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The individual,
as we saw at the end of the last chapter, is the key to humanity,
even as the atom is the key to the material universe. In anatomy
class, medical students are given one cadaver to dissect, not a
thousand of them, to help them understand the way the body works.
With human nature, similarly, it is enough to know one person deeply.
Every human being contains within himself the essence of all humanity,
with its potential for ignorance and wisdom, hatred and love, misery
and happiness, self-deception and clarity. The counsel of ages has
always been: "Know thyself." Who, indeed, can ever know
us as deeply as we can know ourselves?
In the past,
people saw no need to probe beneath appearances. The study of anatomy
wasn't even included in medical training until relatively recently.
Doctors prior to 1628 and the publication of William Harvey's Essay
on the Motion of the Heart and the Blood had no clear understanding
of the way blood circulates in the body. Artists prior to Michelangelo
had only a dim notion of the inner structure of the body. They depicted
people as though the skin covered only smooth flesh. Man's understanding
of the universe, equally, was based on casual observation. Sun,
moon, and the other heavenly bodies appeared to revolve around the
earth; therefore, that was what they did. The earth looked flat:
therefore, it was so. (One wonders what the mariner made
of ships, approaching from a distance, as they rose out of a seemingly
flat sea!) As things appeared to be, so by common agreement they
were.
There were great
works of literature, certainly, and great paintings and sculptures,
that evidenced deep insight into human nature. Those exceptions,
however, only proved the rule: It was self-knowledge that gave their
creators a clear perception of the subtleties of the human mind.
Social philosophy,
too, was focused on society as a whole, not on individuals. Treatises
dealt with the classes of society, while paying slight heed to human
beings. Governance was understood as a means of controlling the
populace, not of benefiting them or of alleviating their miseries.
A society, however,
is made up of individuals. They are not mere statistics: They are
flesh and blood. People cannot be understood merely from their social
status. Rather, society can be rightly understood only in terms
of its citizens, and of their particular needs and interests.
Important as
the individual is, however, it must always be kept in mind that
systems are important, too. What is being proposed in this book,
then, is not some newly disguised form of anarchy, but only a shift
in emphasis—away from people en masse to people as individuals.
The universe
itself is systematic, not random. Planets move in regular orbit
around their stars; stars revolve around their galactic centers.
In public affairs, similarly, some sort of system is necessary.
(Imagine the modern freeway as a free-for-all!) People are thinking
beings, and cannot but have differences of opinion on countless
subjects. They may express their differences amicably, or do so
with heated passion. They may relinquish their own opinions for
the sake of over-all harmony. But to expect everyone to agree, or
to resolve differences voluntarily, would be unrealistic. Every
group needs a leader: someone to inspire it, to arbitrate disagreements
and, when necessary, to decide issues. Otherwise, the best that
can be hoped for is half-hearted compromise with few positive results.
A certain amount
of eccentricity is, for all that, essential to progress—unless,
indeed, "progress" is defined as mere forward motion like
the trundling of a streetcar. Eccentricity too, however, requires
coordination in any group effort. Otherwise it can cause confusion.
An
example of eccentricity is the typical artist, who generally works
alone and seeks his inspiration within himself. Even in centuries
when great art flourished, 2 however, there was
perceived a need to make concessions to broader realities. The flowering
of great art often coincided with times when the rules governing
artistic expression were not only definite but, sometimes, even
rigid. An example of extreme rigidity occurred under Islam, which
completely forbade artists to imitate anything in nature. As Muslims,
they had to content themselves with creating intricate geometric
patterns and designs. This, however, they did with amazing versatility,
beauty, and grace.
Nature, so far
as I am aware, gives us no model of successful anarchy. As life
evolved to the level of intelligent interaction, the need emerged
for leadership. In any group, some guidance is necessary. A leader
needn't have any other talent: All that he or she needs is a gift
for coordinating and inspiring others. Leadership is a skill, simply,
like painting or music composition or an aptitude for business.
Part of the skill of leadership lies in knowing how to present an
idea so that people will nod their heads instead of shaking them—and
shaking their fists as well! Often, leadership skill depends on
recognizing that there is truth on more than one side of an issue.
It lies also in seeing that what everyone really wants may essentially
be the same thing. The skill, in such cases, lies in being able
to define an issue in such a way as to be acceptable to all.
