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In recognizing the different ways liberal democracy differs from authoritarian regimes—the aversion to extra-legal violence, the “empty place” of power, and the ability to tolerate, even encourage, a certain amount of internal disorder—it is important to recognize that these are not simply discrete, unrelated principles. Rather, they are all anchored in a single, remarkable, and fundamental feature of democratic society: Its powerful anti-authoritarian impulse, which reacts against all governmental power, including that which is legitimately wielded by elected leaders.
The key to understanding this important aspect of liberal democracy lies in the tension between the reality of its political life and its highest ideal. This kind of tension is not unique to democracy, of course; it is typical of every social organization that cultivates an image of the ideal order. Indeed, the legitimacy of most political regimes, both in their own eyes and in those of their subjects, depends to a great extent on their ability to embody this ideal, or at least to appear to be moving toward it. The oligarchies and monarchies of the old order, for instance, were founded upon the belief that they faithfully reflected the harmonious cosmic order and the natural hierarchy of creation. So, too, have modern regimes that adopted utopian ideologies, such as Jacobin democracy or Soviet Communism, purported to “correct” a faulty reality so as to bring about the establishment of a perfect society on earth. In all of these cases, the ideal—the political fantasy, if you will—was considered an attainable objective in the present or near future.
In the case of liberal democracy, however, the picture is more complicated. This form of government depends on the successful combination of two different worldviews—that of democracy and that of liberalism. Although today we often mention them in the same breath, the difference between the two is significant. Democracy means, first and foremost, the rule of the people, or demos. In theory, this type of rule exists everywhere free and general elections are held. Liberalism, on the other hand, deals less with the identity of the rulers and more with how they rule. It aims to defend the rights and dignity of the individual against unjustified coercion and external interference. Democracy might invest majority rule with absolute power; liberalism strives to preserve the rights of the minority and to circumscribe the authority of government. The combination of the two is not always comfortable; often it is fraught with inner conflict. In some cases, they exist altogether independently of one another.73 However, they do share a common denominator of crucial importance: Each ideology understands its vision of the perfect society to be unattainable.
The liberal fantasy, for example, is of a world in which people are perfectly free to manage their own affairs without impinging on the rights of others. In such a world, there is no need for government. This anarchic utopia recalls, not coincidentally, the description of the “state of nature” in the writings of John Locke, the father of modern liberalism:
To understand political power right, and derive it from its original, we must consider, what state all men are naturally in, and that is, a state of perfect freedom to order their actions and dispose of their possessions and persons, as they think fit, within the bounds of the law of nature; without asking leave, or depending upon the will of any other man. A state also of equality, wherein all the power and jurisdiction is reciprocal, no one having more than another.74
It is difficult not to discern a note of longing in Locke’s words. Unlike Hobbes, Locke regards the state of nature as principally positive, painting it in almost pastoral colors. Nevertheless, he recognizes that even in the Garden of Eden there are serpents; thus, absent a guarantee of security, people are prepared voluntarily to forfeit the unrestricted autonomy they enjoyed in their natural state for the formation of a political community whose purpose is to protect them and their property from injustice.75 This concession is not unconditional, however. Membership in the community might involve a suspension of natural human freedom, but not its outright abolition. That is, if the government should fail or refuse to realize the goals for which it was established, the people are entitled to act against it on the strength of their fundamental rights.76
The state of nature described by Locke is far from perfect, and precisely for this reason it requires the institution of a government. Yet it nonetheless reflects the deepest sentiments of classical liberal philosophy, and its distrust of any kind of political authority. Liberalism does not promote an anarchistic agenda, and has no delusions about the “end of all rule.” Rather, it regards government, in the final reckoning, as a necessary evil—even when it executes its task in the best possible way.77 Thus the effort to expand the domain of the rule of law is aimed at reducing the price that such a necessity extracts by curbing the government’s power and subjecting both rulers and ruled to the very same code. As the Austrian philosopher and economist Friedrich Hayek remarked: “When we obey laws… we are not subject to another man’s will and are therefore free.”78
The democratic ideal differs from the liberal one. In short, it is a vision of a society in which there is an identity of the governors and the governed. In a “pure” democracy, like that which existed in the city state of Athens, all citizens take an active part in the political decision-making process on a permanent basis, and do not require intermediaries or representatives. Modern democracy, in which representatives are elected by the public, is obviously far from this model. Some philosophers indeed viewed, and in fact still view, the representative order as a distortion of the democratic ideal. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, for example, bitterly attacked English parliamentarianism and denounced it as a fraud:
Sovereignty, for the same reason as makes it inalienable, cannot be represented; it lies essentially in the general will, and will does not admit of representation: It is either the same, or other; there is no intermediate possibility. The deputies of the people, therefore, are not and cannot be its representatives: They are merely its stewards, and can carry through no definitive acts. Every law the people has not ratified in person is null and void—is, in fact, not a law. The people of England regards itself as free; but it is grossly mistaken; it is free only during the election of members of parliament. As soon as they are elected, slavery overtakes it, and it is nothing. The use it makes of the short moments of liberty it enjoys shows indeed that it deserves to lose them.79
In the reality of the modern state, however, Rousseau’s vision of direct democracy is impractical, just like the return to the ideal state of nature, in which individuals are not subject to any external authority. Indeed, the Italian political theorist Norberto Bobbio dismisses it as an “absurd” idea.80 According to Bobbio, “the inadequacies of direct democracy become obvious when one considers that the mechanisms available to direct democracy in the true sense of the word are twofold: The citizens’ assembly deliberating without intermediaries and the referendum. No complex system like a modern state can function with either of these alone, or even with both in conjunction.”81 The kind of public decision-making process that Rousseau envisaged could only have worked in small political communities, such as that of fourth- and fifth-century-B.C.E. Athens; in states with tens of millions of citizens, such a model is simply unrealizable. Nor can a referendum solve the problem: As a means of making decisions, it is suitable only for exceptional circumstances—and even then it functions with great difficulty. It is impossible, and even undesirable, to manage a country by continually asking the public’s opinion.82
But the reason modern democracy distanced itself from its “pure” predecessor is not merely technical; anti-populist motives also played a considerable part in the process. The authors of The Federalist, for example, adopted a republican model in order to restrict the tendency of the masses toward “turbulence and contention.”83 Madison, who did not consider himself a democrat in the classic sense of the word, preferred to pin his hopes on “a chosen body of citizens, whose wisdom may best discern the true interest of their country.”84 This kind of elitism, which remains highly influential to this day, wishes to release the elected from submission to the will of their electors, so that they may use their own judgments in the execution of public duty. As the Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter remarked, the political function of citizens ends at the ballot box; they must understand that “once they have elected an individual, political action is his business, not theirs.”85
