INTRODUCTION
It is said that Anacharsis the Scythian [a sixth-century BC philosopher], while asleep, held his secret parts with his left hand, and his mouth with his right, to intimate that both ought to be mastered, but that it was a greater thing to master the tongue than voluptuousness.
—CLEMENT OF ALEXANDRIA, Stromata
Forgotten fields, like unweeded gardens, grow a bit wild. Thus, it is necessary to begin by trying to state with greater precision the thesis being defended here. “Philosophical esotericism” needs to be distinguished from the profusion of related phenomena that surround it—after which its internal divisions or variations need to be clearly identified.
In common parlance, “esoteric” is often used synonymously with “recondite” or “abstruse,” simply to denote any kind of knowledge that, by virtue of its inherent difficulty, profundity, or specialized focus, surpasses the understanding of most people—like quantum mechanics. But in a stricter sense—and the one intended here—it is something difficult to understand because hidden or secret. The term derives from the Greek esoterikos, meaning inner or internal. An esoteric writer or writing would involve the following characteristics: first, the effort to convey certain truths—the “esoteric” teaching—to a select group of individuals by means of some indirect or secretive mode of communication; second, the concomitant effort to withhold or conceal these same truths from most people; and third (a common but not strictly necessary characteristic) the effort to propagate for the sake of the latter group a fictional doctrine—the “exoteric” teaching—in place of the true doctrine that has been withheld.
On this understanding of the term, there are a variety of movements that today and for centuries have pointedly emphasized a long Western tradition of “esotericism.” All the most prominent of these are forms of mysticism: Theosophy, Gnosticism, Hermeticism, Rosicrucianism, Kabbalah, Neoplatonism, Neo-Pythagoreanism, and others. In one manner or another, all of these movements hold that there exists a single, secret body of “Esoteric Knowledge” that is of a mystical or occult nature and that links together the brotherhood of esoteric thinkers across the ages.
When Leo Strauss began writing about esotericism in the late 1930s, he was acutely aware that the only unbroken remembrance or living awareness of the phenomenon was in the mystical tradition. As he put it, in the present age “the phenomenon in question [esotericism] . . . is discussed under the title ‘mysticism’”1—a statement that, despite the efforts of Strauss and others, still remains largely true today. If one does an internet search or a title search in the Library of Congress catalog for “esotericism,” the overwhelming majority of replies concern Theosophy.
But the mystical version of esotericism is a very small part of a larger phenomenon. Esotericism is actually a practice to be found throughout the mainstream Western philosophical tradition and the mainstream literary and theological traditions as well. This larger phenomenon is the esotericism that Strauss may be said to have rediscovered.2
In this larger sense, esotericism does not imply (as the mystical sense does) that there is a single “Esoteric Philosophy” linking all genuine esotericists. Here “esoteric” denotes not a particular body of secret or occult knowledge but simply a secretive mode of communication—not a specific set of beliefs, but the practice of partly revealing and partly concealing one’s beliefs, whatever they may be. It is not a philosophical doctrine but a form of rhetoric, an art of writing (although the belief that it is necessary to employ such rhetoric is typically rooted, as I will argue, in larger, philosophical views).
In this broader sense, esoteric writers will naturally differ from one another far more widely than in the mystical sense: they will all employ a secretive art of communication but on behalf of different doctrines, moved by different motives and purposes, and employing different esoteric techniques and strategies.
Furthermore, within the subcategory of philosophical esotericism, which is our interest here, there are important differences. The primary source of these differences is to be found in the larger philosophical views just alluded to. For philosophical esotericism, while not a mystical phenomenon, is also not simply a literary or rhetorical one either—not merely a technique employed to deal with an occasional, practical problem (such as persecution). In its several distinct forms, it grows out of the fundamental and abiding philosophical problem of theory and praxis—especially the question of the relation between philosophic rationalism and political community, or between “the two lives”: the vita contemplativa and the vita activa. Are the two fundamentally harmonious (essentially the Enlightenment view) or antagonistic (the dominant classical view)? Clearly, a thinker’s position on this philosophical question will largely determine his stance regarding the act of writing—his stance, that is, regarding the true purpose of and the proper rhetorical method for the public communication of philosophical thought.
In writing their books, most thinkers during and after the Enlightenment, for example, were motivated largely by the belief that philosophy, properly communicated, could remake the practical sphere in its own image: it could bring the political world into harmony with reason. And based on this harmonizing motive and assumption, they tended to employ a certain form of esotericism—a relatively loose concealment or dissimulation—for two reasons: partly as a propagandistic rhetoric to aid them in their ambitious projects for political and religious transformation and partly as a defensive expedient to shield them from the persecution that these revolutionary projects would inevitably (but only temporarily) provoke.