Leadership,
then, is obviously essential in cooperative communities. If experiments
in this direction have failed, it is largely due to some inadequacy
in leadership. It takes a good leader to steer people to a harmonious
conclusion. Groups that insist on spontaneous consensus achieve
only low-energy decisions—arrived at, usually, after endless
discussion. People are so exhausted in the end that they'll agree
to almost anything, simply to get the talking over and done with.
How to explain
what I mean by adequacy in leadership? The first thing a leader
needs is to respect others as individuals. If he fails in this regard,
it probably means he hasn't much respect for himself, either. His
leadership style gets caught, consequently, in a tangle of self-consciousness,
self-doubt, and compensatory bluster. Any attempt to help him out
of this maze soon reveals to what extent leadership is a gift, not
merely a position. It is a skill also, however, and as such can
be learned in time, provided people are interested in self-correction.
Effective leadership
is magnetic. The magnetism, however, should be of the right kind.
For people can be guided foolishly as well as wisely. A leader may
overwhelm others by the sheer force of his own opinions. He may
intimidate others with his excessive confidence, feeling his own
position to be unassailable. Or, again, he may seek to include others,
and expect the best of them. This last type of leadership is suitable
for cooperative communities, in which people come together for a
life of inner freedom, harmony, and happiness.
Many
of the ideas expressed below appear also in a book of mine, The
Art of Supportive Leadership 3. This book
has been bought in quantity by several major corporations in America
including Kellogg, Mitsubishi, and AT&T for distribution to
their managers. It sells well, for the principles it presents have
been tested and developed in actual practice. In this chapter I
will suggest a number of new principles also.
First, it may
aid understanding if I contrast this approach to the worst counsel
that I know for rulers of nations, and for group leaders. That advice
was written by Nicolò Machiavelli in his book, The Prince.
Machiavelli's name has become synonymous with utter lack of scruples
in the quest for power. I should mention at the outset that his
advice has never, in the long term, been validated. Whatever success
it has inspired has been temporary. Meanwhile, however, his teachings
have inflicted untold misery.
The greatest
flaw in Machiavelli's theories, however, is not even the misery
they've inflicted. It is that they've encouraged rulers to go against
their own nature, as human beings. Thus, they've created misery
for the rulers themselves. In other words, his counsel has proved
a disaster for the very people he was trying to help. With Machiavelli
to guide them, they needn't have worried about hell after death:
He showed them how to create hell right here on earth. Whatever
benefit may be derived from his teachings—I don't suggest that
anyone bother to familiarize himself with them!—is that, by
contrast, they show what is needed in a good leader.
Machiavelli
(1469-1527) lived during the height of the Italian Renaissance.
His books were written for rulers, not for commoners. According
to him, the ordinary canons of morality, applicable to lesser human
beings, are not valid for heads of state, whose goal should be to
gain and hold absolute power.
In The Prince
(Il Principe), written in 1513, Machiavelli attempted to justify
every possible villainy—including treachery, torture, and murder—with
the cold-blooded explanation that a ruler must do what is necessary
to maintain his position. Modern businessmen, too, if they aren't
overburdened with a conscience, seek similar justification. After
bankrupting their competitors, they explain that action dismissively
with the statement, "Business is business." Other people,
too, use similarly specious arguments to excuse deeds they know
instinctively to be wrong. And so it is that, for a certain kind
of person, Machiavelli's book has been for centuries a veritable
"bible" of success.
A number of
writers, wanting to be fair, defend Machiavelli with the claim that
he wasn't really evil; that he was a republican at heart, and dreamed
of living to see Italy united. It doesn't really matter what the
fellow was like, personally. He may have had better intentions than
his writings indicate. On the other hand, he may have been, as many
believe, a devil. Machiavelli the man isn't at issue here. It is
his teachings we are dealing with. In that context, Machiavelli
is only a footnote.
The issue before
us is this: Can human values legitimately be suspended in the case
of rulers? Obviously, for starters, a prince doesn't have a different
anatomical structure from lesser citizens. Nor has he a different
mental or spiritual make-up. His tastes, appetites, and emotional
needs require fulfillment like the rest of us.
