Interpreting Texts
Adrian Blau
Senior Lecturer in Politics
Department of Political Economy
King’s College London
Adrian.Blau@kcl.ac.uk
Draft chapter for Adrian Blau, ed., Methods in Analytical Political Theory
(Cambridge University Press, 2016).
 N.B. As with other chapters in this book, text in bold is ‘how-to’ advice for students. 
— DRAFT 1: 16 July 2015 —
NOT FOR CITATION.
Comments and criticisms welcome,
but by 1 August if at all possible!
(The manuscript is to be submitted on 1 Sept.)
8263 words, plus references
1. Introduction: meanings and understandings
There are three main ways of interpreting texts, based on three kinds of understanding
and three kinds of meaning: what authors mean, what the ideas mean, and what one or both of
the above mean to the reader. Roughly, these kinds of meaning are empirical, philosophical
and aesthetic, respectively.
The last of these is primarily the province of literature departments. Of course, for those
of us in other departments, what texts mean to us can still influence what we study. Rousseau
has made me cry, because of the beauty and passion of his writing. Habermas has made me
cry, for other reasons. But what these texts mean to us is not usually our intellectual focus and
I discuss it no further.
By contrast, the second kind of meaning – what the ideas mean – is very important for
us. Not that you would know it from our methodological literature, which mainly emphasizes
the first kind of meaning: what authors mean. Yet both kinds of meaning matter when
interpreting texts, because they involve different kinds of understanding. If you read J.S. Mill
and understand exactly what he meant by the words he used, you have understood something
very significant. But you understand his writing better if you also spot his ambiguities,
contradictions, successes and failures. Unfortunately, the best methodological writings about
textual interpretation – those by Quentin Skinner (2002a) – say almost nothing about the second
kind of meaning and understanding, and imply that the first can be achieved on its own.
I seek to connect these two kinds of meaning and these two kinds of understanding. A
piece of research typically prioritizes one of the two, but almost always deals with both. They
are not alternatives: we usually need the first to find the second, and we often use the second
to find the first. That fundamental point has not, I believe, been made in previous
methodological discussions.
Equally unfortunately, most methodological writing gives the wrong impression by
talking about different ‘approaches’ or ‘schools of thought’, like the Cambridge School,
Straussianism, Marxism, and so on. These categories have some value and I cover them below.
But everyone reading this chapter knows that mental categories influence thoughts and actions.
Past authors could not think what we think, and we cannot think what future people will think.
We have all learned new distinctions that let us see things differently: our previous categories
were holding us back.
So, it is not outlandish to suggest that the categories with which many of us think about
methods of interpretation have constrained our thinking. Most troubling is when commentators
imply that these approaches are very different without adding that there are principles of good
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interpretation which apply to all of us (see especially Rorty 1984: 49; Dunn 1996: 19; Ball
2004: 19; Richter 2009: 7-11; Schulz and Weiss 2010: 284, 287-8). This chapter’s main aim is
to make explicit these universal principles of good interpretation. You will find relevant
principles in every section, even for categories you might think do not fit you.
Three brief caveats. First, my examples are mostly historical but the principles apply to
all texts. For example, Seana Shiffrin’s (2004: 1644-62) careful probing of Rawls’s ambiguous
discussion of racial equality reads like someone navigating tricky passages in Hobbes or Locke.
Second, my examples mainly come from well-known Western authors, like Plato and
Machiavelli. But there are good reasons to study other thinkers (Stuurman 2000: 152-65; see
also the chapters in this volume by Ackerly and Bajpai on comparative political theory, and by
Leader Maynard on ideological analysis).
Third, and most important, although I cover both empirical interpretation (e.g. what
Locke meant by ‘trust’) and philosophical interpretation (e.g. how well Aristotle’s arguments
work), and although I link the two more than other commentators do, most of my how-to
guidance involves empirical interpretation. Other chapters in this volume will help more for
readers primarily interested in philosophical interpretation (especially the chapters by
Brownlee and Stemplowska on thought experiments, Knight on reflective equilibrium, and
Frazer on moral sentimentalism). But you should still read this chapter to the extent that you
want to get historical authors right.
Section 2 summarizes the Cambridge School of interpretation: despite its crucially
important focus on history and context, there are other secrets to its success, and pitfalls we
must all beware. Section 3 addresses Begriffsgeschichte, conceptual history, and genealogy,
which combine Cambridge-School interpretation with conceptual comparison. Section 4
tackles philosophical approaches, a category largely missing from previous accounts despite
being very common. Philosophical analysis even matters for historians, I argue. Section 5
considers reconstruction, which is sometimes seen as a purely philosophical approach, but
which actually we all do. Section 6 questions the usefulness of treating perspectives like
feminism or Straussianism as if they are ‘approaches’. They provide hypotheses and
distinctions which help us see things that other scholars overlook, but there are far more
‘approaches’ than we usually think. Nor is ‘reading between the lines’ exclusively associated
with Straussian interpretation, section 7 argues. Section 8 then stands back and offers more
general principles of good interpretation that apply to all of us – whatever categories,
approaches or schools of thought we identify with.
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2. The Cambridge School
The increasingly misnamed Cambridge School – most of its key figures have now left
Cambridge – has dominated our methodological literature for half a century. The Cambridge
School has essentially won the battle. Although aspects of its proponents’ arguments remain
controversial, their core claim is widely accepted: place texts in their historical contexts. Even
consulting such historical research without doing it oneself makes misinterpretation less likely.
The Cambridge School arose in the late 1940s and came to prominence in the 1960s,
with the theoretical writings and substantive interpretations of writers like Peter Laslett, John
Pocock, Quentin Skinner, and John Dunn (Pocock 2006: 37-9). Given diversity within and
between these writers and their followers (Boucher 1985: 151-272), I focus mainly on Skinner,
who I regard as the supreme methodologist in our field. While I have learned much from his
methodological writings, I have actually learned more from his substantive interpretations,
which I find even more methodologically impressive. By contrast, Mark Bevir (1999: 40-50,
327) only tackles Skinner’s methodological writings and seems to me to miss part of Skinner’s
brilliance (see also Stuurman 2000: 319; Skinner 2002a: 178-9). Treating Skinner as a
practitioner, not just a theorist, lets me sidestep his speech-act theorizing, which is essentially
separate to contextual analysis (Hutton 2014: 927) and which I address elsewhere (Blau 2014).
