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Proletarian Philosophy

Proletarian Philosophy:

A Version of Pastoral?

Jonathan Ree

I write in and about an embarrassment: how should I, a
philosophy teacher, respond to people who are also
committed to philosophy, but cut off from official
philosophical institutions? It was partly to focus my
attention on this problem that I revisited a much-respected
acquaintance a few days ago. He is Jock Shanley, a former
upholsterer and trade union leader, now eighty-three
years old and retired to a suburb near where I work in
north London, where he reads, watches TV, and leafs
through ~arxism Today, wondering facetiously whether he
is the only Marxist left in Britain.

Shanley is happy to be described as a “proletarian
philosopher”. His acquaintance with philosophy began
when, as an apprentice in Aberdeen in the early 1920s, he
attended University Extra-Mural classes in economics. Of
the theories surveyed in the course, the only one which
made sense to him was Marxism, and he plied the tutor
with questions about it. The tutor first reacted by
accusing Shanley of being a “plant” from the National
Council of Labour Colleges, a Marxist organisation for
independent working-class education, of which Shanley
had not in fact heard at that time. But eventually the
tutor was sufficiently pleased with Shanley to arrange for
him to be offered a scholarship to Aberdeen University, on
the understanding that he would spend two years working
for the Liberal Party once he had got his degree. Shanley
rejected that offer and, with a grant from the
Amalgamated Union of Upholsterers, spent two years
(1924-26) as a full-time student at the Central Labour
College, the residential counterpart of the· NCLC, in
Earls Court, London. It was there that he learned the
materialist and dialectical outlook by which he stiH
organises his life and thought.

As he talked to me about his analysis of current
politics – Reagan’s raids on Libya, the British Communists’

amnesia about the working class – he constantly referred
to its philosophical foundations, playing back sections
from an indexed tape-recording of key philosophical
quotations from Marx and Engels, and paying homage to
Tommy Jackson as “the Proletarian philosopher of the
1920s and 1930s, whose wit I cannot match”. Shanley does
not “believe in: philosophy, however; he regards himself
as an “anti-philosophical philosopher”. But his antiphilosophy, he is convinced, is indispensable for
enlightened and effective social and political action [1].

My own opinions, for what they are worth, do not
disagree with Shanley’s. The embarrassment is that they
don’t correspond to them either. If I have more patience
with the intricacies of technical philosophy, this may
merely reflect the luxurious ideology of a professional;

so too may my belief that philosophy can validly and
valuably lead to utter uncertainty, rather than to firm
conviction. But it would be facile to discard the problem
by trying to separate popular from academic philosophy,
and praising the former for its vital engagement with
reality, whilst scorning the decadent aestheticism of the
latter. For, on the one hand, popular philosophies will
turn out to be modelled main.ly on academic ones; and on
the other, academic philosophies characteristically
involve an image, a “wild idea” as Hegel put it, of
something called “the people”.[2] The idea of an
autonomous “popular philosophy”, therefore, may be no
more than a wishful projection of the academic
imagination.

1. Vindictive artisans
It seems obvious that philosophy has traditionally been
anti-democratic. In the Republic, Socrates conjures up a
lurid vision of what would happen if ordinary craftspeople
were permitted to “take a leap out of their trades into
philosophy”. Such artisan-philosophers might be “the
cleverest hands at their own miserable crafts”; but if they
dabbled in philosophy they would be no better than the
“bald little tinker” who comes into money and “takes a
bath and puts on a new coat”, grotesquely fancying that he
might be able “to marry his master’s daughter”. For the
dignity of philosophy, according to Socrates, has an
attraction even for those who are unable to understand it “whose natures are imperfect and whose souls are cramped
and maimed by their meannesses, as their bodies are by
their trades and crafts.” [3]
But Socrates’s attitude is not unambiguous: if he
associated sophistry with “the public”, he also went out of
his way to demonstrate, in the Meno, the innate wisdom of
a slave. And Christian high cuiturehas often elaborated
this sort of story into resonant fables about enfeebled
learning being revived on its death-bed by self-taught
peasants, or pure fools, or street-wise kids, astonishing
their sophisticated seniors by their information or their
uncluttered insight. The original is presumably Luke’S
story of the twelve-year-old Jesus running away from his
artisan-parents, to be found three days later. “in the
temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors, both hearing
them, and asking them questions” so that “all that heard
him were astonished at his understanding and answers” [4].