The ancient
Greeks and Romans invented myths in which gods and goddesses behaved
as though they were above ordinary morality. One suspects those
myths were allegories, created to accommodate the understanding
of ordinary human beings, with the hope that in time they would
find deeper meaning in them as the stories were told and retold
many times. In any case, human beings are not gods, even if rulers
have been known to order their subjects to treat them as such. Moral
principles apply as much to kings as to beggars. Indeed, sometimes
they apply even more so, for a beggar may be unaware of subtleties
that ought to be obvious to a king.
Are certain
actions, then, justified in a ruler that would not be so
in his subjects? Can the rightness of an act be divorced from the
well-being of him who acts, and from the well-being of those for
whom he acts? Only its benefit to human beings can truly justify
human behavior. And if well-being is accepted as a guideline, is
it not as much so for the subjects as for the ruler? Is there any
act that might, in itself, be justified in a ruler that would not
be justifiable for ordinary citizens?
An example springs
to mind: warfare. Sometimes war is necessary. In that sense, it
is right. Defensive war, for example, may be the only way to protect
a nation. Murder, however, is an act committed by individuals and
can virtually never be justified. The decision to go to war must
be made by rulers, not by common citizens. Even here, however, exceptions
are imaginable. What if a madman enters a village and begins shooting
everyone in sight? Wouldn't the villagers be morally right even
to shoot him, if necessary, to save the entire village from becoming
slaughtered?
Mahatma Gandhi,
the renowned champion of non-violence, skirted this issue once when
the question was put to him. "I would offer myself to be killed
first," he replied. A beautiful answer, of course, but it wasn't
properly responsive to the question. For what if that madman, after
killing Gandhi, had continued on his rampage through the village?
Wouldn't Gandhi's sacrifice in that case have seemed irresponsible—even
a little bit foolish? In real life, bad choices must sometimes be
made in preference to even worse ones. Moral issues cannot be determined
absolutely. Everything in this world is, necessarily, relative.
An action is
effective that accomplishes its objective. If, however, what it
accomplishes is self-defeating and leads only to disappointment
in the end, it cannot be termed a genuine success. Repeated disappointments
in life persuade one at last that the long-range goal of all striving
is not mere pleasure, acquisition, and worldly power, but things
intangible: happiness, inner peace, and wisdom. If, indeed—as
seems obvious—everyone's goal is his own fulfillment, we must
ask ourselves also, when contemplating a course of action, Will
it give me what I really want? Is it, from that standpoint,
meritorious? that is, will it promote my own true well-being,
and that of others? And can such well-being actually be purchased
at the price of anyone else's?
Truth is truth.
Honor is honor. There may be mitigating factors too subtle for most
rulers to understand, but at every crossroads in life one can only
be guided by one's own best understanding. A safe rule is this:
Be true to what you feel in your heart to be the right course. Even
so, you should keep yourself open to the possibility of a new direction,
should one seem preferable in time. If the facts so indicate, one
shouldn't hesitate to accept the change. Nor should one be concerned
lest others see him as having lost face. It is no shame in a leader
to accept the truth, whatever it may be, once recognition of the
need for it dawns as events unfold. Truth alone, always, should
be our guide.
It is sometimes
good to have a "worst-case scenario." Let us ask ourselves,
How much would we be willing to sacrifice for a clear conscience?
One ought to be ready to give even life itself for a principle.
Unless and until one is inwardly confident that he can embrace this
choice, he will never be completely at peace inwardly. The fear
of death, if of nothing else, will always loom over him like a dark
cloud.
The following
story is for those who face crucial decisions of conscience:
In a concentration
camp during World War II, a number of Jews were brought to the camp
commandant's office. He showed them the view through the glass window
of his office door. "You see that gate across the courtyard
from here?" he asked. "It is your gateway to freedom.
I ask of you only this: As the condition for your release, you must
renounce your Jewish faith."
With but one
exception, every Jew in the room accepted his condition. They may
have told themselves that, under such circumstances, apostasy would
be no sin, and that their words of denial could be retracted later
anyway, as having been made under duress. The commandant opened
the door, and they hurried out toward the gate. As they were crossing
the yard, they were all machine-gunned to death.
The sadistic
commandant then turned to the one remaining Jew. "They were
trash anyway," he remarked dismissively. "Of what good
are people if they can't be faithful to a commitment of conscience?"
There are almost
as many kinds of leadership as there are human beings. No sweeping
system should be, or even could be, suggested for all. Forced efforts
are unnatural, and can lead to disastrous results. Let us rather
consider those who lead discriminating individuals, people whose
conscience is free, who aren't concerned with the opinions of others,
and who are willing honestly to seek a better way of life.