Although Skinner does not write this, and although most commentators emphasize his
contextualism, the foundation of Skinner’s success is actually close textual analysis. Indeed,
this is how he teaches history of political thought to graduate students, I understand. The first
principle of Cambridge-School analysis, and all sensible textual interpretation, is thus: read an
author’s texts carefully. Dipping in, which we inevitably do with some authors, is dangerous.
Reading texts carefully means that we should try to read passages in their textual
context. Consider Hobbes’s comment that ‘the Thoughts, are to the Desires, as Scouts, and
Spies, to range abroad, and find the way to the things desired’ (Hobbes 1651, chapter 8
paragraph 16, p. 53). Read out of context, this sounds as if Hobbes is implying that reason is
the slave of the passions. Read in the context of the chapter as a whole, Hobbes is actually not
discussing reason at all (Blau 2015c: section 4.2).
We should thus read an author’s texts widely, to avoid overlooking important ideas
elsewhere in the text and in other texts, including ‘non-political’ texts. Rousseau thought that
Machiavelli’s Prince only praised Cesare Borgia to indicate insincerity and perhaps esoteric
intent (The Social Contract book 3 chapter 6 paragraph 5, p. 95 – henceforth abbreviated in the
form TSC 3.6.5: 95), but Machiavelli was praising Borgia much earlier (Skinner 1981: 9-12).
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Machiavelli’s play Clizia gives us different perspectives on the relationship between women
and virtú than we get from the Prince and Discourses (Zuckert 2004). Hobbes’s Leviathan may
be his most advanced text, but it makes more sense alongside other Hobbes texts: for example,
his account of individual deliberation is more detailed elsewhere (e.g. Hobbes 1656). In
practice, though, we cannot always read as much of an author’s output as we would like.
Reading an author’s texts widely may tempt us to exaggerate authors’ coherence
(Skinner 2002a: 67-72). This is a huge danger. When an author seems unclear or contradictory,
philosophers often try to make this coherent, as with Rawls’s (2007: 199-200) interpretation of
Rousseau on amour propre. Philosophically, it is fine to construct a Rousseauian ‘system’ of
ideas that makes more sense than Rousseau. After all, most things make more sense than
Rousseau. But empirically, this may or may not be what Rousseau had in mind: authors make
mistakes or change their minds. You never know when to read different ideas/texts into
each other and when they are not consistent. Consider both hypotheses.
Textual analysis is never enough: a key Cambridge-School contribution is to place
texts in linguistic context by reading other texts from the similar time/place, or by reading
the work of scholars who have done this. This can let us understand words we no longer use,
like ‘dehortation’, and helps us spot ‘false friends’ – words which look familiar but which once
meant something different, like ‘police’, ‘pleasant’, ‘prejudice’, ‘pretend’, or ‘politic’.
Placing texts in their linguistic context may not solve our problems. For example, when
Hobbes discusses the ‘dictates’ of reason’ (e.g. De Cive chapter 3 section 19, p. 51), this could
mean that reason makes us do something, i.e. acts as a dictator, or that reason tells/dictates to
us what to do but lets us decide. Unfortunately, both senses were used in Hobbes’s day, by
Hooker and by Donne respectively (Blau 2015c: section 5). I doubt that contextual analysis
will resolve this: ultimately we must think through Hobbes’s comments philosophically, to
infer how strong reason is in his account. Combining empirical and philosophical analysis is
emphasized throughout this chapter, but the omission of this point in Cambridge-School
methodological writings is a major gap, or as academics like to say, a major ‘lacuna’.
Placing texts in their linguistic context also helps us infer intentions and indicates
originality. Machiavelli uses ‘fortuna’ conventionally but ‘virtú’ unconventionally –
dramatically undercutting the orthodoxies of his day (Skinner 1981: 24-31, 34-47). If we only
read the ‘canon’ of great thinkers, we will miss part of what makes these texts so groundbreaking. This should be remembered when we hear claims that the Cambridge School had ‘a
hugely negative impact’ by making the study the study of past thinkers ‘merely antiquarian’,
even ‘frivolous’ (Kelly 2006: 48). But understanding how authors subtly knifed their lesser
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known contemporaries can make these texts wonderfully exciting. Moreover, as we will see,
‘merely antiquarian’ scholarship can help contemporary normative analysis.
We should thus place texts in their intellectual contexts – political, philosophical,
religious, and so on. Consider Rousseau’s claim that a man can be forced to obey the law and
still be free (TSC 1.7.8: 53). Rousseau’s justification is unclear. Helena Rosenblatt suggests
that Rousseau, like many opponents of the Genevan government, implies a traditional
Christian/Calvinist view of freedom. ‘Just like abiding by God’s will makes men free in
Christian thought, abiding by the general will makes citizens free in Rousseau’s thought’
(Rosenblatt 1997: 255-6; also 246-7). This explanation, whereby adhering to the general will
thereby makes one free, fits part of what Rousseau writes and is surely relevant. But Rousseau
immediately goes on to describe the relation in instrumental terms: forcing someone to obey
the general will makes them free by guaranteeing them from personal dependence. This is not
captured by Rosenblatt’s explanation. I suspect that Rosenblatt has been too quick to assume
that the contextual parallel provides the whole answer. Again, we need both contextual and
philosophical analysis here. Unfortunately, half a century of Cambridge-School
methodological theorizing has not addressed this issue.
