POLITICAL CONVERSATIONS AMONG FRIENDS AND STRANGERS: CICERO AND DELIBERATIVE DEMOCRACY

Gary Remer Tulane University

gremer@tulane.edu Prepared for delivery at the 2013 General Conference of the European Consortium for Political Research, 5-7 September 2013.

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Although politics was highly valued in democratic Athens and in the Roman republic—consider

Aristotle’s claim “that man is by nature a political animal” (Aristotle 1996, 1253a1-4)—common

citizens in both polities were not obligated to engage in political discussion. True, democratic

Athens guaranteed isegoria, the right of every citizen to address the assembly (ekklesia), if he so

desired (Lewis 1971, 129). The large number of citizens attending the ekklesia, their

inexperience in public speaking, and their limited familiarity with the issues being debated,

however, precluded, de facto, most citizens from exercising their right of isegoria; only a

relatively few orator/politicians in ancient Athens, the rhētores, actually addressed the assembly

(Ober 1989, 78-79; 104-112; Sinclair 1988, 32-33). The rest of the citizenry may have discussed

political matters between themselves, although such deliberations were not urged upon the

people and their prevalence is highly questionable (Cammack 2013, 94-131). In republican

Rome, although public debate of political matters was found in the contio, the nonvoting public

meeting that preceded formal voting, only persons selected by the presiding magistrate were

permitted to speak there (Morstein-Marx 2004, 7-12). Popular conversation that followed the

authorized public speeches of the contiones was not promoted; the Roman elite, including

Cicero, was wary of encouraging popular participation in politics lest such activity lead to

political instability and threaten the established hierarchy.

By contrast, in modern representative democracies, there is common acceptance of the

practical need for, and the normative importance of, citizen deliberation. Because political

representatives voice the people’s interest, citizens must be free to discuss politics; popular

discussion leads to making informed choices in selecting representatives and in influencing

representatives’ political decision-making. The eighteenth-century French philosopher le

Marquis de Condorcet defends this idea of popular deliberation, where citizens meet and

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exchange views, “to allow the people to understand an issue and clarify their views” and to

arrive at a judgment that they “will then express in the act of voting” (Urbinati 2006, 202-203).

The dominant model of popular deliberation today is deliberative democracy, whose

proponents often identify their discursive ideal with Jürgen Habermas.1 For these deliberative

democrats, “it is a necessary condition for attaining legitimacy and rationality with regard to

collective decision making processes in a polity, that the institutions of this polity are so arranged

that what is considered in the common interest of all results from processes of collective

deliberation conducted rationally and fairly among free and equal individuals” (Benhabib 1996b,

69).2 Over the last two decades, deliberative democrats have offered competing views of their

theory, differing with each other about such issues as just how rational deliberation must be (i.e.,

how significant a role, if any, should the emotions play in deliberation) and whether legitimate

decision-making must be the product of deliberation alone as opposed, for example, to interest-

group bargaining. In this essay, however, I do not single out any particular construction of

deliberative democracy as true or authentic.

The element of deliberative democracy upon which I focus in this essay, and with which I

take issue, is that popular deliberation requires, as Cass Sunstein explains, an “exchange among

people with competing views” (Sunstein 2000, 73). Deliberative democrats require not only

discussion among people with conflicting views, but deliberation among people with deeply

divided opinions—what Amy Gutmann and Dennis Thompson call “extensive deliberation”

(Gutmann and Thompson 1996, 37). For deliberative democrats as well as many other prominent

social and political thinkers, people’s initial political positions are only starting points subject to

change through the process of deliberation. Under the proper conditions, they see discussion

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among political opponents as producing greater, if not complete, agreement among these

erstwhile antagonists (Mutz 2006, 7-10).

Without deliberations that expose discussants to conflicting views, however, deliberative

democrats argue that change of opinions, which may lead to different political behavior, is

unlikely. With the goal of beneficial change—change effected through rational consideration of

competing opinions— and even consensus, in mind, Habermas avers that experience with

dissimilar views will aid the members of a public sphere by promoting greater deliberation and

reflection (Mutz 2006, 7). Similarly, another early deliberative democrat, Joshua Cohen,

maintains that the members of a deliberative democracy initially hold “diverse preferences,

convictions, and ideals concerning the conduct of their own lives”—views about which they

deliberate, through “free and reasoned argument among equals”—eventually arriving at, ideally,

“a rationally motivated consensus” (Cohen 1997, 72-75). Likewise for Simone Chambers, who

argues that for deliberative democracy to work, “it is essential that as many voices as possible

are heard in the debate. A practical discourse is made up of a web of talk. The more people

caught in that web, the better the guarantee that all possible objections to the proposed claims

have been given a hearing” (Chambers 1996, 197-198).

As opposed to the deliberative democrats, I argue here that popular deliberation is most

constructive as a conversation among friends, not strangers. By “conversation among friends,” I

mean more than a discussion among familiar persons who care for each other, though most

political conversations among regular citizens are between actual friends. “Friends” here is

intended to be understood in a broader, metaphorical sense to indicate like-minded persons.

Similarly, “conversation among strangers” denotes a conversation among persons who disagree

significantly about basic political values, for example, conservative Republicans and liberal

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Democrats in the present-day United States. I develop my thesis by analyzing the deliberative

democratic model in relation to Cicero’s conception of conversation or sermo. In his De officiis,

Cicero delineates what appears to be a single conception of conversation. When examined in the

broader context of his works, however, Ciceronian conversation is not a single category, but

encompasses at least two subcategories, philosophical and political conversations. As will be

seen, Cicero’s philosophical conversation anticipates deliberative democracy in ways that are

much closer than the parallels between the Roman orator’s political conversation and the

deliberative democratic ideal.

Both philosophical sermo and deliberative democracy are conversations among

strangers.3 The absence of friendship in deliberative democratic discourse (or, in Michael

Walzer’s terms, the application of philosophical conversation to politics) also implies the lack of

goodwill and trust that is necessary for productive political conversation (Walzer 1989-90, 182-

196). Danielle Allen (influenced by Aristotle’s rhetoric, not Cicero’s) makes this point when she

observes that the “weak link in [Habermas’s] proposed speech techniques,” embodied in

deliberative democracy, is his disregard for the rule “that speakers should enter the deliberative

forum already mutually well-minded toward one another.” The creation of trust in conversation,

Allen suggests, is a rhetorical issue, a matter of recognizing the connection between trust and the

emotional predisposition that fosters being open to another’s political views. For Allen,

Habermas’s denial of rhetoric’s and the emotions’ rightful roles in deliberation “originate[s]

entirely” in his “decision to ignore the question of how to create trust” (Allen 2004, 56; 143;

151-59). Even deliberative democrats who, unlike Habermas, seek a place for rhetoric and the

emotions in deliberative democracy have overlooked the importance of trust (or friendship) in

political conversation.4

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Cicero’s political conversation, in contrast to deliberative democracy, links conversation

with friendship. For Cicero, friends share common values; and political conversations—which

for Cicero are conversations among friends—presuppose a degree of agreement on fundamental

political assumptions. The connection, in Cicero, between conversation and the shared values of

friends is part of his more general belief that effective political conversation requires goodwill

and trust among interlocutors. (By “effective,” I mean conversation that leads to political action.)

