The Divergent Paths of Straussians: How a Philosophy of Inquiry Led to MAGA Extremism

The Divergent Paths of Straussians: How a Philosophy of Inquiry Led to MAGA Extremism

In the intricate landscape of American political thought, few intellectual traditions have proven as influential and, at times, as polarizing as that stemming from the German-American political philosopher Leo Strauss. A recent conversation between a prominent political commentator and a scholar delves into a particularly perplexing phenomenon: how individuals steeped in the same Straussian intellectual tradition have arrived at vastly different political conclusions, with some embracing the populist fervor of MAGA Republicanism while others have become its staunchest critics. This intellectual schism, often superficially labeled as ‘East Coast versus West Coast Straussians,’ demands a deeper philosophical and historical excavation to truly understand its roots.

Damon Linker, a seasoned observer of the American right and a political philosopher by training, brings a unique perspective to this inquiry. Having studied political philosophy at Michigan State University under figures like Jerry Weinberger and Arthur Melzer, Linker shares a parallel academic background with many who now find themselves on opposing sides of the political spectrum, including prominent neoconservatives like Bill Kristol and the host himself, who was a student of Allan Bloom and Harvey Mansfield. The central question posed to Linker is stark: How does one account for the profound political divergence among those who read the same books, engaged with the same foundational theories, yet ended up either as MAGA Republicans, often associated with the Claremont Institute, or as staunch opponents of the movement?

Leo Strauss and the Dual Journey of Philosophical Education

To unravel this complexity, Linker suggests, one must return to the heart of Straussian pedagogy itself, which, he argues, draws heavily from Plato’s allegory of the cave. For Strauss, as for Plato, education begins with a realization of intellectual imprisonment within one’s own time and place—a recognition that one’s inherited opinions about morality, justice, and the meaning of life are merely shadows on a cave wall. The philosopher’s task is to exit this cave, to seek the truth in the light of the sun, and then to return to liberate others.

Strauss, however, identified a peculiar challenge for philosophy in modern liberal political communities. Unlike pre-modern societies that explicitly acknowledged their ‘cave-like’ nature, modern liberalism, particularly in its American manifestation, teaches that its citizens have already transcended the cave. The foundational principles of equal rights and fundamental equality, epitomized by the Declaration of Independence, are presented not as a specific societal ethos but as universal truths, implying a self-liberated state. This creates a ‘double problem’ for those within liberal contexts: they are in a cave that actively teaches them they are not.

Strauss’s pedagogical approach, therefore, involved two critical steps, designed to navigate this modern dilemma. The first step aimed to disabuse students of an uncritical acceptance of liberalism, effectively turning them into a form of classical conservative. This involved inculcating a sense of ‘moral realism’—the belief that statements about what is just, righteous, and good are truth claims about the nature of reality itself, deserving of deep inquiry. While liberalism offers a ‘horizontal’ morality of equal recognition, Strauss emphasized a broader, ‘hierarchical’ template of moral distinctions: noble and ignoble, honorable and dishonorable, beautiful and ugly. He sought to make students aware of these distinctions, which, though constantly made in everyday life, are often unacknowledged or underexamined within a liberal vocabulary. This initial phase of education, in effect, fostered a classical conservative outlook, grounded in a belief in natural, hierarchical moral distinctions.

The second, and often untaken, step of Straussian education was to subject these very classical conservative distinctions to rigorous philosophical interrogation. This further dialectical critique, through engagement with Plato, Aristotle, and other great thinkers, was meant to expose the inherent weaknesses and half-truths within these assertions. The goal was to cultivate a more skeptical, philosophic disposition, one that regards all politics with respect but also with a crucial ironic distance. A true philosopher, having escaped the cave, would see ruling it, even well, as less noble than the pursuit of truth itself. This second step, Linker contends, is where many Straussians diverge, with profound implications for their political allegiances.

The Evolving Faces of Straussian Conservatism

The failure of many Straussian students to fully embrace the second, more critical and skeptical phase of their philosophical education, Linker argues, explains the varied, yet consistently conservative, trajectories seen throughout recent American history. What it means to be a ‘staunch conservative’ is not static; it evolves with the political regime and cultural context. As such, Strauss’s legacy has been claimed by successive waves of conservative thought, each adapting to its contemporary ‘cave.’

One of the earliest and most impactful figures among Strauss’s students was Harry Jaffa, whose intellectual journey deeply influenced the Claremont Institute. Jaffa, a political philosophy professor, initially gained renown for scholarly work, but also became a staunch political activist. He famously supported Barry Goldwater’s 1964 presidential campaign, contributing to Goldwater’s convention speech with its memorable assertion: “Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice; moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue.” Jaffa and his students became exemplars of a certain kind of unwavering conservatism, deeply rooted in what they perceived as America’s founding principles.