Moreover, historical parallels can be coincidental. According to Richard Tuck, Hobbes
was responding to a form of scepticism (1993: 285-7, 293-8, 304-7, 316). Most commentators,
though, explain the apparent parallels differently (e.g. Zagorin 1993: 512-8). No evidence,
including contextual evidence, is conclusive: the same evidence can always be read
differently. Sometimes the problem is not an incorrect context but inattention to other relevant
contexts: thus Skinner’s work on liberty has arguably neglected the contexts of political
economy and theology, which imply somewhat different conclusions (Whatmore 2006: 1215).
Such points have not been adequately theorized by Cambridge School advocates, who
have trumpeted the value of historical interpretation of texts without saying much about how
to do it well (Green 2015: 436). The starting-point, as section 8 argues, is to place hypotheses,
inference and evidence centre-stage. Historians who doubt this should consider what happens
when one ‘knows’ one’s answer is right and just looks for evidence that fits it, as with Leo
Strauss (Blau 2012).
Contextualization can even help with recent authors. We understand Rawls better by
placing him in his political and philosophical contexts (see, respectively, Forrester 2014; Woolf
2013). Cambridge-School advocates have been curiously quick to read and criticize Rawls
without placing him in context. Some do not even read him carefully (see e.g. the criticisms of
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Raymond Geuss by Sagar 2014). But in truth we can understand much of Rawls without
contextualizing him – just as with some passages in historical texts. Contextual analysis,
usually helps, but it is not always necessary, and often insufficient.
3. Begriffsgeschichte, conceptual history, and genealogy
Begriffsgeschichte (in English: the ‘history of concepts’) is often associated with
Reinhard Koselleck, who co-led the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe (in English: Basic Concepts
in History), a multi-volume, 7000-page analysis of over 100 social and political concepts,
published in German between 1972 and 1997. This enterprise is so big, requiring so many years
and so many authors, that I do not cover it here. (For more information, see Richter 1996. For
much more detail on the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe in particular and Begriffsgeschichte
more generally, see Richter 1995, especially pp. 124-42 on similarities and differences between
Begriffsgeschichte and Cambridge-School analysis.)
I focus instead on the smaller-scale version of Begriffsgeschichte: conceptual history,
or genealogy. I treat the terms as equivalent: Skinner now calls his conceptual history of the
state (1989: 90-126) a genealogy of the state (2009). (For other kinds of genealogy, see Lane
2012a: 75-82.) Conceptual history has long been practised informally but arrived selfconsciously in the Anglo-American mainstream with Terence Ball, James Farr and Russell
Hanson’s edited book Political Innovation and Conceptual Change (1989). Each chapter takes
a concept (e.g. democracy, patriotism, rights) and examines different conceptions of that
concept over time and sometimes place. (For the concept/conception distinction – i.e. a general
idea, and particular versions of that idea – see Rawls 1971: 5.) This is interesting and important
not only historically and politically but also normatively: we see why some conceptions won
out, how different contemporary conceptions often are to earlier ones, and how earlier ones
might revive contemporary discussions. You don’t need to use conceptual history to make
normative arguments, but be attentive to the normative implications of your interpretations
in case you can see an application to a contemporary argument.
One potential pitfall is failing to distinguish a word and an idea, as with Peter Euben’s
(1989) conceptual history of corruption. I am not sure that Thucydides’s idea of stasis involves
corruption – an inevitable problem when one deals with different languages, which is why
Skinner sometimes sticks to Anglophone texts (2009: 325). The problem applies even within
one language. What Euben says Hobbes says about corruption is actually what Hobbes says
about ‘sedition’: his comments on ‘corruption’ are very different (Blau 2009: especially 614Interpreting Texts (Adrian Blau, King’s College London) – draft 1, 16 July 2015
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5). Euben’s analysis remains instructive but risks confusing readers. So, be conscious, and if
possible explicit, about the extent to which you are focusing on the word and/or the idea.
We can think of conceptual history as having two parts: empirical and conceptual. The
empirical part is often Cambridge-School analysis, where as Skinner writes, the primary task
is to recover authors’ own understandings (Skinner 2002a: 50). The second stage involves
conceptual comparison. In other words, stand back and compare authors’ understandings – ask
if Hobbes and Locke understand liberty in the same way, for instance. (See Olsthoorn’s chapter
in this volume, and also Rehfeld’s.) Careful conceptual analysis is vital, as with Skinner’s
fine-grained genealogy of liberty (2003: 22).
You may even want to apply anachronistic conceptualizations. Anachronism is
dangerous and can infect our efforts to recover authors’ meanings (Skinner 2002a: 49-51). But
if handled carefully, and preferably not until you have first recovered authors’ meanings, it lets
us apply conceptual frameworks that highlight similarities and differences between authors.
For example, Rousseau’s Considerations on the Government of Poland wants citizens to elect
deputies every six weeks, on an explicit set of instructions, divergence from which would see
deputies being executed (Rousseau 1997: chapter 7 paragraphs 14-19, pp. 201-3). This is a
great example of the so-called ‘mandate’ or ‘delegate’ conception of representation (Pitkin
1967: 145-7). Rousseau did not use these terms and refused to call this ‘representation’ (TSC
3.15.5-6: 114). But what he says amounts to how we use these terms. So, first try to work out
what authors meant, then see how well this fits your own conceptualization or an existing
one.
Case selection needs attention. The ideal – taking all possible cases – is impractical,
especially in a single chapter or article. Be conscious, and perhaps explicit, about how your
case-selection may limit your conclusions, such as whether your claims are restricted to a
particular time and place (e.g. Skinner 2009: 325). You may also need to consider words not
used, as well as words used, as with Josiah Ober’s analysis of ‘democracy’ and similar terms
in ancient Greece (2008: 5, 7).
4. Philosophical analyses
I now address what we might call ‘philosophical’ approaches (following the
terminology of e.g. Wokler 2012: 121). Philosophical analysis is extremely common in politics
and philosophy departments, and even historians do it. Yet previous categorizations cover it at
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best partially, or not at all (Rorty 1984; Dunn 1996: 19; Ball 2004; Ball 2011: 49-57; Schulz
and Weiss 2010: 284-8; Klosko 2011).