The only one
suitable to lead people who are free in this way is one who respects
them as individuals. No leader will meet this qualification
if he tries to persuade others against their will, even if he is
convinced that he desires only their well-being. Since he, like
each of them, is an individual, he must respect above all their
right to form their own judgment, even if he considers it to be
wrong.
A leader should
lead others, not drive them. He should inspire them to want
to behave rightly. Indeed, a motto for enlightened leaders should
be, "People are more important than things."
The ideas here
presented are for this kind of leader. They will help everyone,
however, because all men find themselves, occasionally, in a position
of having to make decisions for others. I present them generally,
therefore, and don't plan to raise the bar so high that few can
jump over it.
Here, to start
with, is an essential guide: Before making a decision, don't ask
only, "Will this plan advance the project?" Ask also,
"Will it help me and all of us toward our fulfillment as
human beings? Is there a danger that it may hinder that fulfillment?"
Ask also, "Will it help us to develop character?"
For character, it should be emphasized, is essential to genuine
well-being.
It sometimes
happens, for example, that sternness suggests itself as necessary
for handling a situation. Ask yourself in this case, "How would
it affect me, personally, to be stern? Could I act that way without
losing my inner peace? Would I be able, in spite of being stern,
to retain my friendship for them? Would I be able to remain sensitive
to their needs? Or would I become caught in the grip of my own displeasure?"
When ends are sought by the expression of harmful attitudes such
as anger, one loses sight of the end in dust clouds of disharmony
that are kicked up in the process. Sometimes the sacrifice must
be made, but in this case one should do his best at least to be
impersonal. He should expand his sense of self-identity, to reduce
his ego's involvement.
This principle
holds true in every situation. What determines the rightness of
an action, ultimately, is its effect on the one committing it, and
not only (as might be expected) on those toward whom the action
is directed. No action, moreover, is an incident dangling in empty
space, so to speak. It represents a commitment of energy, which
becomes then a direction of movement. Consonant with Newton's first
law of motion, energy wrongly directed can only be redirected, or
blocked by a new and differently directed energy. Otherwise it will
continue, reinforced by the will. In the normal course of events,
sternness hardens to harshness, then to self-righteousness, and
then to arrogance—unless from the beginning the ego is disengaged,
or else is engaged from motives of kindness and good will, not of
anger. The first question a leader should ask himself before every
act ought to be, "What effect will this action have on me?"
If it is likely to damage him, it is certain in some way to mar
the deed itself.
Leaders would
be wise to reflect on what a child I knew declared once after running
a race. "Did you win?" he was asked. "No," he
replied, "but I won against myself!" The best victories
are those, always, which bring us greater clarity and inner strength.
Leadership is
simply a job, in this respect neither more nor less important than
any other. One person may be a tailor, another a merchant, a third
a mountain guide. Skill at one's métier—in this case,
leadership—is essential. Nevertheless, skill is nothing but
a question of technique. To paint skillfully is not, in itself,
to ensure that the work will be great. Infinitely more important
is inspiration. Inspiration too, then, is important for good leadership.
Moreover (returning to Machiavelli), there is no inspiration in
cruelty, cunning, and ruthless oppression.
Again, whereas
the pigment employed in portraying a human being can only suggest
outwardly the nuances of his thinking, it is not in itself conscious.
A ruler's subjects, on the other hand, are conscious. Whatever
joy or suffering he imposes on them will return to him consciously
also, and will either give him greater happiness or become a ball
and chain on his conscience.
Rulers of nations
and all leaders of groups must realize that their job is different,
in this respect, from painting, or tailoring, or even playing chess.
Leadership is not the manipulation of inanimate pawns, which all
look alike, function alike, and have the same value in the game.
Human beings are each, in some way, unique. They have names, personalities,
facial features, bodily shapes, needs, likes and dislikes. Each
of them, as a human being, deserves the respect of his social superiors
that they give to their social equals. Wise is that leader who sees
his job as a service to others, not as an opportunity to receive
service from them.
Pride of position
is an ugly defect in a leader. Humility, on the other hand, is an
ornament. Humility does not mean self-deprecation, which paralyzes
the will. Humility means self-forgetfulness in concentration on
the greater issues. Humility, in this sense, is the surest key to
success in all things. Pettiness, on the other hand—the habit,
for example, of losing one's temper, or of hurting others out of
spite—costs more in the long run than any consequent gain.
