Paul Blackledge and Kelvin Knight, eds. Virtue and Politics: Alasdair MacIntyre’s Revolutionary Aristotelianism (Notre Dame, Indiana: Notre Dame University Press, 2011).
“Life is short and books are long,” quipped August Wilhelm Schlegel.1 The book under review here is relatively long (365 pages) and broad in scope, a set of thirteen essays on various aspects of MacIntyre’s philosophy, with an introduction by the editors, and bookended by a preliminary essay and final evaluation and response by MacIntyre himself. It covers a field with many different corners, reflecting the several major turns that Alasdair MacIntyre has taken over the course of his life: from a committed Marxist, critical of Stalinism; to a kind of New Leftist critical of the New Left and specifically of Marcuse; toward a more general debunker of contemporary society, who embraced Aristotelian ethics; and finally toward Thomism, or a specifically Thomist version of Aristotle, and eventual conversion to Roman Catholicism. Throughout all these shifts he has maintained that Marxist socio-political critique and moral analysis is the most cogent and powerful available to us, however failed Marx’s practical prescriptions may have proved, and however wretched their implementation in the Soviet Union and elsewhere. Some commentators in this book see these shifts as major turns in MacIntyre’s development; others, and apparently MacIntyre himself, see a consistent pattern of changing focus, with a steady interest in the same themes from beginning to end: a critical embrace of Marxism; a serious interest in Christianity; a fundamental critique of modernity; and a search for alternatives, particularly in the Aristotelian tradition. Virtue and Politics has essays addressing all of these periods and themes, along with evaluations of MacIntyre’s work as a whole.
Born in Glasgow in 1929, of Irish descent, MacIntyre has had continuing interest in the “Scottish Enlightenment” and the role of Scottish thinkers as outliers in the European intellectual tradition. He was baptized a Presbyterian, but abandoned active church commitments as a teenager, though remaining interested in Christian tradition and belief. His first book was Marxism: An Interpretation (1953), reflecting involvement with the Communist Party and then several other socialist and Trotskyist groups. His articles, reviews, and even informal comments caused dissension, partly because of the places he chose to publish – New Left Review, but also Encounter (generally known to receive CIA support); but there were also accusations that he “trashed” left stalwarts such as Isaac Deutscher and Marcuse,2 among others, as though the young Scot were not a “team player.” During this period he also grappled with the problem of Stalinism, as did so many others after Khrushchev’s 1956 speech and the suppression of the Hungarian revolt. MacIntyre interested himself in Trotsky, who remained a kind of hero for him, even in his best-known work After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory (1981).3
After Virtue, which was preceded by A Short History of Ethics (1967), Marxism and Christianity (1968), and a host of articles, had the greatest impact and led to a kind of revival of (Aristotelian) “virtue ethics,” the moral theory which holds that good action is most of all dependent on the character of the agent, and that a good character is best achieved through moral education and by regular practice of the virtues.4 MacIntyre’s subsequent writings – Whose Justice? Which Rationality? (1988); Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry: Encyclopedia, Genealogy, and Tradition (1990), The Objectivity of Good (1993), Dependent Rational Animals: Why Human Beings Need the Virtues (1999), and an abundance of articles, lectures, reviews, and book-chapters – mainly worked toward resolving problems left or raised by After Virtue.5
Hence the questions posed in and about the present book: Do we have here a story mainly of internal philosophical coherence or of discontinuities? If MacIntyre has in some sense remained a Marxist all along, wherein does that consist and how does it mesh with the other intellectual developments he has undergone? And how does that relate to his changing but uninterrupted interest in Christianity?
In his introductory essay, “How Aristotelianism Can Become Revolutionary: Ethics, Resistance, and Utopia,” MacIntyre outlines the basic issues he sees in establishing such coherence. For Aristotelianism, more specifically Aristotelian moral theory, to become revolutionary, it is not so much a matter of theoretical adjustments to the current century as it is the need to overcome the many social impediments of a capitalist, alienated, commercialized society. MacIntyre points specifically to four contemporary phenomena that make such practice, or even the very “asking of Aristotelian questions,” extremely difficult: 1) our tendency to ask not the serious (i.e. Aristotelian) question about happiness, but instead the question of whether I do or do not “feel” happy; 2) “habits of character formation” that do not distinguish the desire for genuine goods from the desire for false ones; 3) “conditions of gross inequality”; 4) the claim by modern states that they have “the last word on what law is,” thus going contrary to the understanding of natural law in both Aristotle and St. Thomas (12-14). If Aristotelian morality requires virtuous practice and exercise, first with friends, then in more general social contexts, and finally in the city-state, how is such practice possible in a fundamentally corrupt and unequal society?