Cicero implies that absent shared values, the goodwill and trust for required for effective

conversation is lacking.5 Ideally, political deliberation occurs between “friends” who are neither

strangers, in the sense of sharing few political opinions or values, nor intimate friends, for whom,

in Cicero’s words, there is “between them complete harmony of opinions and inclinations in

everything without any exception” (Cicero 1923, 61). Although I expect that popular deliberation

is most productive when participants stand somewhere in the middle ground of the friendship

scale, the best point on this scale is bound to vary with circumstance. Consistent with Cicero’s

rhetorically based position that speech should vary with context, the optimal degree of agreement

among citizen-interlocutors will fluctuate with the time, place, and manner of the political

conversation.6

I examine Ciceronian conversation and deliberative democracy from the perspective of

normative political theory. Nevertheless, empirical evidence also lends some support to Cicero’s

linking of friendship (or political like-mindedness) and effective political conversation. Recent

studies point up the improbability and significant costs of cross-cutting interactions, i.e., face-to-

face communication between groups or individuals who have clashing political views.

Alternatively, such studies underscore some of the benefits of conversation among persons who

share similar basic political assumptions. Citizens generally avoid conversing about politics with

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those with whom they disagree (Huckfeldt and Sprague 1995; Huckfeldt and Sprague 1988, 470;

Sinclair 2012, 158, n. 6; Sinclair 2012, 4). Norms against discussing contentious issues, like

politics, often prevail when we are physically proximate to those with whom we disagree

(Crandall, Eshleman, and O’Brien 2002, 350-78). Perhaps most supportive of my thesis is Diana

Mutz’s research indicating that deliberation between persons with conflicting perspectives

discourages political participation (Mutz 2006, 89-124). Because deliberative democrats are

interested in deliberation leading to political action, Mutz’s findings should give them pause. As

the deliberative democrats Gutmann and Thompson argue, “the deliberative process is not like a

talk show or an academic seminar. The participants do not argue for argument’s sake. . . . They

intend their discussion to influence a decision the government will make, or a process that will

affect how future decisions are made” (Gutmann and Thompson 2004, 5). That cross-cutting

deliberation inhibits political action and that “high levels of participation go hand in hand with

homogeneous networks” (Mutz 2006, 121-122) must be considered by deliberative democrats,

who wish for more than “academic” talk.

In moving between Cicero and the deliberative democrats, the reader may wonder “Why

Cicero?” i.e., why turn to an ancient, non-democratic theorist to address the contemporary issue

of how best to conduct democratic discourse? My answer is that, despite the gap separating us

from the Roman orator and philosopher, Cicero’s commitment to republicanism and his

rhetorical outlook make him a far-more-relevant thinker than he initially appears to be. Although

not as a democrat but a republican, he defends the people’s right to influence political decisions

(Cicero 1999a, 1.47). And he provides rhetorical insight into how friendship and its

accompanying emotions foster successful political conversation. He is not only the earliest

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thinker to link friendship, conversation, and politics, but is, arguably, the writer who best

articulates their inter-relationship at any point in history.

In the upcoming pages, I develop Cicero’s conception of sermo vis-à-vis deliberative

democracy. Initially, I delineate Cicero’s rhetorical genre “conversation,” contrasting it with the

more rhetorically dominant category “oratory.” Then, I align Cicero’s rhetorical subdivision of

philosophical conversation with deliberative democracy, contrasting both with Cicero’s model of

political conversation. I suggest in my analysis why Cicero’s philosophical conversation and the

deliberative democrats’ discursive ideal are not well adapted to politics. Subsequently, I develop

Cicero’s conceptual linkage of friendship and political like-mindedness, illustrating

“conversation among friends” as he practiced it in his letters. Finally, in the Conclusion, I

consider how it is possible to limit political conversation to like-minded people without,

concomitantly, creating intolerance of differently minded people. Neither Cicero nor the

deliberative democrats present a satisfactory account of conversing with political adversaries—

Cicero viewing them as unfitting for conversation, while the deliberative democrats treating

them no differently than the politically like-minded. Maintaining that the similarity between

religion and politics is a useful way of conceiving how significant difference and tolerance can

coexist, I turn to Jean Bodin’s model of inter-religious conversation. Like Bodin, I suggest that

conversation need not involve the interlocutors reconsidering their opinions, but may serve to

clarify the interlocutors’ opinions to themselves and to others. Conversation conceived along

these lines is more conducive to mutual toleration than conversation intended to modify

opinions.

Ciceronian Oratory and Conversation

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Beginning with Aristotle, the principal exponents of classical rhetoric have identified three basic

categories of speech: deliberative, judicial or forensic, and epideictic or demonstrative. The

deliberative genus has its origins in the political assembly, where the deliberative orator seeks to

persuade or dissuade his audience from taking action, like going to war. Judicial oratory is used

in the courtroom, where the speaker tries to persuade the jury of his (or his client’s) innocence or

guilt. And epideictic oratory is the genre concerned with praise and blame, intended, most often,

for ceremonial occasions like funerals.

In addition to the three main oratorical genres, there exists another kind of rhetoric

identified by the classical rhetoricians: conversation. Cicero describes the category of

conversation, sermo, by contrasting it with public judicial or deliberative speech, which he refers

to, collectively, as “oratory,” contentio: “Speech also has great power, and that in two areas: in

oratory and in conversation. Oratory [contentio] should be employed for speeches in lawcourts,

to public assemblies or in the senate, while conversation [sermo] should be found in social

groups, in philosophical discussions and among gatherings of friends—and may also attend

dinners” (Cicero 1991, 1.132; 2.48-49).7 Although Cicero acknowledges that conversation is a

distinct type of rhetoric, he admits that it is not adequately treated by the rhetoricians: “Guidance

about oratory is available, provided by the rhetoricians, but none about conversation, although I

do not see why that could not also exist.” Not systematically analyzed by the ancient

rhetoricians, conversation's rhetorical status has been easy to overlook.

Nevertheless, as a genre of rhetoric, conversation must be guided by rhetorical precepts:

“such advice as there is about words and opinions will be relevant also to conversation” (Cicero

1991, 1.132). And like all rhetoric, most notably oratory, Cicero contends that conversation is

governed by the principle of decorum, according to which speakers must accommodate

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themselves to circumstance (Ijselling 1976, 35). “I shall begin by approving of one who can

observe what is fitting,” Cicero writes. “This, indeed, is the form of wisdom that the orator must

especially employ—to adapt himself to occasions and persons” (Cicero 1939b, 123). And it is

with conversational decorum in mind that Cicero counsels: “Above all, let [the speaker] have

regard for the subject of discussion” and for the other interlocutors, “for we do not all at all times

enjoy the same subjects in the same way” (Cicero 1991, 1.134-35; Cicero 2001a, 2.17-20).

Because conversation differs from oratory, it possesses its own decorum: the speaker in a

conversation must operate by a different set of precepts than those adhered to by the

conventional orator. But what are the pertinent differences between the two types of rhetoric? A

comparison of relevant passages in Cicero with the known characteristics of the major genres of

oratory reveals three characteristics that distinguish conversation from oratory: the equality of

interlocutors; the emphasis on rational argumentation as the legitimate mode of persuasion; and

the friendly nature of conversation.