Later, Irving Kristol, another student influenced by Strauss, emerged as a principal architect of the neoconservative movement. Neoconservatism represented a different, arguably more moderate and liberal-leaning, conservative strain compared to Goldwater’s movement. Allan Bloom, the host’s teacher, offered another interpretation in the 1980s with The Closing of the American Mind. Bloom’s work, Linker suggests, comes closest to Strauss’s true legacy, advocating for both the examination of hierarchical moral convictions and the ultimate, ironic distance from them.

The Straussian influence continued into the early 2000s, with some figures in the orbit of the second Bush administration supporting the Iraq War, though Linker maintains that Strauss’s direct teachings would not necessarily lead to such a policy conclusion. This demonstrates how students, having completed only the first step of the Straussian education, adapt their conservative convictions to the prevailing political landscape.

Today, the most recent iteration of this phenomenon is seen in figures like Michael Anton and others associated with the Claremont Institute, who have become prominent ‘Trumpist Straussians.’ Their embrace of Trump, Linker contends, is a direct consequence of stopping at the first step of Straussian pedagogy. They become staunch conservatives relative to the current regime, fiercely defending what they perceive as traditional values against the perceived erosion of modern liberalism. The constant, however, remains the possibility for genuine philosophical reflection—a dialectical critique that challenges even the most deeply held conservative convictions. Linker provocatively urges figures like Anton to ask: “What would Socrates say about this?” Is this truly philosophy, or merely a ‘propadeutic’—a preparatory step—that remains trapped in the cave of shadows, albeit in a position of power?

The Claremont Institute: From Declaration to Constitution and the Perils of the “Best Regime”

The evolution of the Claremont Institute, particularly through the career of Harry Jaffa, offers a compelling case study of this arrested philosophical development. Jaffa’s early work, notably Crisis of a House Divided: An Interpretation of the Lincoln-Douglas Debates, championed the Declaration of Independence as the deepest source of American values, arguing that its assertion of human equality transcended the Constitution itself. He famously interpreted the Lincoln-Douglas debates through this lens, with Lincoln insisting that democratic choice could not violate the fundamental principle of equality enshrined in the Declaration, in contrast to Douglas’s more relativist stance on slavery.

However, as Jaffa aged and his political views hardened, a noticeable shift occurred, particularly among his students at Claremont. There was an increasing emphasis on the Constitution, often at the expense of the Declaration’s egalitarian principles. This shift, coupled with a surging American nationalism, led to a dangerous conclusion: that the American regime was not merely good, but the “apotheosis of Aristotelian virtue,” a perfect embodiment of classical teachings in modern form. This notion of the U.S. as the “best regime” became a foundational tenet for many at Claremont.

Linker critically dissects this concept. Classical political philosophy, particularly Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Politics, defines the “best regime” as a “city in speech”—a theoretical construct, an ideal standard against which actual political communities are judged. By definition, no real-world regime can ever be the “best regime” because justice itself, when subjected to rigorous philosophical scrutiny, contains inherent contradictions. Attempting to perfect justice in one aspect inevitably leads to injustice in another. To assert that America, or any nation, has “nailed it” and achieved the best regime is, therefore, a profound philosophical error, bordering on a “noble lie” or a myth.

The consequences of this belief are dire. First, it leads to an exaggerated and uncritical view of America’s historical excellence, ignoring its profound historical injustices, such as slavery. If the “best regime” was achieved, the golden age must have been a brief window, perhaps from the post-Civil War amendments (1865-1868) until the rise of progressivism and the administrative state under figures like Woodrow Wilson. This arbitrarily elevates a period—the Gilded Age—that was, by many historical accounts, marked by significant violence, labor unrest, and social inequality. To view this era as the zenith of American virtue, rather than, for instance, the post-World War II period with its leadership in establishing liberal international institutions, is a historical distortion that fuels a sense of profound loss.

Second, and more dangerously, the belief in a fallen “best regime” cultivates intense indignation and rage. When current reality inevitably falls short of this idealized past, those who hold this belief perceive betrayal. This emotional intensity can manifest in extreme reactions, as seen in Michael Anton’s infamous “Flight 93” essay, which portrayed America under a potential Hillary Clinton presidency as a hijacked plane destined to crash, leaving rushing the cockpit (electing Trump) as the only option, even at the risk of death. Such hysterical narratives, Linker argues, are direct products of the delusion that America once was, and has since fallen from, the “best regime.”