Philosophical approaches need the first kind of meaning mentioned at the start of this
paper: what authors mean. But the main focus of philosophical approaches, or at least
philosophical parts of other kinds of analysis, is on the second kind of meaning: what the ideas
mean/imply. Examples include how well an author’s arguments work, as with A.P. Martinich’s
(2005: 80-105) testing of Hobbes’s laws of nature; how certain ideas fit together, as with John
Gray’s (1996: 70-85) reconstruction of Mill on happiness; and what we can learn today, as with
Skinner on liberty (2003: 24-5).
Note that these scholars are, respectively, a philosopher, a political theorist and a
historian. Although Skinner’s early writings avoided normative engagement, even rebuking
Strauss for describing Machiavelli as a teacher of evil (1981: 88), more recently he encourages
historians to seek contemporary insights from historical texts (e.g. 2002a: viii, 89, 125-7). Just
as conceptual history had two essentially different parts (one empirical, one conceptual), so too
here: the first stage is Cambridge-School empirical analysis, the second stage involves applying
this for contemporary purposes.
And – crucially – philosophical analysis can even help scholars whose main aim is to
uncover authors’ meanings and motives. To infer what Hobbes meant by liberty, and why he
changed his account, it helped Skinner to think through the philosophical implications of
Hobbes’s arguments. Section 2 thus argued that historians may need philosophical analysis to
uncover authors’ meanings.
Section 2 also noted that philosophical readings may legitimately diverge from what
authors actually thought. Skinner (2003) starts by working out what historical republicans
meant, but then, when applying their insights on liberty to contemporary issues, rightly drops
their gender assumptions. Gray also begins with a careful reading of Mill, but in seeing how
well Mill’s ideas interconnect, is explicitly agnostic about whether this is what Mill had in
mind: all the pieces are there and they form a coherent system, but we just do not know how
conscious Mill was of this (1996: 70-85). Melissa Lane’s ‘unabashed appropriation’ of Plato
maintains ‘the structure of his effort’ but consciously changes many details (2012b: 23, 25).
Gregory Kavka (1986) starts by seeking to understand Hobbes in his own terms, then finds
problems with Hobbes’s account. This leads Kavka to undertake a ‘reworking’ of Hobbes’s
flawed understanding of powers, ‘filling in a critical gap in Hobbes’s argument’ about the state
of nature, and revising Hobbes’s arguments in ways that are broadly in tune with his project
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but which he could not have conceived of. Kavka’s theory is explicitly ‘Hobbesian’, not
Hobbes’s (1986: xiv, 3-4, 93-107).
So, be conscious, and preferably explicit, when you diverge from historical
authors. For example, Rousseau seems to talk about democracy in two different ways: with
and without deliberation (e.g. respectively, TSC 4.2.10: 124 and 2.3.3: 60). Imagine that you
want to use Rousseau to defend a deliberative view of democracy, but you are not sure that he
preferred this view; perhaps you even suspect that he ultimately preferred the non-deliberative
view. Either way, it is fine to use these comments as if they are supporting deliberative
democracy, provided you indicate if your Rousseau may not be authentic. Refer to a
‘Rousseauian’ or ‘broadly Rousseauian’ account, for example, and only say ‘Rousseau argues’
or ‘Rousseau believes’ when you are indeed trying to stay true to Rousseau. This will not stop
some historians from making dismissive noises about you ‘pillaging the classics’ to find ideas
for modern times (Tuck 2007: 69). But thankfully, there is not yet a law against doing this.
5. Reconstruction
Reconstruction means filling in gaps, and probing, refining and if needs be improving
the arguments. A first-rate reconstructor is John Gray, whose reconstruction of Mill I have just
praised. Likewise, Gray’s systematization of Isaiah Berlin’s liberalism (Gray 1995) collects
Berlin’s arguments in one place and shows their links and underpinnings, such as Berlin’s
agonism and value-pluralism. This is true to Berlin but is clearer and more compelling. If
Gray’s reconstructions of Mill and Berlin are right, we understand these authors better than if
we read them without reconstructing them.
Understandably, writers often treat reconstruction as a special technique (e.g. Rorty
1984: 49-53). But this is misleading: some degree and some kind of reconstruction are
inseparable from the very nature of interpretation, and necessary to the understanding of our
texts. Again, compartmentalizing approaches into different categories has led us to overlook
key unifying ideas. I will thus start with minimal kinds of reconstruction, which everyone does
even in empirical interpretations, and work up to fully-fledged variants which are more
philosophical.
All communication involves resolving ambiguities and filling in gaps: we could not
possibly say everything we want to say (Searle 1978). If you ask ‘Did you have a good day?’,
you presumably mean ‘Did you have a good day [today]?’, not ‘Did you have a good day [five
weeks after you were born]?’. Likewise, when Sidgwick (1981: ix) writes that he has made
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‘numerous alterations and additions’ in preparing the second edition of The Methods of Ethics,
he presumably means ‘numerous alterations and additions [to this book]’, not ‘numerous
alteration and addition [to my trousers]’, even though that is logically consistent with what he
wrote, and might have been a better use of his time.
In short, we cannot understand the simplest statement without reconstructing it. Our
brains do this in a flash as we talk to each other, but when interpreting texts the process is often
slower and more conscious. Consider this example from Machiavelli’s Prince:
how men live is so different from how they should live that a ruler who does not do
what is generally done, but persists in doing what ought to be done, will undermine his
power rather than maintain it. If a ruler who wants always to act honourably is
surrounded by many unscrupulous men his downfall is inevitable. Therefore, a ruler
who wishes to maintain his power must be prepared to act immorally when this
becomes necessary (The Prince chapter 15 paragraph 1, pp. 54-5).
Taken literally, the first sentence’s ‘what ought to be done’ implies that rulers ought not to do
what they ought to do. Perhaps Machiavelli is saying this: no author makes complete sense.