First, Cicero contrasts oratory and conversation by highlighting the class structure of

public speech and the egalitarianism of conversation. Oratory was hierarchical, closed to most

Roman citizens. In politics, for example, Cicero thought that while all male adult citizens,

regardless of status, may have some voice in the government, the elite of good birth and wealth

should be granted more power than the masses (Wood 1988, 92; 127; 165-168). Roman practice

largely reflected Cicero’s perspective. Speaker and audience are not identical, as in conversation,

but distinct. A few are speakers, the majority is listeners. This distinction between speaker and

audience, assumed by classical rhetoricians, was the normal pattern of deliberation in the world

of classical oratory. In republican Rome, deliberation in the senate was closed to the common

citizens, and in the contiones, as noted earlier, speakers had to be invited by the presiding

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magistrate (Taylor 1966, 15-19). As a recent classicist observes, “the distinction between speaker

and listener was also characterized by socio-political differentiation and a hierarchical

relationship—with negligible exceptions, those who spoke were members of the political elite

drawn from the higher echelons of society” (Morstein-Marx 2004, 16). But in conversation, no

such barriers were erected to the expression of opinion. Cicero writes that in conversation no

speaker should “exclude all others as if he were taking over occupancy of his own estate. He

should think it fair in shared conversation, just as in other things, for everyone to have a turn”

(Cicero 1991, 1.134).

Second, oratory and conversation, as Cicero envisions them, differ in the proofs

appropriate to each. In oratory, Cicero follows Aristotle’s division among three modes of

persuasion: ethos (character), pathos (emotion), and logoi (argumentation). In oratory, Cicero

emphasizes emotional appeals—the least rational—above the others; he depicts pathos as the

quintessential oratorical talent. Thus, he writes that “everyone must acknowledge that of all the

resources of an orator far the greatest is his ability to inflame the minds of his hearers and turn

them in whatever direction the case demands. If the orator lacks that ability, he lacks the one

thing most essential” (Cicero 1939a, 279). By contrast, our conversation “should be free from”

what Cicero terms “excessive movements of the spirit that do not obey reason” (Cicero 1991,

1.136). Unlike oratory, where Cicero counsels use of the most intense passions, conversation

ought to be “gentle,” and interlocutors should exclude anger, in particular because, more than

any other emotion, anger undermines rational reflection: “nothing can be done rightly or

thoughtfully when done in anger” (Cicero 1991, 1.134; 1.136). That anger is inappropriate to

conversation, however, does not exclude it from conventional oratory. Anger and allied

“negative” emotions like hatred, ill-will, fear, and so on, are acceptable tools for the orator in

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persuading his audience (Cicero 2001a, 2.185; 1.189-190). Their exclusion from conversation is

the result of conversation's separate rules of decorum.

The third difference between oratory and conversation is that oratory is combative, while

conversation is harmonious. The orator’s goal, particularly in deliberative and judicial oratory, is

to defeat his opponent: “To prove one’s own case and demolish the adversary’s” (Cicero 1939b,

122). The contentious character of political speech is suggested by the fact that the Greek word

agon means not only “contest” or “struggle” but also denotes the “public assembly” and

“assembly place” (Rahe 1992, 43). In stark contrast to oratory’s agonistic ideal is the

conversational model, about which Cicero states, “counsel and conversation . . . flourish best in

friendships” (Cicero 1991, 1.58).

Philosophical Discourse, Politics, and Deliberative Democracy

In the previous section, I treated Cicero’s sermo as a coherent category, which I contrasted with

contentio. Cicero himself, in De officiis, appears to treat conversation as a single rhetorical genre,

although he acknowledges that sermo treats a range of subjects, for example, “domestic business

or public affairs or else the study and teaching of the arts” (Cicero 1991, 1.135). When examined

in the broader context of Cicero’s works, however, “conversation” should be subdivided between

philosophical and political conversation. (Cicero conceives of other kinds of conversation too,

including purely social conversation [Schudson 1997, 299-300], but I confine myself in this

discussion to the two aforementioned subcategories.) Accordingly, even in De officiis, Cicero

speaks of “philosophical discussions [disputationibus]” and “conversations among gatherings of

friends [congressionibus familiarum]” (1991, 1.132).

Conversation’s characteristics manifest themselves differently in Cicero’s two

conversational subdivisions, with philosophical conversation sharing more similarities with

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deliberative democracy. Examining these similarities will elucidate some of the difficulties of

applying the philosophical and the deliberative democratic models to politics. In particular,

philosophical conversation and deliberative democracy both marginalize friendship, which, as I

argue, is a critical element of popular political conversation.

Cicero characterizes conversation as egalitarian, but the equality of philosophical

discussion differs from that of political discussion. The equality of the speakers in Cicero’s

philosophical dialogues suggests each interlocutor possessing equal rights to speak and to

respond, with no interlocutor given the power to determine authoritatively which philosophy is

best. The structure of Cicero’s philosophical dialogues typically reflects this sense of equality.

For example, in De natura deorum, three active speakers are present, each representing a

different philosophy: C. Velleius, the Epicurean; Q. Lucilius Balbus, the Stoic; and C. Aurelius

Cotta, the Academic. Each speaker in the dialogue is afforded the same opportunity to state his

philosophical position and to refute the other philosophers. Velleius begins his exposition with

an attack on the theology and cosmology of Plato and the Stoics, as well as the theology of the

other philosophical schools from Thales onward. After his critique of other philosophies,

Velleius then defends his own Epicureanism. Balbus sets forth his Stoic philosophy, with Cotta

not defending any dogma—as an Academic skeptic, he rejects dogmatic philosophy—but

refuting both Epicureanism and Stoicism. Velleius and Balbus are offered the chance of

responding to Cotta’s criticisms. Velleius declines, allowing for the possibility that “my answer

to your arguments may wait until another time (Cicero 1933, 2.1). And Balbus, like Velleius,

temporizes, allowing Cotta to speak first (3.4), though Balbus never avails himself of the right to

reply, arguing at the end of the dialogue, instead, that “as evening is approaching, you [Cotta]

will assign us a day on which to make our answer to your views (1933, 3.94). The dialogue

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concludes without any resolution, with “Velleius thinking Cotta’s discourse to be truer, while

[Cicero, as an observer, thinking] that that of Balbus approximated more nearly to a semblance

of the truth” (1933, 3.95).8

Cicero, however, does not conceive of equality in political conversations as a right to

speak and respond. Instead, he assumes a basic equality among interlocutors, but his principal

concern is about the special type of equality existing among friends. Cicero grants that equality

in friendship can coexist with a certain degree of inequality: “it is of utmost importance in

friendship that superior and inferior should stand on equality” (1923, 69). Equality among

friends is about caring equally for each other and aspiring equally to virtue. As will be seen

subsequently, conversation among friends does not demand—perhaps, cannot demand—actual

equality among speakers insofar as friendship often involves deferential behavior, so that in any

particular conversation, one friend may predominate over the other.

Deliberative democratic equality resembles that of Cicero’s philosophical interlocutors.

Equality of deliberators is a right, both formal and substantive (Cohen 1989, 22-23). And

equality dominates James Bohman's list of the “basic normative requirements and constraints on

deliberation” (Bohman 1996, 16). For Benhabib, a moral principle that undergirds deliberative

democracy is “egalitarian reciprocity,” which maintains that “each individual has the same

symmetrical rights to various speech acts, to initiate new topics, to ask for reflection about the

presuppositions of the conversations” (Benhabib 1996b, 78; 69-70).

