Abstract
Reading Charles Taylor’s writings is truly a pleasure – not only because of the ideas and arguments they contain, but also the specific spirit in which they are composed. Taylor does not develop his thoughts ex cathedra, but slowly, patiently and modestly. Often enough he admits that he is only able to speculate at certain points, and does not yet have a definitive explanation. Tentatively, he moves toward the expression of his work, an expression that is always only accurate for the time being. In doing so, he often produces quite original metaphors – such as the “vector” in the history of Latin Christianity, the “nova effect” following the rise of the secular option – which stick in the reader’s mind, regardless of whether they fully agree or not. Many turns of phrase – for instance, that of the “3 H” in language theory (Herder, Hamann, and Humboldt) – are humorous and make the text easier to read. Taylor’s style of writing, one could say, corresponds to his theory of articulation, according to which our thoughts do not always move within the bright light of propositional assessments, but rather must often first discover and bring to light those pre-reflective contents we perceive as truths. His style also corresponds to an ethic of dialog – one we need not enter if we believe that our side possesses the universal truth, while the other side holds nothing but ignorance, fallacy or ill intent. Taylor refrains from reprimanding or inimically attacking even those modes of thought which are far and quite distinct from his own, such as that of Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida or Jean-Francois Lyotard. Instead, he addresses them (in a deeply dialogical manner) as conversation partners to be taken absolutely seriously, and voices differences in appreciation only subtly.
Of course, we all know that we only really get to know a person when we see where and at what point they lose their composure and allow their emotions, and moral emotions in particular, to take over. It therefore seems appropriate to ask whether there has ever been a case in which Taylor’s voice shed its mild intonation. After reviewing his writings, I was able to identify only a single such instance, namely in the context of his multistage debate with Quentin Skinner, the great British historian of political thought.
In the late 1980s, Charles Taylor contributed a chapter to a collection on Skinner’s work. 1 In this piece, he criticizes the idea that a historian could simply choose to dismiss the implicit or explicit claims to validity of historical figures. In its place, he defends the thesis of the historian’s inevitable self-positioning and demands the hermeneutic willingness to allow, in confrontation with the studied subjects’ language, for scrutiny of one’s own descriptive language. He describes himself as formulating this critique “polemically,” 2 as he seeks to point out the deficient nature of arguments articulated in favor of the concept at hand. That said, he remains open about whether Skinner may have any stronger reasons to offer. Skinner subsequently turned his response in this volume into one of his most important methodological essays (“Interpretation, Rationality and Truth”), 3 containing a lengthy treatment of the “eminent philosopher” Charles Taylor. Although a third party can identify several communication difficulties between the antagonists, there is no trace of personal polemic on either side.
This changes, however, in Skinner’s long review of Taylor’s Sources of the Self. 4 Here, fundamental differences emerge and the tone grows noticeably harsher. Skinner not only formulates a serious critique of some of Taylor’s arguments, but goes on to categorically reject Taylor’s entire project of contributing to the affirmation of certain values by means of a genealogy of the modern Self: “The effect of learning more about the causal story cannot but be to loosen the hold of our inherited values upon our emotional allegiances.” 5 He acrimoniously remarks of Taylor’s Christian faith that the impact of Christianity in Western Europe was “nothing less than catastrophic.” 6 He therefore considers the “theist perspective” Taylor advocates (however carefully) as a remedy worse than the ailment it seeks to cure. Skinner, a staunch atheist, declares much of that which theists believe to be simply incomprehensible. In Skinner’s eyes, whoever clings to such false and incomprehensible religious beliefs “must be suffering from serious forms of psychological blockage or self-deceit.” 7
How does Charles Taylor respond to these assaults? Certainly not by turning the other cheek. In his riposte, Taylor denies ever having claimed the indispensability of a belief in God for an answer to existential questions, before addressing some of Skinner’s more minor points of criticism. Ultimately, he points out that his partner in dialog has refused to maintain (dialogical) symmetry. That is to say, Taylor, despite having demonstrated his respect for the “spiritual greatness in the views of unbelievers,” 8 feels that he is being attacked with psychopathological insinuations. The lack of understanding for religious belief is expressed aggressively and without any sense of regret. According to Taylor, non-believers often indulge in an ignorance concerning faith that no modern believer would allow themselves in a statement about a different religious or faith group. Moreover, and quite astonishingly in Taylor’s eyes, they even seem to be proud of it. 9
Three years after this dispute, carried out in the pages of a Norwegian journal, a collected volume on Charles Taylor appeared featuring Quentin Skinner’s text, re-published without its earlier generalizations. 10 In it, he acknowledges that the mere assertion of atheist conviction was not particularly helpful in the debate. Yet, Skinner continues, Taylor’s approach still amounts to little more than “whistling in the dark.” Skinner counterposes this with the human obligation, following the “death of God,” to defend the value of our human essence all the more vehemently. Taylor does not contradict this line of argument; he simply considers it delusional to think such an affirmation is a mere question of will – which, for Taylor, is precisely what ought to mark the point of departure for a reflective search for God. 11
In this collision between two of the great scholars of our time, it seems to me that the matter at hand was not just the inevitable differences in matters of faith, but rather the question as to which degree of tolerance toward believers the advocates of political liberalism are prepared to accept. This sensitive fact, which marginalizes believers from the discourse, is precisely what Taylor’s change in tone passionately sought to highlight.