MacIntyre here relies on a distinction between practices and institutions:
By a ‘practice’ I am going to mean any coherent and complex form of socially established cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that form of activity are realized in the course of trying to achieve those standards of excellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form of activity, with the result that human powers to achieve excellence, and human conceptions of the ends and goods involved, are systematically extended.6
Examples of practices in this sense are chess, farming, and football (soccer); whereas tic-tac-toe, planting turnips, and kicking a football would not be practices. Even with youngsters, the elementary virtues of honesty, justice, even courage are required for engagement in these practices. In turn these practices serve as initiation into the regular practice of the virtues themselves and have a sort of social context in which individuals can develop. Three points come to mind: 1) If such practices are MacIntyre’s version of praxis, they seem a weakened substitute indeed. 2) It is odd that the examples of practices have so little relation to social justice. 3) Given things we know about the directions taken by MacIntyre’s in his later works, one can imagine him taking the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuit order, as an example of a practice directly leading to social justice. That might underlie the cryptic final pages of After Virtue.7 It is all very oblique. To be fair, MacIntyre makes passing reference to the long-term cooperation and community of fishermen and the way in which new techniques and collaboration led to revolts by weavers in Lyon in 1793 and in Silesia in 1844.8 Much as they may be exemplars of inspiration and discipline, MacIntyre’s cases seem as much lessons in “Act locally; think globally” as models for revolutionary action.
Regarding Aristotle “becoming revolutionary,” there is implicit ambiguity in the way MacIntyre has set up the problem. Can Aristotelianism be revolutionary because thorough-going virtuous practice leads over the long term to radical change and elimination of social ills? Or must there be a victory over social problems in order for Aristotelian virtues to be practiced? MacIntyre makes cautious commitment to the latter, acknowledging the popular resistance that these practices might evoke, and referring to this as “utopian.”9 The open-endedness of this conclusion seems to parallel the finale of After Virtue, where the final paradigms offered are Trotsky and St. Benedict, both of whom found some mode of action and work outside the dominating system.
Does it make sense to speak of Aristotelianism as “revolutionary”? MacIntyre’s prolegomena are followed by two substantial essays addressing the plausibility of “revolutionary Aristotelianism,” Kelvin Knight speaking to the affirmative, Tony Burns in the negative. In “Revolutionary Aristotelianism” Knight argues that it is “profoundly mistaken” to see MacIntyre as a conservative. Rather the fundamental analysis of managerial reasoning and emotivist moral philosophy are radical and revolutionary. Even if we accept that these and other analyses are “radical” in the sense that they “go to the roots” (economic and ideological), it is not clear how they are “revolutionary,” leading to either the eradication or amelioration of the capitalist system. As Marx says of Hegel, all these resolutions are at the level of ideas. Or, to paraphrase Bakunin, revolutionary institutions would be institutions, and revolutionary (individual or communal) practices would be (individual or communal) practices. In “Revolutionary Aristotelianism? The Political Thought of Aristotle, Marx, and MacIntyre,” Burns is more critical. As Burns sees it, MacIntyre’s intellectual biography divides into three periods: Marx without Aristotle in the early works; Aristotle without Marx in the middle, culminating in After Virtue and a bit beyond; Marx and Aristotle in the late works. But it is not clear why this alleged compatibility between Aristotle and Marx should be considered revolutionary, especially if it is the Marx of critique who is adopted more than the Marx of praxis.
There can … be no benign institutions. All practices are inevitably tainted because in order to exist at all they must be given a particular institutional form, and because all institutions are necessarily associated with the pursuit of wealth, status, and power. The problem, however, is that on this view it is not possible for the practitioners associated with a practice which has been embodied in a particular institution ever to be victorious in the power struggle between themselves and their managers. For victory in this struggle would amount to getting rid of the managers, which would, in turn, amount to the destruction of the institution in question. (49 [Burns])
On this reading Trotsky becomes the perpetually marginalized “revolutionary” forever “waiting for Godot”10 and Benedict is not so much the bold reformer separating himself from a corrupt society as the monk doomed to everlasting separation.
There follow sets of essays related to general issues of modernity, to specific aspects of Marxism, and to the philosophical problems left in MacIntyre’s wake – though not strictly in that order.