The effects
of action can seldom be predicted with certainty. Who knows what
unexpected obstacles may arise? The one sure guide to right action,
therefore, is to consider its probable effect on oneself,
and on others, too, as individuals. Never look upon anyone
as a mere cog in the wheel of progress, as though he had no individuality
of his own.
Does a proposal
promise significant inner gains? Does it offer increased
self-assurance, strength, understanding, happiness, wisdom, inner
peace? These results cannot easily be determined in advance. Often
they can be perceived, however, by simply thinking an act through
to its probable conclusion. In this sluggish material world, it
takes time to see tangible results. The probable results of a course
of action, however, can be perceived immediately, simply by imagining
the feeling that is likely to accompany, or to ensue from,
the proposed action. Is that feeling expansive, or contractive?
If it is expansive, and if it conveys a sense of inner freedom,
and, to others, a sense of sympathy, the proposal is likely to be
good. It promises fulfillment. But if the feeling is contractive
and causes one to withdraw one's sympathy from others, or to harden
the consciousness of one's own importance, it presages disappointment.
A contractive reaction in the contemplation of a course of action
creates ripples of inner uneasiness. An expansive reaction, on the
other hand, brings inner calmness. Be guided by these subtle indicators.
A ruler may
occasionally have to make serious decisions that others will never
face on their own. He should be guided always by these same considerations.
Courage is more admirable than excessive caution, whether in one
person or in many. And bullies usually respect courage, whereas
they'll take full advantage of the coward. Pragmatic wisdom in leadership—a
recognition, for example, of the need to compromise, occasionally;
to bide one's time before making decisions that involve the well-being
of many; to form occasional alliances of convenience: These things
cannot always be avoided. Differences do exist, obviously, between
the decisions one must make on behalf of others and those one might
make for oneself.
A leader may
be willing to renounce something personally, for example, that he
would never surrender on behalf of other people: benefits, perhaps,
that to him would be meaningless, but that to others might be vitally
important. Every human reality has its own inherent needs and challenges.
Football players require a different set of responses from those
required in a statesman. Nevertheless, if a ruler, or a leader of
others, is true to himself and to the highest expectations he holds
of himself, he will be better guided than he ever would be by following
the advice of cynics like Nicolò Machiavelli.
Whether Machiavelli
was evil must be dismissed as more his business than our own. What
is central to this discussion is whether his teachings work. Have
they ever done so? His best-known book, The Prince, was the
favorite reading of some of history's greatest villains. Oliver
Cromwell, we are told, applied those principles to the Commonwealth
government in England. Henry II and Henry IV of France were carrying
copies of The Prince when they were murdered. (Might their
interest in that book suggest the reason they met that fate?) An
annotated copy of The Prince was found in Napoleon Bonaparte's
coach at Waterloo. Adolf Hitler kept a copy of it by his bedside.
And Benito Mussolini stated, "I believe The Prince,
by Machiavelli, to be the statesman's supreme guide." Robert
B. Downs, in Books That Changed the World, wrote, "Later,
Mussolini changed his mind, for in 1939, on the list of authors,
ancient and modern, placed on the Fascist index of books which Roman
librarians must not circulate appeared the name Machiavelli."
Surely Downs was being naive! If Mussolini decided he didn't want
anyone reading that book after all, isn't it more likely he didn't
want people to discover his own secrets?
The strongest
case against Machiavelli is that his methods simply haven't shown
themselves, in the long run, to work. A ruler may succeed in holding
people in bondage for years by following Machiavelli's advice. He
may, as The Prince recommends, make himself more feared than
loved. When people's fear turns to hatred, however, they'll discount
even the risks of taking revenge.
Machiavelli's
teaching is self-annihilating, not self-exalting. Cromwell, Napoleon,
Hitler, Mussolini, and other disciples of his won no laurels of
victory in the end, but only the blunt, heavy ax of defeat.
The real benefit
to be derived from reading Machiavelli is that he gives such clear
lessons in what a ruler ought not to do if he aspires to
rule well. When it is understood that true fulfillment lies within,
not in outward achievements, it is understood also, by projection,
where fulfillment lies for the body politic: not in trumpeted victories,
but in the well-being of everyone, whether individually or in the
millions.