Rationality plays an important role in Cicero’s philosophical and political models of

conversation, albeit to a different extent in each. In philosophical conversation, Cicero embraces

rational argumentation to the exclusion of pathos; the emotions, whether “distress and fear,” on

one extreme, or “extravagant joy and lust,” on the other, “conflict with deliberation and reason”

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(Cicero 1927, 5.43). Philosophical conversation is supposed to be serene and restrained (Cicero

1991, 1.3). Cicero rejects not only pathos but even appealing to the speaker’s authority (ethos or

character) in philosophical discussion because relying on someone else’s opinion—Cicero

includes his own opinion—substitutes blind faith for reason: “In discussion it is not so much

weight of authority as force of argument that should be demanded. Indeed the authority of those

who profess to teach is often a positive hindrance to those who desire to learn; they cease to

employ their own judgment, and take what they perceive to be the verdict of their chosen master

as settling the question” (Cicero 1979, 13).9 He cites the Pythagoreans as examples of this

uncritical acceptance of authority. In lieu of rational argument, the Pythagoreans replied to their

opponents with the words “Ipse dixit,” or “He himself said so,” referring to their master

Pythagoras. The Pythagoreans’ error was that, in using appeals to authority in philosophical

discussion, they transgressed rhetorical decorum, which limits conversation to rational proof.

Rational argumentation, as we shall see, is a significant element of Cicero’s political

conversation, but it is not the sole acceptable proof. Because Cicero views political conversation

as discourse among friends, trust in, and goodwill toward, the other interlocutors pervades

political talk. Ethos, or character, is inevitably a crucial part of political conversation because

character is a central feature of friendship, and friendship, according to Cicero, animates political

conversation. In philosophical discussion, where interlocutors engage each other civilly but not

as friends, ethos is foreign. For Cicero, “the influence of friendship on character is incandescent”

(Bullard 2011, 115), and, therefore, in contrast to philosophical dialogue, the appeal to character

in political discussion, i.e., talk among friends, is altogether natural.

Another parallel between philosophical conversation and deliberative democracy is the

primacy of rational argumentation in both. Deliberative democrats identify deliberation with

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rational discourse, often expressing this identification in the principle that deliberations should

be determined by “the force of the better argument.” According to this principle, which

Habermas enunciates, participants in deliberation are “required to state their reasons for

advancing proposals, supporting them or criticizing them” (Habermas 1975, 108; Cohen 1989,

22). Because only the “force of the better argument” should persuade participants, Chambers

writes that practical discourse “must set conditions such that only rational, that is, argumentative,

convincing is allowed to take place” (Chambers 1996, 99). Similarly, Benhabib writes, collective

deliberation must be conducted “rationally and fairly” (Benhabib 1996b, 69). Non-rational

persuasion, according to these theorists, becomes equated with coercion. For some proponents of

the conversational model, coercion is not limited to “threats and bribes,” but includes “rhetorical

manipulation,” which consists chiefly of appeals to the passions (Chambers 1996, 151; 187, n.

30). But even for deliberative democrats accepting of extra-rational rhetorical appeals, pride of

place in deliberation goes to rational proof. Further, even deliberative democrats sympathetic to

rhetoric do not concern themselves with goodwill, which is rhetorically significant and

permeates political conversation.

Conversation, as Cicero states in De officiis, “flourish best in friendships.” Cicero’s

philosophical dialogues, however, are characterized less by the friendship of interlocutors than

by their restrained comity. Like friends, the interlocutors in philosophical dialogue share a

common bond. But rather than the bond of goodwill, which unites friends (Cicero 1923, 23),

they are joined by a common search for truth. Thus, Cicero describes his mission and the goal of

the other speakers in De finibus as follows: “For our object is to discover the truth, not to refute

someone as an opponent” (Cicero 1914, 1.13). In pursuit of truth, Cicero’s philosophical

speakers are expected to subordinate their own personal interests, like glory: Cicero has Cotta

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announce, in De natura deorum, that rather than best his philosophical opponents, he “longs to

be refuted” (3.95). In his later philosophical dialogues of 46-43 BCE—such as De finibus, De

natura deorum, and Academica, where each speaker represents a separate philosophical school—

the interlocutors’ interactions are, what we would term, “professional.” And Cicero chooses to

populate the second edition of the Academica with philosophically competent interlocutors rather

than with the less philosophically capable friends who appeared in his first edition of the same

work (Steel 2005, 112-113). Although Cicero’s philosophical interlocutors do not address each

other as friends, they adhere to Cicero’s maxim in De officiis (1.136) that “we must take the

greatest care to appear both to respect those with whom we converse and to value them” (Hall

2009, 8).

For Cicero’s political interlocutors, however, conversation is friendly in the full sense of

the term, involving assertions of goodwill and the exchange of intimacies (Hall 2009, 46; Eden

2012, 29). The connection between friendship and political conversation is best exemplified in

Cicero’s letters to friends, which I discuss later. As Robert Hariman observes, “the letters create

a common ground between public and private realms”; in Cicero’s letters, we find a “sense of

affinity between political forum and friendly exchange” (Hariman 1995, 135).

Both Cicero’s philosophical and deliberative democratic conversations, although not

friendly per se, are cooperative. As part of the cooperative view of deliberation, Chambers

expects that participants in deliberative democracy are (like Cicero’s philosophical speakers) not

set in opposition to each other, in order to win, but “in a search for a common ground”

(Chambers 1996, 162–63). Seyla Benhabib captures the tenor of deliberative democratic

discourse by contrasting deliberative democracy—the Habermasian “proceduralist-deliberative

model of democracy”—and the “agonistic model of democratic politics,” advanced by political

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thinkers like Hannah Arendt and Sheldon Wolin (Benhabib 1992, 90–95; 1996a, 7). Cicero’s two

subcategories of conversation, like deliberative democracy, are not agonistic. Rather, the

political agon is played out in the public arena where, in antiquity, deliberative orators competed

against each other and, in modernity, politicians contend with each other, in a zero-sum game.

Are there practical implications to my outline of the similarities and differences between

the conversational models? I maintain the conceptual differences I delineated do manifest

themselves in practice, evinced by the static qualities of philosophical and deliberative

democratic conversations.

Cicero presents such philosophical dialogues as the Academica, De finibus, and De

natura deorum as if intended to be dynamic exchanges between speakers who, because they are

committed to the truth and not to besting their adversaries, are open to altering their positions.

But the interlocutors in these dialogues do not, in fact, revise their views. Each philosophical

speaker (Epicurean, Stoic, and Old Academic and Peripatetic) adheres to his initial standpoint,

even after engaging with the representatives of other philosophies. The same invariability, as

Walzer notes, reflects the discussions of actual philosophers. Living (rather than hypothetical)

philosophers participating in conversation with each other “reach no agreement among

themselves; they produce again and again the philosophical equivalents of hung juries” (Walzer

1989-90, 188). The interlocutors in Cicero’s philosophical dialogues are dogmatically committed

to their philosophies, unwilling to concede any ground to their peers. Thus, Cato, while insisting

to Cicero that “‘you really accept all our opinions save for the difference of terminology,’”

emphatically denies that he, as a Stoic, “‘accept[s] any of the tenets of your [Academic] school’”

(Cicero 1914, 4.80).10

18

Unlike his philosophically committed interlocutors, Cicero is open to modifying his

initial positions. As an Academic skeptic, he denies being an adherent of any specific school and

affirms his right to select philosophies eclectically: “our Academy grants us great freedom, so

that we may be justified in defending whatever seems most persuasive” (1991, 3.20).