Such intellectual David-and-Goliath stories must have
helped thousands of outsiders to conceive and even to
fulfil an ambition of entering into an intellectual elite like Dirk Rembrantsz, the Dutch cobbler and amateur
3

astronomer who, after much discouragement, won
acceptance as part of Descartes’s circle [5]; or AntonWilhelm Arno, the Ashanti slave who made a career for
himself in eighteenth-century German academic
philosophy [6].

But there will always be a mean-minded suspicion that
people moved by such ambitions are just social climbers traitors to their class, not champions of it. After all,
stories which celebrate and romanticise the wisdom of
outsiders or the oppressed are standard elements of elite
cultures, rather than straightforward alternatives to
them. They are versions, in fact, of pastorals – that is to
say, of idealised stories which, as William Empson put it,
are “about” the people, but not “by” or “for” them [7].

Anyone who might be thought to “represent” the people in
such a scenario will naturally be suspected of betraying
them.

But during “the scientific revolutionit, things began to
change. It became possible to give a militant and
vindictive interpretation to the role of the artisanphilosopher and to make it more proletarian than pastoral.

Francis Bacon attempted to rewrite the history of
philosophy by praising the down-to-earth artisanal
practicality of the pre-Socratic philosophers at the
expense not only of the Sophists but also of Plato and
Aristotle with all their “professorial pomp” [8]. A
possible model for the heroic Baconian “workman” was
Bernard Palissy, a sixteenth-century Parisian potter whose
quest for a perfect white glaze led him to write and
lecture in Paris about his technical discoveries, in gleeful
rivalry with the official philosophers. Palissy introduced
himself to his readers as follows:

How can a man understand and discuss the workings
of nature if he has not read the Latin books of the
Philosophers? So it might be asked of me, for I prove
by experiments that the theories of many
philosophers are fallacious…. You will learn more
about natural philosophy from the instances
contained in this book than you could learn in fifty
years reading the theories of the ancient
philosophers [9].

In many ways, it is the same voice, more than two centuries
later, which heralds a brave new world of working-class
socialist revolution. In the Jura in 1807, Charles Fourier
(1772-1837) hailed the imminent demise of two and a half
millennia of misbegotten time-wasting philosophy:

To complete the humiliation of these modern Titans,
God has willed that they should be confronted by an
explorer who is a stranger to the sciences, and that
the theory of universal movement should end up as
the property of a· man who can hardly even read or
write. It is a mere shop-assistant who is going to
destroy all those libraries of political and moral
philosophy, despicable fruit of charlatanries ancient
and modern…. This will not be the first time that
God has made use of the lowly in order to humble
the proud, or that he has chosen a man of extreme
obscurity to deliver an all-important message to th~
world.

Fourier saw himself as an outsider whose destiny and duty
were finally to dispose of “the idiocies of the
philosophers” •
I – who know nothing about the mechanism of ideas
and have never read a word of Locke or Condillac haven’t I had sufficient ideas to be able to discover
the entire system of universal movement?

After twenty five centuries, he declared, “nothing remains
for the philosophers’ but confusion and despair.”
Do we really have to deck ourselves in long black
mourning-robes in order to inform the political and
moral philosophers that their fatal hour is sounding,
and that their vast libraries of books are all going to
sink into nothingness; that Plato, Seneca, Rousseau,
Voltaire and the rest, with all their choruses of
doubt, ancient and modern, are going to be swept
away by the great river of oblivion? [10]
4

There are some striking ambivalences, if not paradoxes,
about the role which Fourier designs for himself here: the
proletarian who is uncontaminated by official philosophy,
and determined both to excel in it and to overthrow it.

The character was to have hundreds, if not thousands, of
real-life embodiments in nineteenth- and twentiethcentury Europe and America. The most notable, probably,
is Joseph Dietzgen (1828-88), the Rhineland tanner and
Social-Democrat whose name became a byword for
“proletarian philosophy” from St Petersburg to Chicago
and New York, Glasgow, Liverpool, South Wales, the
Netherlands and on to Petrograd again [11]. There were
also fictional versions, such as Earnest Everhard, the
exigently named “proletarian philosopher” hero of Jack
London’s The Iron Heel (1908). The proletarian
philosophers-are robustly evolutionist, materialist, and
socialist; what is hard to make out is why they saw their
revolutionary project as requiring them to pay any
attention at all to philosophy. Why didn’t they just ignore
it, as one of the most insignificant of all the elements of
the old immoral world?