More likely, given the next two sentences and much of the book, he means a particular kind of
‘ought’: traditional, humanist, Christian morality. So, the first sentence probably means that
rulers should not do ‘what [Christian morality says] ought to be done’.
Here, crucially, we are reading an author’s ‘leading ideas’ into a passage
(Schleiermacher 1998: 27). Since much of The Prince seeks to undercut traditional Christian
morality, it would be odd if this clashed with the above passage. But not impossible: we cannot
know for sure what the leading ideas are (Rawls 2007: 29-30) and no author is fully consistent
(Skinner 2002a: 67-72). Still, resolving this ambiguity one way or another involves
reconstructing Machiavelli – filling gaps he does not fill – without which we cannot understand
this passage in relation to the broader text.
Now consider Rousseau’s brief comments on freedom and its three varieties (natural,
civil, moral) in chapters 1.7 and 1.8 of The Social Contract. This requires much reconstruction
even to understand the core terms. For example, Rousseau mentions ‘natural freedom and an
unlimited right to everything that tempts him’, and ‘civil freedom and property in everything
he possesses’. But each ‘and’ is ambiguous. Does Rousseau mean ‘and [by which I mean]’ or
‘and [also]’ (Bertram 2004: 87)? In other words, is the second part of each clause what natural
and civil freedom are, or are these things which accompany natural and civil freedom? Worse,
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when Rousseau writes that a man may be ‘forced to be free’, does this mean civil and/or moral
freedom? To make such inferences, or to see if Rousseau’s ideas are incomplete or
fundamentally unclear, we must probe these passages philosophically, and relate them to
similar passages such as book 4 chapter 2’s account of freedom and the general will. That is
why I have been arguing that to recover authors’ meanings, we must sometimes think
philosophically, not just historically. Otherwise, we have not properly understood what
Rousseau meant by these terms or passages. Again, Cambridge-School theorists have not to
my knowledge made this point, even though they sometimes do it in practice (e.g. Skinner
2008: 24, 45, 108, 132-8).
A more troubling example involves Mill. On Liberty repeatedly says that you can do as
you like, even harm yourself, provided you do not harm others (especially chapter 1 paragraph
9, p. 13) – but suddenly Mill says, briefly and without justification, that you cannot do selfharming things in public if they cause offence (chapter 5 paragraph 7, p. 98). This sounds like
an astonishing about-turn. Perhaps we should disregard this passing comment (as
recommended by Gray 1996: 102): scholars often implicitly or explicitly ignore one part of
palpable contradictions. But before disregarding such things, we should try to resolve the
contradictions. If it turns out that we have misunderstood what Mill means by harm, or
misunderstood the supremacy of the harm principle, then we would have to rethink other parts
of the text. In short, to understand central ideas in On Liberty, we should resolve this
contradiction by thinking through the problems and seeing if we can reconstruct Mill more
consistently, and by disregarding this passage otherwise.
We do something similar when we assess the consistency of two different texts by an
author. Can we understand The Prince better by drawing on The Discourses, and vice versa?
We should be careful not to assume too much consistency (Skinner 2002a: 70-1), because
Machiavelli’s audiences and motivations were different (Skinner 1978: 153-4). We must thus
test Machiavelli’s consistency. For example, Skinner finds that Machiavelli’s notion of virtú
in The Prince fits the Discourses; the only change is that the latter text characterizes virtú not
only in individual but also collective terms, i.e. virtú of citizens, not just leaders (Skinner 1981:
35, 53-4). In effect, Skinner has taken a term which Machiavelli uses many times in two texts
without defining it, inferred a plausible meaning that fits one text, and slightly modified the
definition to fit it to another text. He has reconstructed Machiavelli, filling in gaps and resolving
ambiguities to better understand each text and their connections.
I now turn from working out what authors mean, to working out what the ideas mean,
i.e. what they amount to, and in particular, how well they work. These aims need not be
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alternatives, as when we ask if Machiavelli’s language of virtú is consistent, or if Mill has a
single notion of ‘harm’.
For many scholars, especially in politics and philosophy departments, seeing how well
authors’ ideas work is more important than recovering authors’ meanings. After all, many
writers we study are intellectually brilliant and made bold claims about their brilliance. Yet
their reasoning is almost always incomplete or flawed, and we must sometimes intentionally
move beyond their own understandings to get their arguments to work.
A fine example is Martinich’s careful reconstruction of Hobbes, sometimes with tools
available to Hobbes (e.g. 2005: 101-4), sometimes with modern notions and distinctions (e.g.
2005: 153-72). Martinich sets out Hobbes’s steps, then modifies and adds steps as needed, to
see if Hobbes’s conclusions then follow. Martinich is simply trying to finish what Hobbes
started. So, when testing logical arguments, be prepared to specify the steps in an
argument and what is needed to improve it.
Some historians object to reworking historical authors like this (e.g. Tuck 2007: 69),
but their criticisms hold less weight when we recognize, first, that reconstruction can help us
understand authors better (albeit not via the kind of understanding that historians are primarily
interested in), and second, that every scholar reconstructs, sometimes in major ways,
sometimes in minor ways. Skinner (2002b: 217, 235) does something similar in showing how
to ‘rescue’ Hobbes’s consistency with minor changes to conflicting statements.
6. Theoretical and normative perspectives
Susan Okin’s feminist perspective lets her spot presuppositions and implications in
many authors, including those claiming to be gender-neutral (1989: 10-13, 44-60, 80-7, 90-7).
C.B. Macpherson’s partly Marxist perspective helps him see Hobbes’s conscious or
unconscious assumptions about ‘possessive individualism’ and other capitalist traits (1962: 45, 26-9, 37-40, 46, 59-68, 78-80, 84-106; see Townshend 1999 for a defence of Macpherson
against common complaints).