Accordingly, Cicero incorporates Stoic values into his political and moral theory when he finds

them most persuasive, but he adopts Peripatetic values when he deems them most “probable”

(Glucker 1988, 34-69).

Even Cicero’s commitment to flexibility, however, is limited. Although he includes

Epicureans in his philosophical dialogues, he adamantly rejects their ideas. He displays his

animus toward Epicureanism, for example, when he scolds Trebatius and Cassius, Epicureans

engaged in political careers, for their philosophical sympathies (Griffin 1997, 108). He wavers

instead between the Stoics and Peripatetics: “I am dragged in two different directions—now the

latter view seems to me the probable, now the former” (Cicero 1933b, 2.135). At times, however,

his willingness to move between Stoicism and Peripateticism appears to reflect less an openness

to change than his belief in the irrelevance of differences between them. At different points in his

writings, Cicero announces himself a follower of Antiochus of Askalon, who sought to

minimize, if not erase, the differences between Stoics and Peripatetics (Glucker 1988, 45-50; 64,

n. 81). And in the Tusculan Disputations, Cicero appears to adopt Carneades’ view that the

Peripatetic and Stoic positions on virtue are identical: “inasmuch as the determining factor is the

thing, not the words, there was no ground for disagreement” (Cicero 1927, 5.120). By

diminishing the differences between the Stoics and Peripatetics, Cicero’s vacillation between the

two schools becomes less significant. He chooses, as a Skeptic, to remain within the larger

19

philosophical outlook that embraces both Stoics and Peripatetics (but not Epicureans),

alternating between two philosophies, which, by his own admission, vary little from one other.

In contrast to the later philosophical dialogues, where representatives of distinct schools

hold fast to their initial opinions, the characters that inhabit Cicero earlier philosophical

dialogues of the late 50s BCE (e.g., De oratore and De republica, which treat rhetoric and

politics, respectively) are far less doctrinaire. They are willing to try out positions, which they

either modify or never held, for the sake of enriching the dialogue. For example, on the first day

of De oratore’s dialogue, Antonius rejects Crassus’ claim that the orator should “have

knowledge of all subjects and arts.” For Antonius, the orator is simply “someone who, in cases

such as commonly arise in the forum, is able to employ language pleasant to the ear, and

thoughts suited to persuade” (Cicero 2001a, 1.213). On the next day, however, Antonius jettisons

his initial opinion and adopts Crassus’ idealized vision of the orator. When asked the reason for

his about-face, Antonius replies playfully: “for yesterday it was my intention to refute you

[Crassus] and thus entice these pupils away from you. Now . . . it seems my duty to express my

opinions, rather than to fight with you” (Cicero 2001a, 2.40). Unlike the speakers in the later

philosophical dialogues, who relate to each other civilly but as strangers, Antonius can move

between positions because he is in a conversation with friends whom he trusts sufficiently to

adopt different personae. De oratore, like De republica, evokes a particular ideal of intellectual

conversation, “one in which a group of friends gather spontaneously and a serious discussion

arises naturally from matters of current concern. There are connections of blood and marriage

between some of the participants, but friendship is the dominant bond” (Steel 2005, 109-110).

The ability to shift positions or speak with greater intellectual flexibility is fortified by the larger

number of characters—seven in De oratore, nine in De republica, as opposed to a maximum of

20

five in the later philosophical dialogues—in which the interlocutors identify less with any

specific philosophy than do the interlocutors in the later dialogues (Steel 2005, 109).11

Cicero’s declared philosophical flexibility, however, does not extend to politics. Cicero,

like politically committed citizens today—I am not discussing here the many, perhaps majority

of, citizens, who are politically “undecided” or apathetic—makes political decisions within a

broad, but still delimited, political outlook. Even if we (or Cicero) minimize the differences

between Stoicism and Peripateticism, the two are, nevertheless, distinct schools of philosophy

between which Cicero wavers. But for Cicero, as for most of us, the stakes in philosophical

judgment are much lower than the stakes in political decision-making. The connection between

philosophy and practice is tenuous, especially in the more abstruse discussions of De natura

deorum and De finibus. Political conversations, in contrast, are more closely linked to practical

results; for Cicero, political discussion revolved around decisions that might affect the very

survival of the republic. Therefore, Cicero’s political decision-making takes place within a circle

of friends, persons who are sufficiently like-minded, who exhibit goodwill toward him, and

whom he trusts. The advice of strangers, those outside his political perspective, falls on deaf

ears.

But deliberative democrats expect people to be willing to change their political opinions

without the emotional bonds that would likely foster such change. The “force of the better

argument” without an overarching environment of trust and goodwill does not typically modify

political opinions, if for no other reason than “most speakers quite honestly think that their own

arguments are the better ones” (Walzer 1989-90, 188). Deliberative democrats can demonstrate

political change in hypothetical conversations that the authors contrive and then resolve

(Gutmann and Thompson 1996) or in actual, but artificially created and monitored, groups

21

(Fishkin 2009). Proponents of deliberative democracy, however, should not expect to find such

change among real-life, ideologically opposed interlocutors engaged in unregulated

conversations.

Friendship, Politics, and Conversation

The second subdivision of sermo is political conversation, as Cicero terms it in De officiis,

“sermones . . . de re publica” (1991, 1.135). The best examples of this type of conversation are

Cicero’s letters. Before turning to the letters, though, I first demonstrate Cicero’s linking of

friendship with shared political opinions—a connection he establishes in De amicitia. Gaius

Laelius, the main speaker in De amicitia, maintains that the “whole essence of friendship”—

especially as exemplified by Laelius’ paradigmatic friendship with Scipio Aemilianus—lies in

“the most complete agreement in policy, in pursuits and in opinions” (1923, 15). Later

addressing himself specifically to political consensus, Laelius observes of his friendship with

Scipio: “For my part, of all the blessings of fortune or nature has bestowed on me, there is none

which I can compare with Scipio’s friendship. In it I found agreement on public questions [de re

publica consensus]” (1923, 103). Consistent with my extending “friendship” to like-minded

persons who do not know each other, Cicero also notes “on account of their virtue and

uprightness”—virtue and uprightness being shared qualities among true friends—“we feel a sort

of affection even for those whom we have never seen” (1923, 27-28).

In oratory, where genuine friendship is absent, the orator seeks to create goodwill with

his audience—albeit at a lower level than between actual friends—so that the audience will be

amenable to persuasion. Goodwill is won by speakers “who are decent and unassuming, not

severe, not obstinate, not litigious, not harsh” (Cicero 2001a, 2.182). “Employing thoughts of a

certain kind and words of a certain kind, and adopting besides a delivery that is gentle and shows

22

signs of flexibility, makes speakers appear [emphasis added] as decent [probi], as good in

character [morati]—yes, as good men [boni viri]” (2001a, 2.184). Likewise, Cicero states that

the orator arouses admiration for his eloquence through, what the Greeks call, “ethikon or

‘expressive of character,’ [which] is related to men’s nature and character, their habits and all the

intercourse of life.” Appeals to the speaker’s character are “courteous and agreeable, adapted to

win goodwill (Cicero 1939b, 128).