In “Two Cheers for Enlightenment Universalism: Or, Why It’s Hard to Be an Aristotelian Revolutionary,” Alex Callinicos addresses the turn by which MacIntyre became ambivalent toward Marx. Although he officially embraces Marxist critique, in an “Interview with Giovanni Borradori,” MacIntyre says that “Marxism is not just an inadequate, but a largely inept instrument for social analysis”11 Callinicos sees MacIntyre straddling fences in which Marxism is made compatible with both Thomist Aristotelianism and Hegel’s secularized Christianity, whereas Trotskyist Marxism becomes for MacIntyre an escape from Stalinist utilitarianism on the one hand and from liberal universalism on the other. Sean Sayers, “MacIntyre and Modernity,” sees MacIntyre’s “revolutionary Aristotelianism” as an “unhappy mix” (79) of appropriations and critiques from Aristotle, Marx, social science, analytic philosophy, philosophy of science, and Thomism. In many ways MacIntyre is representative of the New Left philosophy he otherwise criticizes, according to Sayers, where not even a retreat to the university campus – absent the religious commitment necessary for removal to a monastery – can find an island of free discourse. MacIntyre, taking his turn in the concluding essay, says that Sayers does an excellent job of summarizing the case against post-Enlightenment liberalism, without clarifying just how problematic the liberal values themselves are.12 Peter McMylor, in “Compartmentalisation and Social Roles: MacIntyre’s Critical Theory of Modernity,” elaborates the degree to which MacIntyre’s moral philosophy is dependent on current sociology, particularly Erving Goffman – though, in his comments, MacIntyre concedes that he had misinterpreted Goffman. This leads to a further question about the relation between MacIntyre’s commitment to “practices” and revolutionary practice, no matter how penetrating or radical – and appropriate – any such sociological analysis may be. For example, Marcuse thought that the working class had been co-opted and could not be relied upon as a revolutionary force, and he became skeptical of all forecasts about revolutionary necessity;13 but he did think that there were social movements which might be revolutionary in the long run – civil rights, the women’s movement,14 environmentalism – and even if they did not lead to revolution in any predictable way, they might still have beneficial effects.
In “Alienation, Practices, and Human Nature; Marxist Critique in MacIntyre’s Aristotelian Ethics,” Niko Noponen examines the negative role of Nietzsche and the positive, often underplayed, role of Marx in MacIntyre’s socio-economic criticism. Paul Blackledge, in “Leadership or Management: Some Comments on Alasdair MacIntyre’s Critique of Marxism,” a somewhat misleading title, argues that the Marxist element in MacIntyre’s thinking is consistent and continuous; that the critique of Marxists in power, especially Stalin, is common to many other Marxists; whereas the embrace of Marxist critique while keeping Marxist revolutionary practice at arm’s length is a cautious attitude MacIntyre has in common with Adorno, Horkheimer, and Marcuse, regardless of other criticisms he may have. After looking at the case of Gramsci, Blackledge shifts the terms of the examination to that of democratic (= socialist, Marxist) leadership. Émile Perreau-Saussine’s “The Moral Critique of Stalinism” returns to a question that haunted MacIntyre early on. Neil Davidson’s “Alasdair MacIntyre and Trotskyism” and Andrius Bielskis’s “Alasdair MacIntyre and the Lithuanian New Left” look at the practical options open to Marxists in the post-Stalin age. MacIntyre singles out Davidson’s article for particular credit in understanding the context of his intellectual development (328).