These are two examples of theoretical and normative perspectives that are often
presented as essentially different ‘schools’ or ‘approaches’, as with Ball’s comparison of
Marxist, totalitarian, psychoanalytic, feminist, Straussian and postmodernist interpretations
(Ball 2004: 19-27). Yet in a very important sense, these analysts are doing the same kind of
thing: using theories and norms to develop empirical hypotheses or conceptual distinctions
which help us uncover assumptions and implications.
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Seen like this, there are far more perspectives than are usually mentioned. Even Ball’s
(2004; 2011) fairly extensive lists could limit us from thinking about other insightful
approaches. Here are some examples. Skinner’s republican perspective alerts him to republican
ideas often neglected in Machiavelli (Skinner 1990: 300-306). John McCormick’s democratic
perspective highlights democratic features in Machiavelli overlooked in the republican
readings of Skinner and others (2011: see especially 3, 7-11 for the critique of republican
interpretations). Hayek’s libertarian/classical liberal perspective uncovers more individualism
in Burke than other writers saw (1948: 4-8, 13, 24). Terrell Carver’s gender perspective reveals
assumptions about men passed over by feminist scholars concentrating on assumptions about
women (2004). David Armitage’s international perspective pinpoints oft-overlooked issues in
Hobbes and Locke (2013: 62-7, 79-85). Jon Elster’s analytical approach, combining ideas such
as methodological individualism and rational choice theory, generates new insights about Marx
(Elster 1985: see especially 3-48 on Elster’s analytical tools). Martin Hollis’s game-theoretic
approach provides powerful insights into Hobbes, Hume, Smith, Kant and others (1998).
A contribution I find especially interesting and troubling is the race/ethnicity
perspective of Robert Bernasconi, who uncovers assumptions about race in Locke, Kant,
Hegel, Mill, Nietzsche and others (2003: 14-20; 2010: 500-504, 510-1, 515-6), in the same way
that feminist scholars reveal assumptions about women. Bernasconi states that ‘Western
philosophy has been and is still largely in denial about its racism’ (Bernasconi 2003: 14),
challenging those of us who have missed these writers’ explicit or implicit racism, or passed
over it in silence in our writing and teaching.
Perspectives like this can be incredibly powerful: this helps explain why we keep seeing
new things in old texts. But does it really help to talk about different lenses as different ‘schools
of thought’ or different ‘approaches’? Throughout this chapter I have tried to ask what is really
going on in our interpretations. And in my view, theoretical and normative perspectives are
just a fancy way of saying: ‘I am approaching this text with one or more hypotheses or
distinctions: what can I now see?’
I do not mean to disparage this kind of research in the slightest: do not underestimate
the insights you can get by applying an empirical hypothesis or conceptual distinction
from an existing theoretical/normative perspective or elsewhere. You will always find
something that previous interpretations have overlooked.
You do not even need to uphold a perspective to take advantage of its insights. You
don’t have to be a feminist to uncover authors’ gender presuppositions, a republican to ask if
authors uphold freedom as non-domination, or a poststructuralist to apply Foucault’s
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distinction between a governmentality of politiques and a governmentality of économistes
(Foucault 2009: lectures 4, 5, 8, 13). You don’t have to be a Marxist to notice authors’
socioeconomic and gender presuppositions. Indeed, it may help not to be a Marxist, because
if you are a Marxist you might be inclined towards certain conclusions, and that can infect your
reading of texts.
Two related dangers must thus be noted. The first danger is that a perspective leads you
to misread a text, read too much into it, or overlook relevant passages – a persistent criticism
of scholars from several different perspectives (Ball 2004: 21-3). Arthur Melzer shows that
most scholars dislike the idea of esoteric writing and have missed ample evidence of
esotericism (2014: especially 13-24, 137-42, 299-317). Yet he himself is so keen to show
Rousseau’s sympathies for esotericism that he sidesteps Rousseau’s critical comments about
esotericism (2014: 163). Meanwhile, Robin Douglass (2015: 283) argues that Skinner’s
‘preoccupation’ with Hobbes’s republican context makes him ‘misconstrue’ Hobbes’s
arguments: Skinner’s reading ‘conceals more than it reveals about [Hobbes’s] battle with
republicanism’. If one has a normative axe to grind, one often ends up chopping off important
parts of texts. Be attentive to potential theoretical/normative biases: try to be impartial. If
your perspective gives you an expectation about an author’s influences or motives, it is
only an expectation – a hypothesis – never a certainty.
The second danger is that you end up as an unthinking mouthpiece for flawed ideas.
Don’t just apply a perspective: think about testing it too. For example, many scholars apply
Berlin’s flawed distinction between negative and positive liberty without mentioning its
inadequacies. Showing a perspective’s shortfalls, or refining and improving it, makes your
work more important. For example, Anne Brunon-Ernst (2012) not only applies Foucault’s
ideas of biopolitics to Bentham, but criticizes and amends Foucault’s ideas in the process. A
study that would primarily interest some Bentham and Foucault scholars now becomes
important for many Foucault scholars, indeed for anyone seeking to apply Foucault’s
distinctions elsewhere. Independence of mind about perspectives you apply can expand your
audience.
Both of the dangers I have just noted apply to any interpretation: we all interpret texts
through lenses of some kind. So, try to be aware, if you can, of perspectives that already
influence your interpretations. In my ongoing Hobbes work, I tried to chart all of Hobbes’s
practical proposals for averting a state of nature. Yet my mindset was not attuned to
international issues, and after reading David Armitage’s (2013) work on international
perspectives, I found internationally-oriented proposals in Hobbes that I had previously missed.
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We all have such biases. Even favouring a particular interpretation can have this effect: for
example, if you suspect that an author is more consistent than others believe, part of you will
want this to be the case, potentially infecting your interpretation.
7. Reading between and outside the lines
This chapter has regularly challenged our inherited categories. The same applies to
those who see ‘reading between the lines’ as an essentially different approach. Despite claims
that some scholars take a purely literal approach (Melzer 2014: 112-4, 207, 368), we never
restrict ourselves to the actual words alone: all communication and all textual interpretation
involves reading between the lines, as section 5 showed.