In political conversation, higher degrees of trust are required. Because interlocutors

reveal their political opinions to each other and accept, often implicitly, the opinions they offer

one another, manufactured goodwill does not suffice. Rather trust—connoted in De amicitia

variously by “goodwill” (benevolentia), “love” (amor), and affection (caritas)—emerges from

agreement among friends.12 Cicero’s definition of friendship joins agreement, on the one hand, to

mutual goodwill and affection, on the other. For Cicero, “friendship is nothing else than an

accord in all things, human and divine, conjoined with mutual goodwill and affection” (1923,

20). (Although perfect friendship requires “accord in all things,” including perfect virtue,

genuine friendship among actual men, as opposed to the utopian friendship among “such men as

are nowhere to be found at all,” requires only agreement on a realistic standard of virtue and,

presumably, less-than-perfect accord on all things human and divine [1923, 20-21].13) Similarly,

Cicero contends in Laelius’ voice that meeting someone “whose habits and character (moribus et

natura) are congenial with our own” gives rise to the impulse of love, amor (1923, 27-28).

Without shared opinions—common political views in particular—friendship is difficult to

maintain. Thus, Laelius quotes Scipio as “very frequently mention[ing]” the difficulty of

maintaining life-long friendships on account of differing political views (1923, 33). Similarly,

23

Laelius cites Scipio’s estrangement from his erstwhile friend, Quintus Metellus, “because of a

disagreement in politics” (1923, 77-78).14

Friendly Talk in Practice: The Letters

The trust between friends in political conversation is instantiated in Cicero’s letters. Not only

does Cicero comment on the conversational style of his letters, but he identifies the letter itself

with conversation (Eden 2012, 30). In one correspondence, Cicero distinguishes between the

letter, on the one hand, and the speech of law courts and contiones—the same distinction he drew

between conversation and oratory in De officiis—on the other hand. In the same letter, he refers

to his letter as “plebeio sermone” or “language of everyday life” (Cicero 2001d, 9.21.1). In

another letter, Cicero refers to his epistolary writing as “sermo familiaris” or “familiar chat”

(Cicero 1999, 1.9.1). Yet again, in still another correspondence, he describes the letter using

sermo, describing an acquaintance’s epistles as “talking” (Cicero 2001c, 7.32.3). And in a

communication to his closest friend, Titus Pomponius Atticus, Cicero represents his missive as

talk to an absent friend (Cicero 1913, 7.15.1).15

The letters often deal with politics as “a continuation of the incessant talk about politics

in which Cicero and his peers engaged when they met” (White 2010, 22). Cicero’s political

letters (like many of his other letters) are consultative, in which he gives and receives advice

(White 2010, 117). Consilium or consultation is not restricted to epistolary exchanges but is part

of a broader tradition among the Roman elite, which prescribed that “men in positions of

responsibility should not take decisions alone” (Crook 1955, 4). Cicero goes so far as to include

advice—“the influence of friends who are wise counselors”—as “‘the first law of friendship’”

(Cicero 1923, 44; White 2010, 122).

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Because the giving and getting of advice was assumed to be among friends, letter-writers

typically assumed (or affected) a style of friendly correspondence: “the assertive polite fiction

that the two parties involved were very dear friends seems to have been one that was widely

understood and frequently invoked” (Hall 2009, 77). Roman convention called for members of

the elite to acknowledge each other as friends, even when, in reality, they were on less-than-good

terms (Hall 2009, 66-67).16 For example, Caesar in 49 writes to Cicero that he hopes he will find

him in Rome so “that I may avail myself of your advice and resources, as usual, in everything”

(Cicero 1913, 9.16). Political and personal foes like Cicero and Mark Antony even declare their

mutual friendship in their letters to each other (White 2010, 123).

In his correspondence with true friends, however, Cicero displays a vulnerability and

affection absent from the feigned or, at least, exaggerated sorrow and joy of the letters between

pro-forma friends.17 Kathy Eden speaks about a rhetoric of intimacy in ancient Roman epistolary

communication. “Like the intimate, face-to-face exchanges that it replaces, then, familiar letter

writing promotes itself [emphasis added] as an expression of the letter writer’s deepest feelings”

(Eden 2012, 31). Among close friends, though, the familiar letter did more than promote itself as

an expression of profound feelings; it was an important outlet for upper class Romans to reveal

themselves emotionally. Cicero writes to Atticus:

I must tell you that what I most badly need at the present time is a confidant—

someone with whom I could share all that gives me any anxiety, or wise,

affectionate friend to whom I could talk without pretence or evasion or

concealment. . . . [Y]ou whose talk and advice has so often lightened my worry

and vexation of spirit, the partner in my public life and intimate of all my private

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concerns, the sharer of all my talk and plans, where are you? (Cicero 1999,

1.18.1-2).

Although Roman letter-writing, including Cicero’s, concerned specific matters, sometimes the

main point of a letter, as the selection above implies, is to write not because of anything new to

report, but, as Cicero confesses to Atticus on several occasions, because of the need to expose his

innermost sentiments (Eden 2012, 30).

The conditions for intimate conversations, emotional and political, are often forged by

joint political action. For example, Cicero’s friendship to Publius Cornelius Lentulus Spinther

was formed by Lentulus’ assisting Cicero in the suppression of the Catilinarian conspiracy, his

aid (and success) in recalling Cicero from exile, and his siding politically, in the end, with

Cicero, who supported the patrician senatorial class and their leader Pompey, rather than with

Caesar and his popularist supporters. Cicero evinces his trust in Lentulus—trust in sharing their

political views through the giving and getting of advice—in a letter where he writes: “Take what

you say you have in view . . . speeches in the Senate and general activity and conduct of public

affairs, as to which I shall tell you my opinion and position presently and answer your

enquiries—well, at least I should have found in you the wisest and most affectionate of guides,

while you would have found in me an adviser of experience perhaps not altogether negligible,

and of undeniable loyalty and good will” (Cicero 2001c,1.9.2).

When referring to present-day political like-mindedness, I have in mind general

ideological agreement, rather than agreement on specific policies (or specific political facts).

Interlocutors who agree on fundamental political values can engage in discussion of policies,

about which they may disagree (or have no firm opinion), while aided in (re-)considering

policies via the trust generated by a shared political perspective—trust in what the other

26

interlocutor says and trust in revealing one’s own political doubts and convictions. In political

conversation, speakers rarely switch ideologies; a conservative and a liberal engaged in

conversation, a fortiori a libertarian and a socialist, are unlikely to change their basic political

assumptions, just as Cicero’s philosophical spokesmen did not abandon their philosophies. But

discussions of policies among friends, whether the interlocutors are actually friends or similarly

minded in political outlooks, are more apt to modify opinions. David Ryfe alludes to this

distinction between ideological and policy-based discussions: “[C]onversations about values

ought to be organized differently from conversations about actions. For instance, disagreements

between pro- and anti-abortion activists are not likely to be reduced by the distillation of more

policy information or the convening of a debate. In the same way, conversations about action

plans and policy proposals generally assume that fundamental values are already shared” (Ryfe

2003, 195-96). Proponents of political deliberation sometimes resolve the abortion debate—at

least resolve what is to be done—by creating hypothetical discussions in which certain positions

are excluded (or certain common assumptions are assumed to have been arrived at through

rational argument), but in real-world political conversation, we should not expect deliberation to

produce anything near a consensus on abortion.