2. Philosophy and hero-worship
The history of philosophy is not just a matter of doctrines,
positions, and arguments. It also involves the aspirations,
the passions, and the disappointments of those who set
their heart on being ~ philosopher, even though they may
have only a remote idea of what such an existence might
mean. Philosophy’s past, in other words, belongs to the
history of intellectuals (academic or not) as much as to
intellectual history. And the history of intellectuals is
not a wholly positive discipline: its subject matter
includes idealised fantasy-figures which individuals may
fall in love with, or hate, and aspire to embody in
themselves or impress upon others; it deals with
“subjective careers” as much as with objective ones; the
history of intellectuals, in short, is a matter of heroes and
hero-worship.

A main source of information for any history of
intellectuals is provided by the regulations of academic
institutions. These certainly help to explain the quite
special prestige which has often been associated with the
idea of “philosophy”. In the universities of late medieval
Europe, the term “philosophy” referred paradigmatically
to three texts of Aristotle – the Physics, the Ethics
(Nicomachean), and the Metaphysics. Under the title of
“the three philosophies” these had been added to the older
“seven liberal arts” to complete the provision of the Arts
Faculties. This ideal curriculum had an essentially
temporal sense: philosophy was to be studied after the
seven arts, and it was upon an examination in philosophy
that graduation to the rank of Master in the Arts Faculty
would depend. Only after that could you become a

student in one of the small “professional” faculties traditionally, law, theology or medicine. Thus philosophy
was the name of a stage, rather than a subject: it was the
culmination, normally the last year or two, of a liberal
or pre-professional education. There was the same ladder
for teachers too: they would begin by lecturing on junior
subjects, the philosophy class being reserved for the
senior and best paid masters. Thus the figure of “the
philosopher” was institutionalised as a kind of supreme
symbol of liberal culture, a Cynosure for the ambitions of
all those wishing to improve their mind for its own sake.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,
increasingly sharp distinctions were made between
“secondary” and university education – distinctions which
involved both epistemological discriminations between
levels of knowledge, and moral ones between levels of
“maturity”. The philosophy-class found itself torn in both
directions. In Germany and especially in France it became
mainly secondary; in Scotland and America mainly
university; and other countries developed intermediate
arrangements. Philosophy’s position at the divide between
secondary and university education seems to have enhanced
its popular image as the crown of liberal culture. At the
same time, it encouraged directly political hopes to be
attached to it – from the conscientious concern with the
propagation of civic virtue in Scottish and American
philosophy classes, through the famously progressive
rhetoric of the French philosophes, and the quasi-military
organisation of French philosophy teaching in the
nineteenth century, to the radical teenage dreams of
Hegel, Holderlin and Schelling, looking forward to the
“revolution that will be made by philosophy”. In the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, in other words, the
idea of philosophy was associated in many people’s minds
not only with intellectual majesty, but with political
power as well.

3. The people of the philosophers
The values and procedures actually promoted by the
philosophy masters in their classrooms, however, did not
entirely correspond to their splendid and dignified public
image. The purpose of the classical philosophy-class, as
defined by its traditional place in the curriculum, was to
reflect on the earlier years of the students’ education, to
form a unified view of them, and to draw out their
implications for the conduct of life. There would also be
classroom discussions based on textbooks and the master’s
lectures, and a background of reference to a philosophical
canon, which was established in its present form in the
seventeenth century: a set of classics organised into a
three-part history of ancient (Pagan); medieval (preRenaissance Christian); and modern (eclectic).

These factors placed a very significant constraint on
the kind of education giv’en in the philosophy-class,
beneath and beyond the differences of explicit doctrine
amongst leading authors which are the stock-in-trade of
orthodox “histories of philosophy”. For the philosophical
canon has a structure which sets it apart from those of
other academic subjects. The difference is that the
philosophy-class is willing to treat its classics as
erroneous as well as indispensable; indeed it can be their
exemplary failure to live up to philosophical ideals
which makes then canonical. Hence a main task of the
philosophy master would be to use the classics not as
examples to be emulated but as warnings about the
terrible worm of abstraction or “metaphysics” which
always threatened to attack sound thinking and reduce it
to the inanity of a philosophical system [12].

