Minor Reflections on Judgment I

Abstract: I provide some minor reflections on the concept of “judgment” derived from the early part of my 8th notebook. In particular, I argue that there are two primary, meta-forms of judgment; I further relate judgment to the problem of “listening” and the self-cultivation of proper democratic/political “attitude.”

Some inspired thoughts on the nature of judgment[1]: there seems to be two principal forms of judgment that work in tandem and complement one another, linking the theoretical to the practical/pragmatic—there is first the judgment of judgment itself, which manifest in the selection of subject matter to judge. This implies a number of things: paramount among them is that judgments a faculty that may be engaged—and is better suited to some categories/subjects/objects than others—like poetic imagination or critical self-reflection. Another way to put this: what subjects/situations natural call for/invite judgment? To this extent, the first “line” of judgment is the judgment regarding when to actually employ judgment—Lormore seems to draw out an implicit critique of Jamesian pragmatism by equating this first step with the exercise of imagination. Here, too, I am called to compare “judgment” with Nietzsche’s notion of “valuation”: do we valuate, then judge? Here is something quite different than the Kantian turn to define judgment as self-judgment; it is not that we derive pleasure from having the judgment so much as we must choose when the possibility of this pleasure might arise. Is valuation a form of judgment, or vice-versa?

Hence, too, the more colloquial insult that one is an overly judgmental person—and further the general matrix of over-judgment as humanly meaningful. Moderation of judgment, then, seems to imply two things: 1. That judgment may be put on hold, that using judgment always at the most judicious time may fatally prove injudicious; and 2. That judgment may be permitted to go on a certain auto-pilot—non-operational judgment occurs on this level. The second—and sequential—form of judgment manifests as a discriminatory pragmatism concerning the subject of the category in question—that is, after one makes an original and category-related call over what is actually “worth” judging, then the business of hedging appropriately that which is worth being judged begins. It is in the play between these two valances that “good” judgment emerges—selection, which relates to the theoretical and whose counter-fault we will call ignorance, and discrimination, which relates to the practical and whose counter-fault we may call sin.[2] On a side note, when I refer to the “judgment of judgment,”  I do not mean to arbitrarily introduce an ad infinitum  or “turtles all the way down” sort of argument—I think the ladder stops at two echelons that work in tandem. Of course, one may exercise one form and not the other, while a failure in both signals—what?—an unconvertable soul? I am not entirely sure on this point. But, to populate and rough and rudimentary binary list, one that begins to carve out some of the architectonic dimensions of a possible “cartesian plane” of judging, we might say:

Selection vs. Discrimination

Theoretical vs. Practical

Ignorance vs. Sin

Education vs. Discipline

It is in the interaction and interrelation of these valences that a full “diagram” of judgment emerges and the image of “judging” may be seen in all its contours and tones.

A related note concerns the relation between judgment and listening. That is, there seems to be a meta-judgment involved in knowing when to listen—to another’s story, to the noises of the situation, etc.—and when to cease listening and begin judging. Implied is the idea that listening is a suspension of judgment—one holds judgment in abeyance when one listens truly, enabling another to “make their case” and granting them a “chance” before a verdict is made. Of course, this is a standard which applies to every unit-scale: from intersubjective communication between two interlocutors up through the principles of judgeship, both formal/institutional and character-driven, that extend through the legal system. Questions include: does every situation demand some form of listening—or is there a form of judgment unique to knowing when to judge and when to suspend judgment (listen)? Further, when does one stop listening? I want to say: when the story is done, when the situation is settled. But the problem with this idea of closure is that I believe it to be primarily a myth. What is this myth? Hegel’s notion that the “owl of Minerva flies at dusk,” when taken to its logical conclusion, suggests that it is only at the “end” that we might identify the “beginning,” and understand the path that links the two. It is a myth that questions the very nature of narrative if the true start of it all is only understood after “it all” has passed[3]—well, what does it offer in terms of inside, especially in terms of stories which seem to have no “end”? We call the gift of the end “closure”[4]—but does history offer gifts? Here we stand face-to-face with Benjamin’s angel of history, poised to stare ever-backward. This is all to say: one could always listen, one is always and already listening. The art of when to say “yes” and “no” to this status is paramount here.

Or: just as there is a judgment involved with knowing when to start listening, so too is there a judgment involved with knowing when to stop listening. Judgment-as-listening vs. judgment-as-judgment; but is it even fair to call the first a form of judgment—or is it a manner of attention, a type-of intuition that may be cultivated but cannot be taught? We speak of good listeners, who command a valued patience; but is patience always the best response? I think, too, of comparing Machiavelli’s idea of prudence to the Aristotelian/Kantian forms of judgment I’m concerned with: how does judgment in the political realm mirror or differ from judgment in the ethical?[5] Here, it is not just a matter of differing or competing standards, e.g. good/evil in the ethical vs. effectual/non-effectual, friend/enemy, etc. in the political; rather, it is the greater divide between action and contemplation.[6] What closes the gap between the two?—the actual fall of the hammer, the event itself, which culminates in the decision.

Finally, I am reminded of the ethical questions that emerged from my viewing of the musical Wicked.[7] I want to ask: how can we act, how can we judge, if even our best intentions may produce/engender sin/ruin? It seems like the greater one wants to intervene in the world, the more expansive one’s envisioned impact, the more that intention thrusts itself to the winds of contingency.[8] A spectrum of attitudes here emerges: on the one end, an extreme consequentialist may disavowal action entirely; on the other end, a committed intentionalist (one who claims that, as long as action was born from good intent, then one/an action cannot be judged strictly by its actual consequences—but where does this leave us viz. the role of intention and consequence in the frame of our judgments? What constitutes a “good intention”?) may amputate an analysis of consequences, condemning such considerations as particularly parasitic forms of unknowability/”what ifs,” and pursuing action with a type of hubristic abandon. The tragedy: both are equally, humanly, aesthetically justifiable. Or: one must choose and commit between the two. I have argued before: today, one is either a conscientious activist or a conscious stoic—there is no in-between.

[1] See: Aristotle, Kant, Arendt, Charles Larmore.

[2] See, on the latter point especially, Bernard Williams on the development of “shame”; Foucault; Socrates, Kierkegaard. Christian ethics more generally.

[3] Heidegger and Hesse both take up positions on this point.

[4] See Frank Kermode, Sense of an Ending.

[5] Schmitt is here relevant.

[6] Arendt is most relevant here.

[7] See Kant on intentionality; Robert Burns on “The best laid schemes…”; Gunther Grass on “Faith, Hope, Love”—Tin Drum.

[8] See Berlin on positive liberty; see Weber on the proper political attitude.