The Broader Right’s Disjunction: Rhetoric, Reality, and Civic Psychosis

Beyond the specific lineage of Straussian thought, the contemporary American right often exhibits a striking disjunction between its rhetoric and the objective reality of the nation. The pervasive narrative of an “existential threat” and the impending demise of America, frequently weaponized by figures like Michael Anton, appears deeply out of step with many empirical measures of national well-being. Compared to historical periods rife with profound injustices and societal strife—including slavery, widespread poverty, and systemic discrimination—contemporary America, despite its challenges, has seen significant progress in many areas. Basic economic indicators, such as historically low unemployment rates and inflation that, while recently elevated, pales in comparison to the double-digit figures of the late 1970s and early 1980s, paint a picture far removed from the dystopian visions propagated by some on the right.

This disconnect, Linker suggests, cannot be adequately explained by theoretical ideas alone; it necessitates an understanding rooted in social psychology, particularly the impact of modern communication technologies. The rise of social media has, in his view, fostered a form of “civic psychosis.” In an environment where conspiratorial panic memes often eclipse rational speech and deliberation, the very survival of self-government comes into question. The constant deluge of outrage, misinformation, and hyper-partisan narratives creates a distorted reality where empirical facts are secondary to emotionally charged claims. Many on the right, Linker believes, are not disingenuous; they genuinely perceive the world through these panic narratives, having fallen prey to the very psychological mechanisms they often exploit. The digital landscape transforms political discourse into a “video game version of reality,” where opponents are merely avatars to be defeated, and consequences are easily reset, fostering an alarming detachment from actual human beings and real-world stakes. This raises a frightening question: if such hysteria can be generated during relatively stable times, what would happen during a genuine economic downturn or national crisis?

Nietzschean Currents and the Right’s Internal Contradictions

Adding another layer of complexity to the contemporary right is the discernible influence of Friedrich Nietzsche, a philosopher whose ideas stand in stark contrast to the classical tradition admired by Leo Strauss. Nietzsche’s critique of universal equality and his advocacy for a hierarchical world resonate with a particular faction of the right, including certain Silicon Valley figures and online personalities like “Bronze Age Pervert.” These Nietzscheans openly contest the basic Christian assertion of the universal dignity and equality of all human beings, instead yearning for a social and political order that recognizes and rewards a superior class of individuals.

This Nietzschean strain creates a deep, almost irreconcilable, contradiction within the broader right-wing movement. How can Catholic integralists like Patrick Deneen and Adrian Vermule, who champion traditional Christian morality and a common good rooted in universal human dignity, coexist within the same political coalition as Nietzscheans, who, following figures like Oswald Spengler or Alain de Benoist, often blame Christianity itself for fostering a “leveled, egalitarian world” that they seek to dismantle? The answer, Linker posits, lies not in shared philosophical principles but in a common enemy: the left. This unifying hatred, however fragile, allows disparate factions with fundamentally opposing worldviews to coalesce around a shared political objective.

Strauss himself, in his 1941 essay “German Nihilism,” offered prescient insights into a similar phenomenon. He described a longing for a hierarchical morality, for notions of greatness and glory that motivate individuals to risk their lives for a cause—a motivation largely absent in the late modern liberal world. This desire for noble sacrifice, for a world that provides outlets for the demonstration of human greatness, echoes the Nietzschean impulse. It speaks to the possibility, as explored in Francis Fukuyama’s The End of History and the Last Man, that some within liberal societies might choose to “restart history” by initiating conflicts, not necessarily for tangible gain, but for the inherent demonstration of valor and the pursuit of glory.

Conclusion: A Crisis of Philosophy and Public Discourse

The journey from Leo Strauss’s rigorous philosophical pedagogy to the contemporary landscape of MAGA Republicanism reveals a complex interplay of intellectual choices, historical interpretation, and psychological vulnerabilities. The divergence among Straussians highlights a fundamental challenge: the temptation to halt the philosophical journey at the first step, embracing a staunch conservatism without subjecting those convictions to the deeper, often unsettling, dialectical critique that Strauss himself championed. This incomplete education, coupled with a distorted view of America’s past as a “best regime” from which it has fallen, fuels a potent mix of indignation and exaggerated alarmism.

Compounded by the pervasive influence of social media, which fosters a climate of “civic psychosis” and prioritizes emotional narratives over empirical reality, the American right finds itself in a precarious intellectual and political state. The internal contradictions—between Christian integralists and Nietzschean anti-egalitarians—are papered over by a shared animosity towards the left, revealing a coalition united more by opposition than by coherent philosophy. As rational deliberation gives way to conspiratorial panic, the very foundations of self-government are tested, raising profound questions about the future of American democracy in an age where the shadows on the cave wall increasingly define reality for a significant portion of the populace.

Source: Where Some Straussians Went Wrong (YouTube)