The peculiarly negative character of the philosophical
canon has given the philosophy-class an attractive tinge
of diffidence, and a tendency towards anti-academic
populism. The philosophy-class has had the vocation of
undermining academic pretentiousness and inteUectual
vainglory, and has hence been capable of seeing itself as

the people’s fifth column in the academy, the
professoriate’s enemy within. So Malebranche’s Search
after Truth (1675-78) is actually a guidebook to scholarly
error, and even includes a grudging commendation of the
minds of women and children, whose exclusion from
academic institutions was supposed to keep them free of
metaphysical debility [13]. The same theme was taken up,
at least in prefaces and asides, by many of the celebrated
philosophical writers of the eighteenth century. In 1710,
for example, Berkeley presented his own Principles as
offering the educated the opportunity to rejoin “the
illiterate bulk of mankind that walk the high-road of
plain, common sense” [14]. In the Treatise, thirty years
later, Hume explained how it was philosophy’s task to
expose the “fictions” of “false philosophy” and lead its
errant students, humbler and wiser, back to common sense;
for, as he put it, “the true philosophy approaches nearer to
the sentiments of the vulgar, than to those of a mistaken
know ledge” [15]. The same theme was enthusiastically
promoted by the self-styled “Common Sense Philosophy”
of Reid and Stewart, which soon spread not only to
America but to France as well [16]. And Kant’s case for
the public usefulness of philosophy classes was that they
would show up the “arrogant pretensions” through which
scholars impose their “endless controversies” on “the great
mass of humanity” [17].

It is not surprising, therefore, that the philosophy-masters
who have been most revered and adored within the
philosophical world have been celebrated for their
hesitant sincerity and their tongue-tied self-doubt, rather
than for their positive doctrines. Even Hegel was famed
for his perplexed stammering when he lectured. And
Jules Lachelier, who dominated the highly centralised
national corps of philosophy masters in France at the end
of the nineteenth century, was noted not for his
magnificence but for his sweet simplicity. Emile Boutroux
recollected his teaching as follows:

He would size up the difficulties. He would stop to
think and cast around. He hesitated, started up
again, and then stopped. One day he said: ”’1 think the
best thing for you to do, will be to forget everything
I have ever told you.” [18]
Such stories of heroicaUy diffident philosophy-masters
suggest that the profession has been marked by a horror of
intellectual assertiveness: their patron saint would not be
Aquinas, but rather Socrates; not Pangloss, but Candide.

Their hero would not be the robed professor, but the good
plain artisan and man of the people, and their politics
would be not elitist but pastorally democratic.

5

4. Silent philosophers: the case of England
This sketch of the intellectual consequences of the
institutional situation of philosophy points to a definite
paradox. The philosophy-class was bound to look very
different from the outside than from the inside. Outsiders
would think of it as majestically concentrating all the
virtue of liberal culture within itself, or at least as
pretending to do so, and would expect the philosophy
masters to be eloquent, confident and superb. But viewed
from within, the class would harbour an upside-down
intellectual culture of self-deprecation, hesitancy, and
pastoral democracy.

Youngsters moving up into the philosophy-class could
be expected to experience some disappointment; but the
situation of real outsiders – “proletarians” like Fourier in
the Jura, or Dietzgen in the Rhineland, or Everhard in
Jack London – was even more awkward. As working people
with a longing for science, or poetry, or music, or art, they
were desperate to get away from the “simplicity” and
“purity” and “commonsense” in which, as a class, they were
supposed to be submerged; they did not wish to glory in the
dignity of labour, whatever bourgeois socialists or
democratic philosophy masters might say [19]. And by
focussing their desires on philosophy, they were embracing
a particularly acute form of this contradiction. They
might hope to take the subject by storm, as the pinnacle of
the academic culture of an oppressive ruling class; they
might hope to commandeer and transform it in the name of
the dispossessed. But then, owing to the sceptical,
pastoral and anti-academic tendencies already implicit in
philosophy, they would find the philosophers either
welcoming them and applauding them for their good sense,
or criticising them for straying from the paths of the
masses whom they claimed to represent. (I am referring to
a predicament peculiar to philosophy, not repeating the
old and unconvincing story about academic knowledge
inevitably “incorporating” its beneficiaries into the ruling
elite.) I shall now offer an illustration from the history
of English philosophy.