Sante Maletta, “MacIntyre and the Subversion of Natural Law”; Anton Leist, “Troubling Oneself with Ends”; and Kelvin Knight, “Virtue, Politics, and History: Rival Enquiries into Action and Order” are all essays devoted more directly to the theoretical problems left by MacIntyre’s position in After Virtue and thereafter. In a way the issues are summarized in the title of MacIntyre’s own book, Whose Justice? Which Rationality? (1988), a book we may see as an expansive answer to (friendly) critics of After Virtue. Both Maletta and Leist examine MacIntyre’s interest in natural law and some sort of revived and revised teleology as a way of countering the relativism of enlightenment liberalism, the alleged circularity of Kantian deontology, and the emptiness, even triviality, of utilitarianism. Yet it is easier to evoke the role of a past confidence in natural law under very different conditions than to demonstrate its relevant presence for current philosophical discussion. According to Maletta, it is impossible to distinguish between “what is good” and “what we currently happen to want” and to determine the place of “the multifarious kinds of good that … it is possible for us to achieve” without referring “to some conception of human flourishing and to some single final end” (177f). No matter how strong a case can be made that the modern “liberal” abandonment of final causation has led to groundless relativism, and no matter the arguments for the need for teleology, such expostulation does not in fact demonstrate the reality of the supposed finality. Anton Leist is more cautious in his approach to the need for teleology, even dismissive of its application in moral theory. Expressing sympathy with MacIntyre’s approach to moral problems and his analysis of the “rival traditions,” Leist insists that we all must take much more seriously Nietzsche’s fundamental critique of Western tradition. MacIntyre, in his concluding essay, answers Leist by asserting that the type of teleologically grounded moral theory that Leist analyzes is irrelevant to his own. Finally, Kelvin Knight ranges over MacIntyre’s relation to a number of philosophers and intellectual historians: J.G.A. Pocock, Quentin Skinner, R.G. Collingwood, Hannah Arendt, John Rawls – an eclectic set. In particular he considers Pocock’s The Machiavellian Moment, examining the relation of Machiavelli to the Enlightenment, developing from that the contrast between republicanism and liberal democracy, and using that to analyze the possibilities of action and the likelihood of reaction in each. MacIntyre responds to Maletta and Knight in terms of the natural law theory he embraces and the understanding of liberty and justice that entails. Otherwise MacIntyre seems almost dismissive of Knight’s elaborate derivation: Of course his views should not be confused with those of Hayek. Knight, however, makes the interesting general observation: “For MacIntyre, Aristotelianism is not a ‘theory of how to know better’ than plain persons but a theory of what plain persons know” (284). Aristotelianism on this reading is a curious inversion of “ideology”: It is non-elitist by not claiming to know “better”; it replaces the proletariat with “plain persons,” depriving this class of the solidarity necessary for revolutionary action, replacing sublimated and transformative “opinion” with putative “knowledge,” and, finally, providing a kind of “elite” philosophical theory of that “knowledge.” And praxis seems to take the side exits.
In his concluding essay, “Where We Were, Where We Are, Where We Need to Be,” MacIntyre answers his critics and commentators, particularly elaborating on the issues of action and organization under contemporary dire circumstances. “Marxism not only lacks an adequate ethics. It has also lacked an adequate sociology” (321), despite its important implications for the former, and despite Marx’s important insights into the latter. How to be honest, critical, and a communist at the same time in the age of Stalinism and the subsequent Soviet Union seems to remain for MacIntyre a deeply personal issue. He leaves open important issues of teleology and natural law which come up in some of the essays.
In his relatively early A Short History of Ethics (1966), MacIntyre devotes the first and particularly the second chapter to “The Prephilosophical History of ‘Good’ and the Transition to Philosophy.” And Whose Justice? Which Rationality? has early chapters on the Homeric ethos. MacIntyre uses not only the pre-Socratic but the pre-philosophical as a grounding for the moral tradition and moral practices which will emerge in polis culture. This is roughly parallel to philosophical uses of the state of nature in Rousseau, pre-history in Hegel, perhaps even primitive communism in Marx – a period which is obscure, but not totally dark; thinkable, but not accessible; and above all not repeatable. “There is no going back,” say Rousseau, Kleist, Hegel. Peter McMylor attempts to answer the charge that MacIntyre pursues “social theory as nostalgia”; and he claims that MacIntyre himself successfully refutes that charge.15 Perhaps “nostalgia” is the wrong word, although it was Novalis who said that all philosophy is “homesickness, the desire to be everywhere at home.”16 In the very serious, often interesting discussions of “natural law” there is sometimes a woeful air: “Would it were that all of us still had the kind of confidence in natural law and the grounding of justice and morality therein!” But, alas, we don’t. It is easier to regret the loss than to evoke its resurrection.
MacIntyre’s claim that he has been grounded in Marx throughout his career – even in the interim period in which some commentators see him as minimally interested – is well documented. Paul Blackledge and Neil Davidson have assembled a 443-page anthology of MacIntyre’s Marxist writings, Alasdair MacIntyre’s Engagement with Marxism: Selected Writings 1953-1974.17 And he was active in several Marxist parties – first the Communist Party of Great Britain, then the Socialist Workers Party, Socialist Labor League, and next the International Socialism Group – and wrote frequently for their respective periodicals.
