(Mis)states of Nature

Up all over the interwebs this week, Jonah Goldberg has an interesting column on the myth of the “wild”: “We pick and choose all the time,” he writes, “what should be ‘wild’ and what shouldn’t.” The column applies the idea mainly to environmentalism, that high church in which “natural”—whether that refers to wildlife preserves in Africa or organic coffee in Seattle—means praiseworthy, and “unnatural” means despotic, exploitative, and usually Republican; but the idea might admit of a different application: to the so-called “state of nature,” a staple of liberalism—and one regularly redefined according to convenience.

In the “state of nature” contemplated by the English philosopher Thomas Hobbes in his Leviathan, life is, famously, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” because of the bellum omnium contra omnes—war of all against all. Political society is organized under an all-powerful sovereign to effect peace. By contrast, Jean Jacques Rousseau’s “state of nature” glamorized pre-political life and contended that institutions, chief among them property, were responsible for man’s fall from primitive grace.

Liberalism, reveling in contradictions, rather likes both ideas—each when it suits the purpose. When it comes to capitalism or the Tea Party, Hobbes is right. They decry “anarchy” and explain that the only way to curtail imminent cannibalism is by granting the Department of Health and Human Services power to conduct tooth-level surveillance. Alternatively, they are sure that if only we could “rise above” the irritations of political society by tearing down fences and erasing borders, we would all be able to express our gender liberation while eating locally grown kale.

“Nature” is, for liberals, like every other word: a matter of political convenience, a husk they can fill with whatever definition suits the needs of the moment. I suppose, though, that when power is the ultimate goal, that’s just natural.