So too with contextualist interpretation. For example, ‘the fact that Il Principe was in
part intended as an attack on the morality embodied in humanist advice-books to princes cannot
be discovered by attending to Machiavelli’s text, since this is not a fact contained in the text’
(Skinner 2002a: 143). In effect, when Machiavelli discusses virtú, we continually read ‘unlike
the views of my contemporaries’ into the text. This helps us understand Machiavelli better.
Something similar applies when writers are ironic or insincere. Taken literally, Defoe’s
The Shortest-Way With the Dissenters argues that dissenters should be executed. But Defoe
was writing ironically: his implicit argument is for toleration, not persecution (Skinner 2002a:
111-2). To conclude that Defoe meant to defend persecution would be to confuse what the
words say and what Defoe meant by them. In effect, we repeatedly read ‘only a fool would
argue that’ between the lines of Defoe’s text.
Likewise, many great historical authors were religiously heretical, but few could imply
this publicly. We can doubt the sincerity of many of their comments on religion, but we can
sometimes read between the lines and infer what they really thought (e.g. Schotte 2015). So,
remember that authors may have had ulterior motives, ironic intentions or controversial
views that they did not say in print.
But great care needs to be taken here: without sensible guidelines it is easy to read
things into texts which are not warranted. There is some evidence that Machiavelli wrote The
Prince insincerely, trying to ‘trap the prince’ with bad advice to get the Medici into difficulties,
but there is much more evidence that Machiavelli was not doing this (Langton 1987). We
should, where possible, consider plausible alternatives: we can easily reach implausible
conclusions if we only look for evidence for that conclusion. Every reader of this chapter, and
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certainly its author, has fallen short here. Even contextualist reading-between-the-lines can do
so, as section 2 noted.
The greatest care is needed when asking if authors esoterically hid messages in their
writings which they wanted cunning readers to spot. There is little doubt that some authors
wrote this way, as some scholars recognize (Patterson 1991). But many such interpretations
almost certainly over-reach themselves, with highly questionable use of evidence and weak
methodology (Blau 2012).
Careful readers will note that this section has not yet mentioned the term ‘Straussian’.
From the 1940s on, Leo Strauss and his followers achieved (in)fame with esoteric
interpretations of writers like Plato, Machiavelli, Rousseau and Nietzsche. But those who read
between the lines may have seen what I now state explicitly: we must not equate ‘esoteric’ and
‘Straussian’ interpretation. There is nothing wrong with esoteric interpretation, but much
wrong with Straussian esoteric interpretation, due not to its esotericism but its naive and flawed
methodology (Blau 2012). Unfortunately, our methodological lexicon has clouded the issue: I
have thus argued that we should replace the language and literature of hermeneutics with the
language and literature of hypotheses (Blau 2015b). It is misleading to say that Strauss has a
different hermeneutic or particular techniques of reading texts: he has hypotheses about the
particular ways that authors hid messages. Straussianism is not a method but a hypothesis – a
hypothesis which its proponents have not tested well because they typically ‘mistake an
expectation for a presumption’ (Bevir 1999: 147). Fortunately, Melzer’s superb practical
advice to Straussians (2014: 288-99; see also 323-4) now warns them not to be too hasty to
infer esotericism.
The excesses of Straussian interpretation have helped and hindered the cause of esoteric
interpretation. They have helped it, by highlighting a largely forgotten kind of writing and
offering some evidence about esoteric techniques. But they have hindered it, giving esoteric
interpretation a bad name (‘Straussian’) through methodologically flawed over-interpretations
that have far simpler explanations (Blau 2012: 147-50). Reading between the lines, like any
empirical interpretation, is only a hypothesis. One of the great tragedies of 20th century
methodologies of textual interpretation was their focus on supposedly separate approaches and
their failure to provide universal principles for testing hypotheses.
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8. Universal principles of good practice
I now summarize core principles which apply to all textual interpreters, whatever
categories we identify with. It doesn’t matter if you see yourself as a Skinnerite, a Straussian
or a Marxist: if you just look for evidence that fits your expectations and don’t consider
alternative interpretations, you are asking for trouble.
The underlying principles are uncertainty and under-determination: no empirical
claims about texts can be known for certain, and the same evidence can always be read
differently. We even disagree about what counts as evidence. Uncertainty and underdetermination are more fundamental than ‘approaches’ like Cambridge-School or Straussian
readings: claims about the relevance of a particular context or the esoteric techniques being
used can only ever be hypotheses, and when hypotheses need to be tested, uncertainty and
under-determination are omnipresent. I outline and apply these principles in more depth
elsewhere (Blau 2011; 2012; 2015c; 2015d).
Uncertainty has two main implications for what we do. First, be careful of overconfident claims. Try not to talk of ‘proving’ anything, and where relevant, try to indicate
how confident you are in your findings. There are differences between saying ‘Hobbes wrote
Leviathan’, which we have no good reason to doubt; ‘Hobbes preferred monarchy to
democracy’, an entirely reasonable inference to draw from his texts; ‘Hobbes was probably
responding to republicans’, a plausible but less certain inference; and ‘there is evidence both
for Hobbes being an atheist and for his being a believer, but I find the evidence for the latter
stronger than the evidence for the former’, a safe stance given the highly contestable evidence.
Do not see yourself as reporting facts, but as reporting on how confident you are in your
inferences. However stylistically ugly you find this, you may need to put the focus on you,
not on the text/author, e.g. ‘I suspect that Hobbes meant P’, ‘Hobbes could have meant P or
Q, but I find P likelier’, and so on (Blau 2011: 362-8).
Second, and more important, uncertainty often requires us to test empirical claims to
see how plausible they look. Under-determination kicks in here, so your simplest and best
test of a claim is to see if it fits the evidence better than plausible alternatives. Simplifying
somewhat, you should consider what fits your interpretation and what does not, and also what
fits alternative interpretations and what does not. Interpretation is relative.