MacIntyre’s engagement with Christianity is in many ways still more complex. He seems never to have seen Christianity as incompatible with Marxism, though for some time he could not achieve an adequate synthesis either. He puts much emphasis on the derivation of the Marxist moral vision from the reinterpretations of Christianity by Hegel and Feuerbach, and indeed from Christianity itself. In fact, it is Christianity and capitalism that MacIntyre considers incompatible.18 And there are significant twentieth-century examples of devoted Christians committed to political resistance: liberation theology, Thomas Merton, many others. Likewise, there have been important dedicated Marxists who, while themselves atheists, have had a serious interest in Christianity and other monotheistic theologies. Ernst Bloch is an interesting example, as is the French communist Lucien Goldmann. MacIntyre wrote an essay on Goldmann’s The Hidden God: A Study of Tragic Vision in the Pensées of Pascal and the Tragedies of Racine,19 in which he referred to Goldmann as “the finest and most intelligent Marxist of the age.”20 It is clear from these examples on both sides of the credal divide that religion is not only an object for dissection by ideology critique, but can also be a weapon for the demolition of ideological self-deception.
The second edition of MacIntyre’s first book, Marxism: An Interpretation (1953) was re-titled Marxism and Christianity (1968), and that in turn was reissued in 1995, with a new “Introduction: 1953 1968 1995: Three Perspectives.” In discussing his transformation from the first version of 1953 to the second of 1968, MacIntyre makes the following curious observations:
…I found myself distanced from identification with any substantive point of view. Whereas, in 1953, I had, doubtless naively, supposed it possible to be in some significant way both a Christian and a Marxist, I was, by 1968, able to be neither, while acknowledging in both standpoints a set of truths with which I did not know how to come to terms….
Christianity had become problematic for me as a consequence of my having supposed that the theology in terms of which its claims had to be understood was that of Karl Barth. But what Barth’s theology proved unable to provide was any practically adequate account of the moral life, and, although I should have known better, I mistakenly took what is a defect in Barth’s theology to be a defect of Christianity as such….21
MacIntyre moves immediately from this to an attack on the moralist platitudes of contemporary liberal Christianity. Yet those surely do not proceed from Barth’s so-called “neo-orthodox” Calvinist theology. And it is strange that MacIntyre should take this Reformed theologian as typical of Christianity in general, even though he was popular with some Scottish Presbyterian thinkers. The Barthian God is thoroughly transcendent, totaliter aliter (totally other), standing in judgment on the ultimate inadequacy of all human action and on every human society. God does not take sides in wars, football games, or the competition of economic systems. Jeremiah Wright is a better Barthian Christian than Kate Smith, one might say. But this does not remove the duty for direct moral action, according to Barth; rather it warns us not to claim that we do so “with God on our side.” Barth himself was a committed socialist throughout his life, who said one should do theology with the Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was the principal author of the “Barmen Declaration” (1934), refusing to permit Nazi influence in the German Protestant Church. He sent a personal signed copy to Hitler himself. The next year, since he refused to sign a loyalty oath, he had to resign his professorship in Bonn and return to his native Switzerland. He was famous for his prison ministry, making weekly visits to Basel’s jails, giving talks collected as his “prison sermons.” The story is told that Barth, on his visit to America in 1962, was asked by colleagues, “So, what do you want to see? Rockefeller Center? The Statue of Liberty?” To which Barth replied, “I want to see your jails.” No doubt we should not over-interpret MacIntyre’s odd misreading of the political implications of Barthian theology. Did MacIntyre hope somehow to merge Marxism and Christianity, putting “God on our side”?
The last pages of After Virtue are well known for the seemingly strange turn that MacIntyre takes there in his final discussion of the possibility of virtuous action. Marxism, he asserts, is “deeply optimistic,” since a better future must emerge, even from the present mess. “Yet if the moral impoverishment of advanced capitalism is what so many Marxists agree that it is, whence are these resources for the future to be derived? It is not surprising that at this point Marxism tends to produce its own versions of the Übermensch…” (262). He cites Lukács and Lenin, but notes that “Trotsky’s cold resolution was his refusal of all such fantasies.” Taking Trotsky seriously seems to push us into an un-Marxist pessimism. So, what is to be done? MacIntyre suggests that there are rough parallels between our own times and the end of the Roman Empire.
… A crucial turning point in that earlier history occurred when men and women of good will turned aside from the task of shoring up the Roman imperium…. What they set themselves to achieve instead…was the construction of new forms of community within which the moral life could be sustained so that both morality and civility might survive the coming ages of barbarism and darkness…. What matters at this stage is the construction of local forms of community…. We are waiting not for a Godot, but for another – doubtless very different – St. Benedict (262f).
