo-Christian division between heaven (where with a bit of luck we may end up) and earth (where currently we suffer). But for a variety of reasons, it no longer works.

The deep attachment of Fukuyama’s ‘end of history’ story to evolutionary metaphors is problematic. It is telling that the book contains no index entry for genocide or imperialism or totalitarianism or the atomic bomb. It’s as if these sordid facts of history never happened, or no longer matter, or should not be allowed to shape our view of history. And by supposing that democracy is a third stage in a ‘general evolution’ process that stretches in stages from the founding of a sovereign state through rule of law to elections, his perspective gets important things wrong.

Striking is Fukuyama’s neglect of democratic innovations that either preceded or attended the formation of the modern state. Obvious examples (they’re discussed at length in my The Life and Death of Democracy) are the election of representatives, parliaments, limited-term holding of office, petitions and trial by jury. Each of these modern democratic mechanisms has their origins in medieval Europe, that is, before the advent of the modern territorial state.

Fukuyama is equally neglectful of more recent cases of robust democratisation that defy his liberal ‘general evolution’ framework. India, Bhutan, Taiwan, South Africa, Botswana and Indonesia are democracies, but they are not liberal democracies on their way to Washington. That’s true as well for the Tibetan Government in Exile. Its polity is a creative form of non-liberal democracy whose popularly imagined homeland is to be found north of the Indian border, in the future, among citizens who don’t think of themselves as autonomous individuals and (like Taiwanese citizens) do not live within a ‘sovereign’ state.

These are not fine-point objections, random exceptions or insignificant ‘anomalies’. They in fact expose the ways in which Fukuyama’s evolutionary liberalism blinds him to some major political developments of our times. The shaping effects of the unfinished media and communication revolution (and the larger fascinating history of communications infrastructures in which state institutions always come embedded) are passed over in silence, for instance. Fukuyama is equally silent about the post-1945 birth of ‘monitory democracy’, and the corresponding redefinition of democracy as free elections plus the public efforts to question and break up arbitrary power, wherever it is exercised. Fukuyama repeatedly criticises democrats for neglecting the problem of governing effectively. He quotes Woodrow Wilson’s remark that democrats are typically more interested in ‘controlling than in energizing government’. But this quote understates the new 21st-century argument that monitory democracy, in the sense of public scrutiny and refusal of arbitrary power, is a basic condition of effective and efficient and just decision making, not only in the sphere of government but also (for instance) in the field of global corporate power and mega-projects.

It’s worth noting, too, how the state-centred approach of Political Order and Political Decay neglects the massive contemporary growth of cross-border governing institutions. Fukuyama thinks of himself as a realist, with strong ties to the liberal school of Realpolitik indebted to Samuel Huntington and (back in time) to Max Weber. Strange, then, is the way Fukuyama’s realism has an air of unreality about it: the thickets of cross-border power mechanisms in which all states and billions of people’s lives are now entangled simply go missing in this book. Fukuyama’s fixation on the foundational importance of the modern territorial state leads him to ignore not just the expansion and growing anti-democratic power of bodies like the G20 and the NSA, the IMF, the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (SCO), ASEAN and the ECB. He sees no need for rethinking the meaning and scope of democracy in these much-changed circumstances of the 21st century. The urgent double task of reinventing the democratic imagination and breathing life into democratic politics in cross-border settings such as the European Union and the Trans-Pacific Partnership seems rather lost on his thoroughly American, passé liberal way of seeing the world.


Fukuyama’s out-of-date commitment to travelling the road to Washington naturally places him at odds with China. The country may not score positive for its air quality, social injustice or football, but Fukuyama rightly says the Chinese state currently led by the Xi Jinping group is a political force to be reckoned with globally. ‘China poses the most serious challenge to the idea that liberal democracy constitutes a universal evolutionary model’, he writes.

It does indeed, but for reasons that slip through his end of history net. Political Order and Political Decay offers a masterful summary of the way endless local wars prompted ancient Chinese rulers to build strong, merit-based and centralised state institutions some 1,800 years before the same thing happened in Europe. The book shows as well that China never subsequently nurtured the spirit of rule of law (‘because it never developed a transcendental religion on which law could be based’, he surmises). In consequence, liberal democracy has thus far not happened in China, or so Fukuyama wants to conclude.

The main trouble with this verdict is its presumption that China ought to be on the road to Washington. It isn’t. And in the conceivable future it won’t be. The current Chinese experiment with political power is different. China is a new 21st-century type of despotism, a flexible one-party political system whose CCP rulers take pride in serving ‘the people’ of an ‘ancient civilisation’. These rulers energise markets and unequal wealth in their favour and count on support from a huge consuming middle class. They rule through law and a massive police force and army. They are guided by opinion polls, experiment with ‘smart power’ Internet public forums and see no need for ‘bourgeois liberalism’, or for free and fair general elections.

Both the durability of this Chinese ‘phantom democracy’ (let’s call it) and the formidable regional and global power of its spreading tentacles force us radically to rethink the year 1989. Francis Fukuyama lionised that year as the great breakthrough moment of the spirit of liberal democracy. Political Order and Political Decay still sees things that way. Perhaps instead we should think of 1989 as another new beginning, with a difference: symbolised by the bloody massacre of Tiananmen, a sobering year that set important parts of the world on the road away from Washington and towards Beijing?

This is a full-length version of comments that first appeared in The Age (Melbourne) and Sydney Morning Herald (February 14, 2015).