Classical and medieval thinkers, by contrast, tended to practice a more concealed, more thoroughgoing esotericism—esotericism in the fullest sense—because they were motivated, not by the hope that philosophic rationalism could enlighten and reform the political world, but by the fear that, to the contrary, rationalism, if openly communicated, would inevitably harm that world by subverting its essential myths and traditions. And, again, they were also motivated by fear of the persecution that this harm would naturally provoke. Their purpose for publishing books of philosophy was rooted not primarily in political schemes, as with the Enlightenment thinkers, but in educational aims. And these aims in turn gave them a further, pedagogical motive for esotericism: a text that presents hints and riddles in stead of answers practices the closest literary approximation to the Socratic method—it forces readers to think and discover for themselves.
We may distinguish, then, four primary kinds of philosophical esotericism. To state the point in more analytical fashion, a philosophical writer will purposely endeavor to obscure his or her true meaning either to avoid some evil or to attain some good. The evils to be avoided are essentially two: either some harm that society might do the writer (persecution) or some harm that the writer might do society (“dangerous truths”), or both. The effort to avoid these two dangers gives rise to what I will call defensive and protective esotericism, respectively.
But of course a still easier way to avoid the dangers of writing would be to avoid the act of writing. If philosophers choose to publish in spite of these considerable dangers, it is for the sake of some good, of which there are primarily two: either the political (cultural, intellectual, religious) reform of society in general or the philosophic education of the rare and gifted individual (or both). And each of these positive aims also turns out to require an artful rhetoric—either propagandistic or educational. From these arise what I will call political and pedagogical esotericism.
Not only has the motive for employing esoteric concealment varied from thinker to thinker, but so also has the basic form. A philosopher might write nothing at all, for example, and confine himself entirely to oral teaching, saying one thing in public and another to initiates, as Pythagoras was widely reputed to have done. He might confine his true views to an oral teaching but write books setting forth a salutary public or exoteric doctrine. He might produce two different sets of writings for different audiences, one exoteric, the other esoteric (although, given the easy transmissibility of books, the esoteric writing could not dare to be completely open). Or his writings may contain multiple levels, with an exoteric teaching on the surface and an esoteric one conveyed “between the lines,” that is, indirectly, through hints and insinuation.
The primary focus in what follows will be on multilevel writing, which seems to have been the most prevalent form of esotericism. But it is important to keep all these possibilities in mind.3
Esotericism also varies widely in degree. In some cases, the exoteric doctrine may merely be a popularized or sanitized version of the esoteric doctrine. In others, it will be radically different, even opposite. Again, some esoteric authors will withhold or conceal parts of the truth (as they see it), but say nothing contrary to it. They will not tell “the whole truth,” but they will tell “nothing but the truth.” They will, if you like, be esoteric but not exoteric. Other authors will both conceal the truth and present falsehoods or “noble lies” as if they were true.
Although the particular content, motive, form, and degree of esotericism has thus varied, the existence of esotericism of some kind has nevertheless been strikingly constant. Virtually all scholars today are willing to admit that, here and there, a philosopher or two can be found who engaged in esoteric writing. It is almost impossible to avoid such an admission because, as will be seen, there is such widespread evidence in the philosophic tradition for esoteric writing that there is almost no spot where a scholar may dig without eventually unearthing some tattered piece of testimony to this practice. But the typical response to such finds is to declare esotericism a real but rare, strange, and uncharacteristic practice that arises now and then from eccentric circumstances. In this way, we tend to dismiss the practice in the very act of acknowledging it. It is our most common way of denying the real phenomenon.
To repeat, the real phenomenon, the idea that was once well-known and now forgotten, is this: through most of history, philosophical esotericism has not been a curious exception—it has been the rule. It has been a near-constant accompaniment of the philosophic life, following it like a shadow. Furthermore, it has had such relative universality precisely because it derives not from occasional or eccentric circumstances but somehow from the inherent and enduring character of philosophy itself in its relationship to the practical world—from the issue of “theory and praxis.”
That, at any rate, is the thesis of this work. The question is: Is this a curious myth or a strangely forgotten truth?
HOW TO DEMONSTRATE THE EXISTENCE OF ESOTERICISM
Proving the reality of philosophical esotericism in a manner that will be convincing to most scholars presents a daunting task, and for at least two reasons. First, as a secretive activity, esotericism is obviously resistant, by its very nature, to open and clear disclosure. Most evidence pertaining to it is likely to fall far short of perfect clarity and thus to require, on the part of the investigator, a high degree of sensitivity, judiciousness, and sympathy. But, second, as a secretive activity—as well as an alien, deceptive, and elitist one—it inspires in most people today the very opposite of these necessary sentiments. Thus, it has a particularly hard time getting the fair and sympathetic hearing that it particularly requires.