Philosophy classes of the kind common in Scotland,
Europe and America in the eighteenth century were not
established in England till the second half of the
nineteenth century – in Oxford in 1850, and in Cambridge
in 1851 [20]. The first English professional philosophy
journal, Mind, introduced itself in 1876 with the
observation that philosophy in England was “distinguished
from the philosophical thought of other countries by what
may be called its unprofessional character”. The editor,
George Robertson, went on to explain that “except in
Scotland ••• few British thinkers have been public teachers
with philosophy for thle business of their lives.” But when
he resigned the editorship fifteen years later, he was able
to observe that “the avowed ‘professors’ are now there in
no small number, south as well as north of the border, and
in the sister island” [21]
From the beginning, English professional philosophers
have exhibited that streak of hesitancy which is such an
important (and amiable) part of traditional philosophical
institutions. The first of them was T. H. Green (1836-82),
who transformed the lives of dozens of influential
6

students at Oxford by his strenuous social idealism. He
was notoriously hard to understand when he lectured, but
his “speculative impulse” was said to glow so intensely
that “when it touched minds of the same temper, it struck
fire.” The “enthusiasm” of his students was, however, “not
for any definite project or idea”; but they all believed “in
philosophy”, and “the belief was not the less real because
it was vague” [22].

Cambridge soon had several professional philosophers
cast from the same mould. James Ward (1843-1925), the
first Professor of Mental Philosophy and Logic at the
University, was admired by his students (as G. E. Moore
recalled) “because of his extreme sincerity and
conscientiousness, but partly also because of his
melancholy. He was a man who found things very
difficult .••• He talked; and, while he talked, he was
obviously thinking hard about the subject he was talking
of and searching for the best way of putting what he
wanted to convey.” F. W. Maitland recalled his teacher
Henry Sidgwick (1838-1900) as “a supremely great
teacher…. I sometimes think that the one and only
prejudice that Sidgwick had was a prejudice against his
own results.” And Moore said of his teacher McTaggart
0866-1925} that “what influenced me most was his
constant insistence on clearness •.• on asking the question
‘What does this mean?’ •••• What immense pains he always
took to get clear, even though he did not always succeed”
[23].

G. E. Moore is the paragon of the second generation of
professional philosophers in England. Moore was a silent
man. Quentin Bell recalls a discussion of “Moore’s
famous taciturnity: he was accused of silencing a
generation. ‘I didn’t want to be silent,’ he replied. ‘I
couldn’t think of anything to say'” [24]. Roy Harrod said
that Moore “was the mildest and simplest of men…. If the
veneration which his young admirers accorded him matched
that due to a saint, we need not think that they were
mistaken” [25]. Leonard Woolf described Moore as a
“simple” and a “silly” of “extraordinary beauty of
character and of mind”. His achievement, according to
Woolf, consisted in “substituting for the religious and
philosophical nightmares, delusions, hallucinations, in
which Jehovah, Christ, and St Paul, Plato, Kant and Hegel
had entangled us, the fresh air and pure light of plain
commonsense” [26].

On the evidence of these testimonials, the orthodox
idea of Moore as a revolutionary is extremely nearsighted. On the contrary, the intellectual virtues which
drew such praise on Moore are precisely those which had
always been fostered by the classic philosophy-class; the
words of admiration which he evoked from his
acquaintances are the same as those which had been used
to describe ideal philosophy masters for two centuries and
more: commonsense, simplicity, and, above all, silence.

The continuity extends to political attitudes too.

Moore did not give direct expression to political views, in
spite of his connection with well known opinion-holders
like Woolf, Keynes and Russell. But his philosophical
ideals involved the traditional philosophical reverence
for “the people”. He gave expression to it, for instance, in
a diary entry in 1893, when he was still a student. He is
describing a meeting in Cambridge addressed by a member
of the London County Council:

He was a genuine workman, like Tom Mann, but not
fiery, or with a strong understanding and great power
of speech. He was simple and gentle, as could be ••••
He was a steady Liberal and Progressive; and I could
not help thinking much better than before of the
London labourers, seeing that they chose him as their
candidate [27].