It is an interesting but perplexing twist. The “revolutionary” response to all the noisy immorality of today is quietism: ora et labora, “work and pray.” The impossibility of current action and praxis may be overcome by inaction and meditation. Praxis becomes a righteous ataraxia (passionlessness) – in Hegel’s Phenomenology the last stage of mastered slavery prior to Christianity. An island in the storm may in fact save us from the storm; but it doesn’t halt the storm, alter its direction, or temper its ferocity.
1. August Wilhelm Schlegel, “Beyträge zur Kritik der neuesten Litteratur,” Athenaeum: Eine Zeitschrift I:1 (Berlin: Bey Friedrich Vieweg dem älteren, 1798) [Reprint: Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1960], 143.
2. MacIntyre, Herbert Marcuse: An Exposition and a Polemic (New York: Viking, 1970).
3. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981).
4. There are various ways of distinguishing the main schools of ethical theory. The most common include: 1) Deontology: ethical action follows duties and obligations, identified with Kant; 2) Consequentialism: good action is determined by the outcomes of action, with numerous contemporary representatives, and sometimes including utilitarianism; 3) utilitarianism: the good can be calculated by utility and happiness achieved, “the greatest good for the greatest number,” associated with Bentham and Mill; 4) Virtue ethics, generally traced to Aristotle.
6. MacIntyre was educated at the Universities of London, Manchester, and Oxford. He taught at various universities in the United Kingdom before coming to positions in the United States at Brandeis (“History of Ideas” program), Boston University, Wellesley, Vanderbilt, Notre Dame, and Duke. He also served as President of the Eastern Division of the American Philosophical Association.
6. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 2nd ed. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984), 187.
7. After Virtue, 262f.
8. The latter is discussed by Marx in “Critical Marginal Notes on the Article ‘The King of Prussia and Social Reform. By a Prussian,” and The Class Struggles in France 1848-1850, and famously portrayed in Die Weber by Gerhart Hauptmann, in which the collective weavers are the “main character,” undertaking bold and “revolutionary” action.
9. “This Utopianism of those who force Aristotelian questions upon the social order is a Utopianism of the present, not a Utopianism of the future.” MacIntyre, “How Aristotelianism Can Become Revolutionary,” 16.
10. Cf. the last sentence of After Virtue, 263.
11. Kelvin Knight, ed., The MacIntyre Reader (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998), 258.
12. “About what it was against, the Enlightenment was often right in its conclusions, although almost equally often mistaken in the premises to which it appealed in support of those conclusions” (326).
13. Herbert Marcuse, “Repressive Tolerance,” A Critique of Pure Tolerance. With Robert Paul Wolff and Barrington Moore, Jr. (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), 95-137; Marcuse, “Art in the One-Dimensional Society,” Arts Magazine (May 1967), 166-171.
14. “A dialogue on feminism: Herbert Marcuse meets Kate Millett. [Sound recording]. Recorded at University of California, San Diego, on April 25, 1975. [UCSD library], sponsored by UCSD Women’s Center and University Extension Women’s Programs. Commentators: Mary Lindenstein Walshok and Pat Allen.
15. Peter McMylor, Alasdair MacIntyre: Critic of Modernity (London-New York: Routledge, 2005), 46. Cf. MacIntyre, After Virtue, Chapter 15.
16. Novalis [Friedrich von Hardenberg]: “Die Philosophie ist eigentlich Heimweh. – Trieb überall zu Hause zu sein.” “Philosophie” Fragmente. Walter Rehm, ed. Novalis: Auswahl und Einleitung (Franfurt/Main-Hamburg: Fischer Bücherei, 1956), 153.
17. Historical Materialism Book Series, ed. Paul Blackledge, et al. vol. 19 (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2008)
18. Cf. MacIntyre’s “Epilogue: 1953, 1968, 1995. Three Perspectives,” in ibid., esp. 416ff.
19. trans., Philip Thody (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964).
20. MacIntyre, “Pascal and Marx: On Lucien Goldmann’s Hidden God,” Encounter, vol. 23:4 (October 1964), 69-76. Reprinted in MacIntyre, Against the Self-Images of the Age: Essays on Ideology and Philosophy (London: Duckworth, 1971), 76-87; reprinted in Blackledge-Davidson (note 17), 307-316.
21. MacIntyre, “Epilogue” (note 18).