While agreement on significant political values today typically lines up with political

party identification, republican Rome (like all pre-modern societies) did not have formal political

parties. Nor did it give rise to coherent political ideologies. But the absence of political parties

and defined ideologies, in Cicero’s time, does not imply that the distinction between fundamental

political perspectives and particular policy decisions is any less relevant for Cicero than for us.

The late Roman republic was divided, politically, between the optimates or boni and the

populares. The optimates consisted of politicians, who like Cicero, defended the authority of the

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senate. The populares affirmed the people’s sovereign right to make decisions without prior

approval of the senate, but as they perceived it, in the public interest (Brunt 1988, 32; 478).

Because of the deep socio-political divisions that rent late republican Rome, for Cicero, there

could be no meaningful consultation with the populares. Cicero framed this division between the

political “us” and the political “them,” between friends and enemies, by identifying the former

with those committed to “protect the republic” and the latter with those intending to harm the

state (Cicero 1991, 1.87).18 As Cicero saw it, the optimates aimed to safeguard the republic; the

populares set placating the masses (Brunt 1988, 32) above the well-being of the res publica.

Although Cicero differentiates between political friends and enemies by whether or not

they act to defend the republic, he grants that political friends may differ about how best to

protect the republic, every one deciding how to do so “in the way each judges best” (Cicero

1991, 1.87). Peter Brunt confirms Cicero’s view of legitimate differences among the elite: “On

particular questions of policy [the optimates] might also hold divergent opinions of the public

good, without abandoning their commitment to senatorial control of the state” (Brunt 1988,

471).19 In addition, Brunt acknowledges that members of the optimate camp shifted their

political opinions based on “the force of argument.” (As an example of such intra-elite shifts and

disagreements, Brunt cites “the great debate of 5 December” over the destiny of Catiline’s

collaborators [Brunt 1988, 471]). Cicero too was amenable to changing his own position, through

the process of consultation, but only as long as the giving and getting of advice took place within

the circle of those whom he trusted, i.e., those who shared his general political outlook.

Accordingly, Cicero sought Atticus’ political advice despite the absence of “complete

agreement” between them—Atticus was a tepid Epicurean—because of the trust that pervaded

their friendship. But this trust and even their friendship are inconceivable without the basic

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political agreement they shared. As Cornelius Nepos, Atticus’ biographer, notes, “Atticus always

belonged and was recognized as belonging to the Optimates” (Griffin 1997, 109-110).

Among the like-minded with whom Cicero converses, we find reason-giving

argumentation comparable to that found in deliberative democratic discourse, but we also see a

heavy reliance on ethos, which is based on trust in a person’s character. For Cicero, character

would have included having the correct political beliefs, which he identified with his own basic

perspective. Although today we are more inclined to distinguish character from political

viewpoint, we are more likely to have faith in someone (or in the opinions of) someone who is

politically like-minded. As a liberal Democrat, I may acknowledge that conservative

Republicans are sometimes persons of character, but their political orientation makes it highly

improbable that, through conversation with them, I shall be moved to alter my political views,

even on policy matters. Because we do not accept similar basic political values and because I am

less likely to trust the conservative Republican’s political analysis, I am bound to be unmoved by

the counter-arguments I am presented. Political like-mindedness for us, therefore, functions like

Ciceronian ethos, even though Cicero would have subsumed political orientation under ethos.

The mutual reason-giving that is a hallmark of Habermasian deliberation appears in

Cicero’s letters. For example, Cicero writes to Lentulus Spinther: “This seems a good

opportunity for me to give an exposition of the whole topic by way of a reply to your enquiries”

(Cicero 2001d, 1.9.3-4). “You now know my reason for defending each particular cause or case,

and the general position from which I take such part in politics as I may” (Cicero 2001c, 1.9.21).

In another letter, Cicero seeks Atticus’ political advice about how to negotiate the conflict

between Pompey and Caesar, specifically concerning whether to leave Italy with Pompey or

remain in Rome with Caesar. Cicero provides a survey of “both sides of the question” to “help

29

you [Atticus] to a decision” (1913, 8.3.). After reviewing the several arguments for and against

each option, he appeals for advice: “I have said most in favour of staying in Italy: but do not

infer that I have any particular inclination towards so doing. . . . [P]lease give me your advice,

counting me open-minded on the important question” (1913, 8.3). Like deliberative democratic

discourse, Cicero’s exposition is rational. His request for Atticus’ advice appears consistent with

the deliberation advocated by contemporary political theorists, i.e., conversation in which the

interlocutors consider the differing arguments at hand to decide among them. But Cicero hints

here at the possibility that arguments alone should not always be decisive: “it may be, as often

happens, that there are more words on one side and more worth on the other” (1913, 8.3). If

arguments alone do not suffice, however, what remains? Cicero’s desire for Atticus’ advice

involves more than hearing his interlocutor’s best argument—a service that can be provided by a

stranger. What Atticus offers, in addition to rational argumentation, is a friend’s credibility based

on mutual trust and goodwill.

Trust in a friend’s opinion introduces the element of ethos, a rhetorical proof distinct

from rational argumentation, which deliberative democrats ignore. Cicero’s letters are replete

with commitments to act according to the advice given, simply because the advice-giver is a

friend. In a letter to Lentulus, he states: “[W]hen eventually I can avail myself of your presence,

you will be my director in all things [emphasis added]” (2001c, 1.9.22). Similarly, in the same

letter, he writes: “I regard myself as no less bound to tell you my sentiments than to defend

whatever course you adopt [emphasis added]” (Cicero 2001c, 1.9.25). He even acknowledges his

willingness to change positions based on ethos. In a letter to Atticus, for example, he comments:

“I speak to you as to myself: and who is there that in a matter of such importance does not argue

with himself in a variety of ways? At the same time I also desire to elicit your opinion: if it is the

30

same, that I may be strengthened in my resolution; if it has changed, that I may conform mine to

yours” [emphasis added] (Cicero 1908, 8.14). And in a letter to Cassius, he conveys his regret for

not having followed his friend’s advice in the first place: “So I would ask you . . . to write to me

and tell me what you see and feel, what you think I have to expect and ought to do. . . . I only

wish I had followed the advice in that first letter of yours from Luceria” (Cicero 2001d, 15.15.4).