It is striking that what Moore loved in this “genuine
workman” was precisely those qualities for which Moore
himself was to be loved: simplicity, gentleness and
reticence of speech. Presumably, though, the Councillor
would have been unhappy with the circle of identifications
which Moore made: he would have expected a philosopher

to be more impressive than Moore, and would surely have
been uneasy at the patronising pastoralism through which
he gained credit for the people he represented purely
through his reassuring lack of “a strong understanding and
grea t power of speech”.

5. The philosopher of the people: proletarian or
pastoral?

My argument so far has been that, if you consider
philosophy as an institution going back to the seventeenth
century and beyond, rather than as a set of doctrines going
back to Socrates, you wiJJ notice a constantly repeated
(but seldom remembered) set of themes, images, and words,
connecting the ideals of the philosophy class to the
supposed virtues of “the people”: commonsense, simplicity,
and silent reproach against excessive theory. This
“pastoraJJy democratic” attitude, as I have caJJed it,
prepares a perplexing reception for any members of the
“people” who manage to force an entrance into the
philosophical world.

But there is a distinction, as has already been noted,
between the relatively docile pastoral figure of “the
philosopher of the people”, and the vindictive and militant
“proletar ian philosophers” such as Four ier, Dietzgen, or
Earnest Everhard. The embarrassment is that this
distinction between proletarian and pastoral may not go
very deep. If the proletarian philosopher refuses to play
the part of sweet simplicity in the philosopher’s pastoral
romance, he wiJJ be consigned to a mock-heroic subplot,
like the tinker in Plato who gives himself airs and hopes
to marry his master’s daughter. The basic lesson was
pointed out half a century ago by WiHiam Empson, when
he examined the idea that “proletarian” literature differed
from pastoral in that it was not only “about” the people,
but “by” and “for” them too. The difficulty with
“proletarian literature,” he confessed, was that “when it
comes off I find I am taking it as pastoral literature” [28].

The proletarian philosopher, I think, is always in danger
of reverting to pastoral type. What begins as a subversion
of pastoral, ends as another version of it.

Of course no philosophers – whether popular or
proletarian or professional – are entirely confined by the
plots I have described. Certainly Jock Shanley isn’t. I am
sure he wiJJ rebuke me for the ideas I have tried to set out
here, as he has rebuked me in the past, for what he sees as
my typicaJJy academic evasions, aJJ part of the “worldwide search for a Marx without dialectics and even a
doubtful materialist”. “What an exceHent self-portrait
you have written,” he told me; “you have studied
everything and understood nothing.” But fortunately, he
went on, the world is stiH being transformed – “in a real,
as distinct from a philosophic, sense ••• [by] practical men
who believe that the ‘positive outcome of philosophy’ is
science, though they have never heard of Dietzgen – or for
that matter Marx.”
I respectfuJJy t:haHenge you – write a positive
explanation of your own philosophy and see where
you get to. At least we Proletarian philosophers
failed while trying…. You may feel I am rude.

WeH, I come from a robust school. The Uni versi ty
(Aberdeen) I failed to enter had a motto: “They say,
what say they, let them say.” That is my reply to my
critics.

A few weeks later, Shanley wrote again:

As I write, I give my attention partiaHy to aT. V.

programme. Some people are tidying up Highgate
Cemetery, cutting down the undergrowth, exposing
the tombs of the Victorians, and making the cemetery
a pleasant place for the intelligentsia of Hampstead
and Highgate to take a stroJJ. I think you do just
that, in philosophy, with your account of
“Proletarian Philosophers,” but, alas, you only dig
amongst our dead bones – our tombs – and miss the
spirit in which we lived. Sad!

But life goes on: the crisis Marx foretold, in
Chapter 32 of Capital, is upon us. Except that the
working class has not yet found the unity he saw as
necessary. It will be built, I expect by proletarian
philosophers of whom we know nothing at present.

do not expect the philosophy, or the practice, will
mature in our Academic Institutions – if British
Capitalism lets them exist that long ••.•
Only ten years ago I would be trying to break into
your philosophy class to challenge them to state
what philosophy they have found to challenge the
dead – as I am politicaHy – the “Proletarian
Philosophers” [29].

real1y do not know how to respond to that chaHenge.