In view of these difficulties and especially the uncertainty of the evidence, it is clearly necessary to address the issue of esotericism carefully, one philosopher at a time, so that the evidence can be sifted as closely as possible, placed in historical context, and evaluated in dialogue with the secondary literature. Such work has been going on for some time now and is making real if slow progress.4
But the one-philosopher-at-a-time approach, while necessary, also has inevitable shortcomings. It needs to be guided as well as supplemented by the opposite method: an effort to display the phenomenon of esotericism as a whole, in its full theoretical and historical sweep. That is what I attempt to do here. For the evidence concerning a particular philosopher will often remain stubbornly ambiguous when examined—no matter how carefully—in the context of that thinker alone. But it can take on new dimensions when linked to similar evidence in other thinkers. There are patterns in the big picture invisible at the level of individual works.5
Furthermore, this more synoptic perspective allows one to see how the practice of esotericism has changed over time and, conversely, to see what is enduring and essential in it—its underlying basis and unity. Finally, it is essential to realize that a person’s judgment on the question of esotericism is ultimately not a freestanding thing. It is inseparably tied to a larger worldview—to deep assumptions regarding the nature of philosophic truth, political life, and the communication of the one to the other. Thus a persuasive case for esotericism ultimately requires a larger philosophical narrative that is able to address these deep assumptions. It demands something like a Kuhnian paradigm shift.
Thus, in attempting the more global approach, I make use of three primary forms of evidence or argument. First, on the empirical level, I present explicit “testimonial evidence”: the hundreds of statements by philosophers from every historical period openly testifying to the use of esoteric writing, either in their own works or in those of others. This massive body of empirical evidence forms the foundation for the rest of the argument.
Second, on the philosophical level, I try to explain this surprising evidence: what causes could have led so many philosophers in such different times and places to engage in such strange behavior? I explore the enduring philosophical concerns—the fundamental tensions and contradictions subsisting between thought and life, philosophy and society, theory and praxis—that motivate philosophical esotericism in all its various forms.
But a third level of analysis is necessary owing to that other historical fact from which we began: our forgetting of esotericism. This remarkable event is strong evidence for the suggestion, made above, that the modern worldview somehow involves a deep aversion to esotericism that will not easily be dispelled by the facts and explanations presented on the first two levels. Thus it is necessary, on what might be called the “self-knowledge level,” to turn our gaze back on ourselves and attempt to identify, address, and overcome the sources of this cultural resistance.
In what follows, chapters 1, 3, and 4 present these three different levels of evidence or argument. (Chapter 2, a short interlude, supplements this effort by providing two brief examples of esoteric writing and reading—to make the phenomenon under discussion a bit more concrete.) Yet these three chapters remain on a somewhat abstract level because, to avoid needless complexity at the beginning, they speak about philosophical esotericism in general, without separating it out into its several distinct varieties. Chapters 5 through 8 descend from this abstract plane to explore the four distinct forms of esotericism—defensive, protective, pedagogical, and political. Here, the description and proof—which combines all three levels of argument—can become more fine-grained and concrete.
Chapters 9 and 10, proceeding on the assumption that some readers will have found these arguments for the reality of esotericism persuasive, go on to draw the consequences. What exactly follows if the tradition of philosophical esotericism is real? Chapter 9 elaborates the practicalconsequence by providing some introductory instruction in the art of esoteric reading. This exercise will also help to give a more concrete picture of esotericism, showing what this practice looks like and how it works.
Chapter 10 turns from the practical to the philosophical consequences of the recovery of esotericism. Drawing upon the thought of Leo Strauss, it explores how this rediscovery, if correct, changes the whole philosophical landscape in important ways. In particular, it shows how it makes possible, in Strauss’s view, a new defense of reason or philosophic rationalism against the powerful modern forces threatening to undermine it, especially radical historicism.
There is no doubt that this work brings unwelcome news. If it really is true that the strange practice of esotericism was, through most of history, as widespread and important a phenomenon as is claimed here, that will pose a whole new set of problems for scholarship. Still, if it is true, we had better get used to it.
And there is, after all, a bright side to it. A veritable lost continent has been rediscovered in our time. Against all odds, here in our jaded, seen-it-all postmodernist world, suddenly a fresh new frontier lies open before us, a practically untouched field of study where there is much groundbreaking work to be done by those with the ambition to do it. Large issues need to be reopened: the relation of philosophical truth to political life, the purpose of philosophical publication, the role of ideas in history, the true character of philosophical education, the forgotten premises of modern “progress-philosophy,” and many other weighty matters. The whole course of Western philosophical thought is not so well-known and settled as we have long thought it to be. Beneath its conventional exterior, it is more daring, original, and alive.
“Listen; there’s a hell of a good universe next door: let’s go.”
—E. E. CUMMINGS