The value of
democracy, as opposed to government by kings and princes, is that
democracy at least is designed on the principle of self-rule. Though
it can be manipulative in practice, its accepted goal is the well-being
of all. Citizens in a democracy are encouraged not to compete over
how much of the pie each can grab for himself.
Truth, which
should be the guiding principle for everyone, and therefore for
every government, should be especially so in a democracy. Truth
seldom springs, however, from hastily formed opinions. On this point
democracies, especially, can fail, for they tend to be influenced
by emotions of the moment, to the detriment of wisdom.
A leader should
keep his heart's feelings unaffected by the shouts, plaudits, and
hisses of the crowd. He should seek guidance calmly within himself
and in consultation with those he considers wise rather than only
politically savvy. He should never act under the influence of emotion,
but should seek guidance in a broader vision. He should ask himself,
"Toward what does our national conscience really aspire?"
On the other hand, he cannot afford to outdistance by too far the
values of the people he governs.
If the representative
of a democratic people cannot stand by his own perception of the
truth; or if he tells himself, "Who am I, after all? Just one
voter, among so many!" he is not a true representative, and
is not fit to rule. His duty is to condense in himself the conscience
of those whom he has been called to serve.
True democracy
is not achieved by mere ballot. It requires subtle recognition of
the deeper, long-term will of the people, and a sensitive
response to that will. Opinion polls rarely disclose that deeper
impulse; the questions they ask are necessarily simplistic. Few
people are able to verbalize their ideas clearly. Few even recognize
what their ideas really are, until someone gives clear expression
to them. A good leader listens calmly, and never tries to coerce
anyone into accepting his ideas. He may, however, and indeed ought
to, do his best to present his ideas persuasively. Certainly he
should never resort to cunning in order to win people. He should
not, for example, when proposing a project, withhold information
that he knows might prejudice people against it. And he should not
tell only that side of a story which he thinks will win people.
He might succeed in getting away with tactics like these for a time,
but people eventually will see what he is doing, and will cease
to trust him. In short, he should not on any account use the methods
Machiavelli recommended as necessary for a ruler.
Intelligence
need not imply guilefulness. If, however, people oppose you cunningly,
when all you want is the general good, don't flinch from opposing
them with similar skill. To do so may mean using what one might
call "kindly cunning," but it will spring only from a
recognition that, in this world of relativities, one must accept
the realities of others for what they are. Moreover, you should
not parade your intentions too openly before those who are cunning,
out of your own fondness for candor. Whereas it is good to be simple-hearted,
don't be a simpleton!
This caution
is especially important when dealing with an enemy power. As, when
dueling with a sword, different techniques are required from those
employed in boxing or, for that matter, in friendly conversation,
so do the realities of confrontation with an enemy differ from those
of communication with a friendly power, and of cooperation with
it. If skillful tactics can be used honorably in dealing with a
bully nation, it would be naive not to use them, for in such cases
one has no choice but to meet their fire with fire of one's own.
If, however, it is your enemy's way to fight frankly and openly,
then meet him in a kindred spirit. Only when an enemy fights underhandedly
should his methods be turned against him. For example, if you learn
that he is secretly inciting people against you, telling them that
you have been skirting certain important issues, bring those issues
immediately out into the open. Announce publicly, "These are
serious problems. What shall we all do about them?" In this
way, you'll take the wind out of their sails, and place the responsibility
for solving the issues on everybody's shoulders, including those
of your detractors.
Never, in any
event, resort to underhanded methods yourself. An unscrupulous enemy
will not think you capable of anything but deceit anyway. Let him
deceive himself, if he so chooses. Don't be untruthful, but if he
chooses to think you guileful, let him be hoist by his own petard.
Above all, be honest with yourself. If you find it necessary to
equivocate—for instance, if you send the message, "The
winters in our country are mild," when in fact this particular
winter happens to be unusually harsh, but favorable to your country's
impending struggle against an invader—be satisfied within yourself
that, still, you have told the truth.
A rule for lasting
success may be stated as follows: Adherence to high principles
gives the only certainty there is of final victory.
An intelligent
leader works with people as they are, not as he may wish they were
or think they ought to be. An intelligent, good leader seeks
the highest good for all—for his foes as well, if his heart
is broad enough to include them, too, in his sympathies. An intelligent
but bad leader, however, seeks only personal gain.