Every time I read it, it reduces me to silence.

Notes
[1] Jock Shanley, interviewed, 2.5 April 1986; letter to the author, 19 June
1986.

[2] “Die wuste Vorstellung des Volkes”, PhiloS0f,hY .2!. Right, Para. 279.

[3] Republic, VI, 49.5 d – e (Jowett translation.

[4] Luke, 11, 46-7.

[.5] 5ee””Baillet, Vie ~ M. Descartes, 11, .5.5.5; cited in Descartes, Oeuvres,
Eds. Adam and Tannery, V, 26.5-7; XII, 470, 480-1.

[6] See Paulin Hountondji, African Philosophy, London, Hutchinson, 1983,
11 1-130.

[7] William Empson, Some Versions .2!. Pastoral, London, Chatto and
Windus, 193.5, 6.

[8] Paolo Rossi, ~ Bacon, From ~!&!£ ~ Science, London, Routledge
and Kegan Paul, 1968, .52.

[9] Bernard Palissy, Discours Admirables (1.580), cited in Paolo Rossi,
Francis Bacon, 8.

–U.O] Charles Fourier, “Theorie des Quatre Mouvements”, in Oeuvres
Completes, Third Edition, Paris, 1846, I, 102, xxxv, 191, 1.5~
[J Il See Jonathan Ree, Proletarian Philosophers: Problems l!!. Socialist
Culture in Britain, 1900-1940, Oxford University Press, 1984.

(1″2JSO Marcuse went wrong when he suggested that “acade’mic sadomasochism, self-humiliation and self-denunciation” were introduced into
philosophy by Wittgenstein and Austin; they are, rather, a consequence of
the structural constraints on the philosophy-class. (See Herbert Marcuse,
One-Dimensional ~!!!!. Studies l!!. the Ideology .2!. Advanced Industrial
Societ
London, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1964′, 179).

13 Nicolas Malebranche, De la Recherche de la Verite (167.5-8), ed.

Genevieve Rodis-Lewis, Paris;Vrin, 1946, I U v : – – [14J George Berkeley, Principles .2!. Human Knowledge, Introduction, I.

[1.5J David Hume, Treatise of Human Nature (1739-40), ed. P. H. Nidditch,
Oxford University Press, 1978, 222-24-.-[16J In 1833, Victor Cousin claimed that “there can be hMdly any college
<College royal) in France which does not teach Reid and Stewart". See
Nicholas Phillipson, "The Pursuit of Virtue in Scottish University
Education: Dugald Stewart and Scottish Moral Philosophy in the
Enlightenment", in Nicholas Phillipson, 'ed., Universities, Society and the
Future, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, 1983, 82-101, 84.

[17] Critique .2!. Pure Reason, A viii; B xxxiii.

[18J Cited in Andre Canivez, Jules Lagneau, Professeur de Philosophie,
Strasbourg, 196.5, 2.57.

[19J See Jacques Ranciere, La Nuit des Proletaires, Paris, Fayard, 1981;
introduction translated as “Proletarian Nights”, Radical Philosophy 31,
Summer 1982, 10-13; and Le philosophe .!l.!£!. pauvres, Paris, Fayard, 1983.

[20J See Jonathan Ree, “Philosophy as an Academic Discipline: the
changing place of philosophy in an Arts Education”, Studies l!!. Higher
Education, 1II, 1978, .5-23.

l21l Mind I, 1876, 1; XVI, 1891, .5.57-60.

[22J R.H. Nettleship, Thomas Hill Green,.6 ~emoir, Oxford, 1906, 97.

[23] Paul Levy, ~~ ~!h ~~ and the Cambridge Apostles (1979),
Oxford University Press, 1981, .59, 82, 108.

[24] Quentin Bell, Virginia !.22!t London, Hogarth, 1972, 11, 21.5.

[2.5J Paul Levy, Moore, 10.

[26J Leonard WoOif, An Autobiography (1960-69), Oxford University Press,
1980, I, 40, 87, 93; 11, 40.5.

[27J Paul Levy, Moore, .51.

[28] William Empson, Some Versions .2!. Pastoral, 6, 21.

[29J Jock Shanley, letters to the author, February and April 1984.

7

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