Recently a friend lent me a book he knew I’d disagree with: Peter J. Leithart’s Defending Constantine. I enjoyed it a lot, not least because of Leithart’s vibrant and forceful prose. As I read, and wondered how much it should change my opinions, some thoughts I’ve had for a while began to solidify in my mind. I’ve tried to express them here.
Suppose a polemical writer wants to convince me, her representative reader, of a proposition. She knows that I have a wary and critical – not to say proud and ungenerous – way of reading books and articles that defend propositions I don’t already think are true. She therefore thinks I might be unlikely to follow her all the way to her conclusions. Ingeniously, she overstates her case to arrive at stronger – perhaps more offensive or jarring – conclusions than either those she actually holds or the ones she wants me to hold having finished her book (I’ll come back to this), in the hope that I’ll meet her halfway, where she herself actually sits.
So far, so fine. Some mischievous friend buys me a book, or sends me a link to an article, that defends an unfashionable proposition, or one with which they know I strenuously disagree. I read it, and perhaps it adds some nuance to my worldview, or in the limiting case it persuades me to change my mind about the topic, but not so that I align myself fully with Jordan Peterson, or Bruno Macaes, or Grace Blakely. Presumably I enjoy the ride, and have been somewhat enlightened along the way, as if I’d taken a rollercoaster through a landscape of heterodox politics.
But suppose also that I’m a discerning reader – perhaps you will have to suspend your disbelief! I therefore know that a writer is exaggerating their case to persuade me to meet them somewhere along the way. My wariness to identify with them stops being anchored to what they actually say, but rather to what I think they actually mean or want to persuade me of. So I am careful to agree with less of what they write than I otherwise might, either in the same spirit of critical reading as before, or perhaps out of some moral aversion to their shameful, dishonest sophistry. Maybe I conclude charitably that their paradigm is useful but misapplied. Maybe I think that their elucidation of the opposite view is one which focuses and sharpens my own. In any case, I am – conveniently – dragged less far away from what I already thought than I would have been had I not been discerning.
And the problem doesn’t stop there. If the polemical writer in question is also discerning, they will know that I’ll attach this lower weighting to what they write as I try to reach my conclusions. Optimally, they therefore inflate their writing even further to try to compensate for this and still lever me onto the conclusion they are promoting. Knowing this, I determine to agree with a lower percentage of the thesis of their book. Logically this cycle repeats ad infinitum, or absurdum, or nauseam, or something. (What I’m describing here leads formally to a Nash equilibrium – the writer and I are playing mutual best responses when they occupy as extreme a position as they can, and I in turn deviate from my existing opinions in as trivial a way as I can manage after absorbing their tripe.)
The deep problem is that one writer on her own will struggle not to be caught up in this tide of theatrical dishonesty. My reading habits are formed by all of the books that I read – and if I’m in the habit of reading polemical books, I probably read a variety of different authors. If I’ve developed some kind of the cynicism I’ve described above, I will approach her straight-shooting, honest analysis with a vague – perhaps subconscious – determination not to agree with her, and to modify my existing views as little as possible. So even if there are writers who don’t play the game, their readers might, and the principled honesty of the writers will result only in a dampening of their influence.
I’ve assumed so far that the only goal of the polemical writer is to change the views of their readers. This needn’t be true. In fact, it might not be a motivation at all – some bloody-minded contrarians might be delighted by the idea that their reader-sheep stay entrenched in their hardened ignorance (like Phoebe Buffay, wishing that her acoustic folk music was unappreciated in its own time). In any case there are definitely limits to the way this dynamic presents in books in the real world.
Firstly, in order to persuade me of anything in their book, a writer must persuade me beforehand to read it and to take it seriously. If they have a particularly mendacious reputation, or their style is self-evidently posturing and dishonest, I might steer well clear of the whole table in Blackwell’s with their book on it, or put it down after a couple of pages. There is a limit to readers’ patience – at least, there is a limit to this reader’s patience.
There may also be a sense in which a writer is motivated by their desire to be, or at least seem, authentic and intellectually honest in their writing. We can either understand this in terms of what economists sometimes (asininely) call moral cost (a disutility that is inherent to an action simply because the action itself is somehow ‘bad’, that is to be weighed rationally against the utility inherent to it because it’s convenient), or by understanding polemical books not as an attempt simply to persuade, but to articulate. In the latter analysis, the writer is not interested in taking me with them to their conclusions, but in showing me what they think and why. Whether I agree or not is immaterial. The reality, of course, is that writers write with a complex web of motivations that sometimes overlap and sometimes compete.
In spite of these constraints – and no doubt there are others – I think the tendency remains in this kind of writing. I’ve heard lots of people accuse lots of authors of this kind of theatrical game. I’ve made the accusation in this blog at least twice. So a legitimate concern remains – not that we are all destined to become cynical readers of absurd books, but that exchanges of information in the modern west become distorted by this dynamic. Of course, everything I’ve said here about polemical writing can be applied to political speechmaking, and perhaps even preaching.
I am not a polemical writer. (I don’t think so, anyway, although maybe you, dear reader of Yikeiatry, disagree). It’s tempting therefore to throw my hands up in despair at this state of affairs and accept it as a regrettable but inevitable part of life, like washing up or the Telegraph. But I’ve concluded that there is actually a disposition I can adopt as a polemical reader that slightly mollifies the problem.
I’ve basically taken it as axiomatic that just reading something I disagree with won’t change my mind completely on anything substantial. This is generally true, but it’s not inevitable. Conclusions I’ve reached through careful thought and diligent research are unlikely to be changed even by the most penetrating chapter or thoughtful blog post. But few of my existing beliefs were formed in care and diligence! If I choose carefully the kind of books I read, I’m probably reading things that are much more thought through on their topic than I am. And if I’m one hundred percent wrong on some issue, changing my mind one hundred percent, rather than nuancing my view with the most trivial point I can find, will be optimal.
I conclude therefore that polemical reading should be open-minded. I can’t expect to depart from conclusions and beliefs that are foundational to my worldview every time a university friend updates their blog or Allen Lane publishes a new contrarian hardback. But I must expect to depart occasionally from hunches and half-formed opinions when I see well-researched and well-expressed disagreement with them. If I pair this disposition with alertness and a gently critical outlook, I can celebrate writers who don’t play the game, and even benefit from reading those who do.
So write on, Grace, Bruno, David, Jacob, Daniel, and others. I look forward to you changing my mind.
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