The secondary literature is usually a good source of alternative interpretations. Reading
other scholarship is not something we do as an offering to the footnote gods: we do it because
we know that other scholars might read things differently or see things we have missed.
Critically comparing interpretations is both defence and offense, justifying one’s account by
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showing its superiority to other accounts (if space permits). But do not assume that your
initial expectations will endure. Think against yourself, don’t be too attached to your
interpretations, and change your mind if needs be.
A powerful test can be to triangulate evidence by seeing if textual, contextual,
philosophical and motivational evidence imply the same conclusions. Textual and
contextual evidence have been amply discussed above. Philosophical evidence refers to such
things as the implications of arguments, or the consistency of two ideas. Might the implications
of Rousseau’s comments of liberty imply his motivations – are his definitions implicitly
undermining the positions of other authors? Do the implications of his comments on civil and
moral freedom help us understand which, if either, is involved in ‘forced to be free’? Do his
comments on conscience/intuition in Emile (e.g. book 4, p. 286) explain how citizens discover
the general will (TSC 4.1.6: 122)?
Motivational evidence means inferences about authors’ motivations, which can be used
as further evidence in our investigations. For example, book 1 of the Republic uses Socrates’s
style of argument, ‘elenchus’, but books 2-10 use Plato’s own approach, ‘dialectic’: perhaps
Plato was subtly showing Socrates’s limitations (Reeve 1988: 3-24). But there are other
possibilities (e.g. that the text was written at different times) and further investigation would
help. Note that we cannot see motivations: we only infer them from textual, contextual and/or
philosophical evidence.
Ideally we want as much evidence as we can get. Imagine that textual and philosophical
analysis gives you a possible solution to Mill’s confusing comments about offence (see section
5). Think about also seeking contextual evidence about a controversy at the time which might
explain Mill’s comments (e.g. a parliamentary debate about drug-taking or masturbation in
public). Finding a link between Mill and such a controversy would strengthen your inferences,
but not finding one would not weaken your claims, as Mill might plausibly have commented
on it anyway.
Or perhaps you are a historian who has found precisely such a contextual event. Before
concluding that this is the right explanation, check that it fits philosophically with the relevant
passages in Mill (without expecting him to be fully consistent). If it does, your conclusions
would be strengthened; if not, it could cause a rethink. For more details of this use of
‘observable implications’ to test your ideas, see Blau (2012: 152; 2015b: section 3, drawing on
the hypothesis-testing approach of Van Evera 1997: 31-2).
Alas, our inherited disciplinary and methodological categories often constrain what we
do: seeing ourselves as contextualists or philosophers can deflect us from important evidence.
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True, we all have certain skills, and while this is itself partly a function of disciplinary training,
some people just are better at abstract philosophizing or at concrete archival research. But when
detailed historical research is beyond a political theorist or philosopher, she can consult
historical research or talk to historians, and when philosophical issues are too hard for a
historian to tackle herself, she could discuss them with a political theorist or philosopher. Coauthorship is another solution. Ultimately, though, we all have different skills, and if someone
neglects important evidence, others can fill this in and test the argument: triangulation can be
communal.
Beware the omnipresent danger of circularity: we always interpret evidence in the
light of other assumptions and can never fully escape such ‘theory-ladennness’ (Brewer and
Lambert 2001; Bevir 1999: 92-3). I see Skinner’s Hobbes and Republican Liberty (2008) as a
brilliant piece of triangulation, yet its republican perspective arguably undermines its
interpretations, as section 6 noted. Good methods do not ensure right answers.
My focus on evidence suggests that we must make clear what our evidence is. Some
scholars follow the bad academic convention of giving page numbers only for quotations but
not for ideas. This can facilitate caricatures. Yet we should not robotically give page numbers
where there are many different editions and translations, e.g. of Rousseau’s Social Contract,
where further details are needed. The principle is thus: make clear what your evidence is so
that others can easily follow it up and test your claims.
Another aspect of clarity involves interpretation which is both empirical and
conceptual. Strictly speaking this is always the case (Skinner 2002a, 16, 45; Bevir 1999: 98).
But sometimes conceptualization is especially important, as when we ask how ‘modern’
Machiavelli was or how ‘liberal’ Rousseau was. In such cases, conceptual clarity is vital.
Richard Tuck’s (2004) discussion of Hobbes’s ‘utopianism’ does not say what ‘utopian’ means.
Virginia Sapiro, by contrast, is far clearer about Wollstonecraft’s ‘feminism’ (1992: 258-9).
When analysis is partly conceptual and partly empirical, try to define key conceptual
terms. Rehfeld’s chapter in this volume will help here.
The above terms are anachronistic. Care is needed here, as section 3 noted. For
example, Michael Losonsky (2001: 53-4) talks of ‘deliberative reason’, ‘passionate reasoning’
and ‘reasoned deliberation’ in Hobbes. These terms misconstrue Hobbes’s position (Blau 2015:
section 6). By contrast, David Wootton asks how democratic the Levellers were by combining
careful analysis of their ideas with helpful distinctions (1992: 71-80). Skinner finds such
anachronisms ‘pointless’ (2002c: 58), but I suspect that this view reflects what can happen
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when we are constrained by a single notion of meaning and a single notion of understanding.
This chapter has sought to liberate us from these constraints.
9. Conclusion
This chapter has offered how-to guidance largely absent from the existing
methodological literature, a gap that reflects the literature’s tendency to discuss different
approaches and schools of thought without also emphasizing unifying principles of good
interpretation. I do not mean to be too dismissive of the existing methodological literature, and
would especially encourage novice textual interpreters to familiarize themselves with Skinner’s
theorizing. But equally important are his deeply impressive substantive interpretations. And
whether or not this chapter has given you the guidance you need, my final suggestion is thus
to see methodology as something that you do not learn merely from methodological
writings. Reflect also on what is good and less good in actual, substantive interpretations,
and infer principles of good practice from that.
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