Ask yourself,
Cui bono—Who stands to gain: the leader, or the people
he leads? If he seeks nothing for himself (be grateful that such
people do exist), don't be surprised if he is hated by people with
small minds and desiccated hearts.
The above principles,
rather than any mere sampling of public opinion, define that kind
of democracy in which the people are guided by honor, not by guile.
For if a leader gives people merely what they are asking for, or
what he thinks they want, or even what they themselves are shouting
vociferously that they want but will be disposed, later on, to reject
in disappointment, his own is the true failure. He has failed in
his duty, first of all, to himself. And he has failed in his duty
to those whom he should be guiding. His job is to honor the deeper,
not the transient, "will of the people." If necessary,
his duty is to save them from plunging off a cliff they haven't
seen.
Machiavelli
verbalized—-and at least he did so with more ruthless honesty
than many—a philosophy of government that has, in fact, prevailed
secretly for unnumbered centuries. In history there have been many
Hitlers, Stalins, and Mao Tse-tungs on scales both large and small.
We may hope that people nowadays understand these things better
than they used to. Given the alternative between self-fulfillment
and universal misery, few today—so one hopes—would opt
for misery.
Of course, a
nation gets the kind of ruler it deserves. In any hope for utopia,
one can realistically expect nothing better than a compromise between
the ideal and the actual human reality.
Reflecting on
Machiavelli's teaching, anyone who would create a better society
must realize that the goal of leadership cannot be other than the
well-being of all—of others too, that is, as extensions of
one's own self. The goal must not be power for its own sake. People's
happiness, and their will to achieve it each one in his own way,
should be the goal of every leader, whether of small groups or of
a government.
It is unlikely
that society will ever achieve perfection. There is a hope, however,
that a few societies, at least, may be channeled in a better direction,
and inspired to seek a truer fulfillment. With this improvement
for a beginning, who knows how far the zephyrs of healing may not
blow?
If there is
one rule for the creation of a better society, it is that which
I've stated already: People are more important than things.
The "things" implied here include systems, projects of
all kinds, and occasionally, even, time-worn rules and traditions.
For there are times when tradition, even when cherished, must be
ignored. A leader must consider every situation in itself. He must
not say, "Well, in situations like this, here is what we are
accustomed to doing." If necessary, he must be ready to depart
from solutions that have worked before.
Human beings
cannot be forced into ideational straitjackets. In the ancient Greek
story of Theseus, the villain Procrustes, whom Theseus slew, offered
a special bed to his guests. Pretending to offer them a good night's
rest, he would ask them to lie down, then strap them forcibly onto
the bed. If their legs were too long, he lopped them off, leaving
them to bleed to death. If their legs were too short, he stretched
their bodies to make them fit, laughing as they died in agony.
Machiavelli
proposed no utopian system, certainly, but the means he proposed
for manipulating people have tempted many rulers to behave like
Procrustes. Following Machiavelli's advice, or simply drinking from
the same polluted stream he did, they have embraced the time-dishonored
doctrine, "The end justifies the means."
In the last
analysis—how strange it is to contemplate it!—his system
reflected a delusion not so very different from one that utopian
writers have proposed: that mere systems are capable of regulating
human existence.
Love alone is
the power that people will accept wholeheartedly. Not force, and
not mathematically precise planning. Love, or at least sincere respect,
is the secret of true success in a leader. Love alone can lead to
a better life on earth. I don't mean personal love, which practices
favoritism and encourages toadyism, but love above all for truth,
and especially for the truth that resides in all beings. Love is
a force that few social philosophers have ever taken into consideration.
In Machiavelli's unsentimental disdain for fellow-feeling he failed
to appreciate this far superior power. His own heart was a desert
where no wildflowers of love bloomed.
Life, according
to accepted theory nowadays, is a product of random material interactions.
Consciousness also—again, according to accepted theory—is
the product of the mere movement of energy in a circuit of brain
cells. Mechanisms are believed to explain everything.
As we proceed
in the following pages, however, we shall see that life and consciousness
are no mere consequence, but are the subtle cause of everything
man can ever know.
2
Not the present time, unfortunately. Today's artist believes so
firmly in freedom of self-expression that, sometimes, he may feel
validated most completely when he has managed to give the greatest
offense!
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3
Crystal Clarity Publishers, Nevada City, California (1987).
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Hope
for a Better World!