Even if Cicero’s claims to follow his friends’ advice—whatever that counsel may be—

are overstated, his point that he will defer to their advice notwithstanding the absence of

argumentative proof has merit. The contemporary case for such deference is made, most notably,

by Anthony Downs, who examines how “rational citizens” can reduce their “information costs”

by receiving “free data [from private citizens] in the form of letters, conversations, discussion

groups,” and so on (Downs 1957, 222). Downs argues that because most citizens have neither the

time nor desire to acquire unbiased political information, it is rational for them “to rely on a

trusted source, specifically someone who has procured enough information to make an informed

decision and will not relay heavily biased information” (Sinclair 2012, 8). Although Downs’s

terminology is vastly different from Cicero’s—Downs using the language of economic theory—

his conclusion is not unlike Cicero’s. In the absence of political expertise in some specific matter

(e.g., voting for candidates or supporting policies), friends or, as Downs describes them, “agents

whose goals are similar to their own and whose information is more extensive than their own”

(Downs 1957, 237) should be depended upon for their advice or “evaluation” of political

information. Cicero himself did not delegate his decisions to others to free himself of the costs of

politics, à la Downs, but his trust in friends to guide or influence his political decision-making is

reasonable from the perspective of many empirically inclined political scholars today.20

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Two criticisms of restricting popular deliberation to friends are, first, that the results of

such deliberation will be less-informed decision-making; and, second, that such circumscribed

deliberation leads to group polarization and intolerance. I respond to the first criticism now and

the second criticism in the Conclusion. Criticism of deliberation among friends is implicit in the

widespread assumption as stated here by Gutmann and Thompson: “Through the give-and-take

of argument, participants can learn from each other, come to recognize their individual and

collective misapprehensions, and develop new views and policies that can more successfully

withstand critical scrutiny” (Gutmann and Thompson 2004, 12). As Benhabib states succinctly,

“deliberative processes are also processes that impart information” (Benhabib 1996b, 71). These

deliberative democrats accept that the more diverse the deliberators, the more points of view can

be considered, and, therefore, the more rational the outcome. When only like-minded persons

deliberate, fewer options are considered, resulting in poorer decision-making.

The weakness of this first critique is that what I term “deliberation among friends” does

not diminish political information among the deliberators. When I refer to friends as politically

like-minded, I have interpreted like-mindedness broadly so as to include all persons with a

common ideological tendency. Such diversity is unlikely to limit the relevant political

information of discussants. This critique is further weakened by my restricting discussants to the

politically committed, who are by most accounts aware of a range of viewpoints other than their

own. Voting and the formation of public opinions, by the politically concerned, is not determined

by the universe of political facts at hand, but by the interplay of specific factual knowledge and

general political perspective. Thus, discussions about policy among politically conservative or

liberal interlocutors are bound, primarily, by the interlocutors’ ideologies and not by facts.

32

Factual information is most significant in resolving differences of opinion (or in persuading

individuals to adopt a position) when discussed within a single ideology.

Conclusion: Political Polarization and Tolerance

The second criticism of deliberation among the like-minded is voiced most prominently by Cass

Sunstein. He contends that the consequence of “enclave deliberation,” i.e., “deliberation among

like-minded people who talk or even live, much of the time, in isolated enclaves,” is group

polarization, which means that “members of a deliberating group predictably move toward a

more extreme point in the direction indicated by the members’ predilberation tendencies”

(Sunstein 2002, 176- 177). Sunstein argues that although this tendency toward polarization is

especially true within groups composed of similarly minded members with extremist tendencies,

it also holds for more centrist groups with similar viewpoints, like Republicans and Democrats in

the United States: “When like-minded people are participating in ‘iterated polarization games’—

when they meet regularly, without sustained exposure to competing views—extreme movements

are all the more likely (Sunstein 2000, 75). Sunstein acknowledges “a special advantage of

‘enclave deliberation,’” insofar as “it promotes the development of positions that would

otherwise be invisible, silenced, or squelched in general debate”—possible examples of social

movements made possible through such deliberation are feminism, the civil rights movement,

religious conservatism, and the gay and lesbian rights movement (Sunstein 2000, 111). But

Sunstein focuses, chiefly, on the vices of deliberation within ideologically homogeneous groups,

in particular its “potential danger to social stability” and its precipitating role in “social

fragmentation or even violence” (2002, 177). In short, Sunstein suggests that what I have termed

“conversation among friends” results in greater intolerance of “the other side,” while

“conversation among strangers” yields greater tolerance.21

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Sunstein’s case for increased polarization in like-minded groups—even groups with

substantial numbers of moderates—is empirically grounded (Sunstein 2000; Sunstein 2002;

Sunstein 2007; Schkade, Sunstein, and Hastie 2007). As I suggested early on in the essay, I

largely steer clear of empirical analysis, instead, approaching the subject matter from the

perspective of a normative political theorist. Thus, I do not Sunstein’s empirical findings here.

Sunstein himself concedes, however, that in one study demonstrating group polarization—where

largely conservative and liberal groups deliberated separately—the polarization may partly be an

artifact of group instruction to reach a consensus. In the absence of this instruction, i.e., when

individuals in groups are instructed not to reach a group decision, as in Fishkin’s deliberative

opinion polls, the group’s tendency to shift is probably attenuated (Schkade, Sunstein, and Hastie

2007, 919; 934-935).

The baneful consequences of ideologically homogeneous deliberation that Sunstein

predicts may themselves be mitigated by the possibility that deliberation is not itself a significant

cause of group polarization. For example, most politically conscious persons—academic or

nonacademic—agree that the United States (as well as many other industrialized democracies) is

currently enduring a period of salient political polarization. But what are the causes, and is like-

minded deliberation an important source of the phenomenon? Changed residential patterns and

the proliferation of more specialized media appear to be more significant factors in polarization

than deliberation. As Mutz argues, “[r]esidential patterns have moved toward increasingly

spatially segregated living on the basis of race, education, age, and income,” and these patterns

correlate with political perspectives (2006, 46-47; Sunstein 2002, 937-38). And, as Sunstein

maintains, the rise of more particularized information sources “makes it increasingly easy for

people to avoid opinions that differ from their own” (Sunstein 2002, 938-39) That the spectrum

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of persons discussing politics together is narrower and more extreme is probably due less to the

polarization caused by deliberation than other, arguably more important, reasons like political

groups and parties shifting to extremes to attract more committed members or to raise more

money. It is unlikely that the Republican Party in the United States has moved far rightward for

reasons stemming from Sunstein’s “law of group polarization” (2002).

Whatever the sources of group polarization, does polarization lead to greater intolerance?

Sunstein reflects the commonly held view that it does. His solutions, echoing the deliberative

democrats, are to ensure that deliberation occurs within “a large and heterogeneous public

sphere” and to guard “against a situation in which like-minded people wall themselves off from

alternative perspectives” (2000, 105). I suggest, however, that tolerance may be found in a type

of conversation where changed opinion (or even truth) is not the goal, but where knowledge of,

and familiarity with, the “other side” is the aim. This type of conversation is distinct from both

Cicero’s conversational subcategories and from deliberative democracy. (It has most in common

with Cicero’s philosophical dialogue, where, de facto, none of the active participants shift their

position.) This form of conversation is best exemplified in the example of Jean Bodin’s inter-

religious dialogue, the Colloqium heptaplomeres.

“Religious tolerance stems from religious indifference.” Such is the lesson most of us

have learned from our exposure to the history of the West following the sixteenth- and

seventeenth-century European wars of religion. John Locke heralds this impending apathy when

he states in his Letter Concerning Toleration: “If a Roman Catholic believe that to be really the

body of Christ which another man calls bread, he does no injury thereby to his neighbour. If a

Jew do not believe the New Testament to be the Word of God, he does not thereby alter anything

in men's civil rights” (Montuori 1983, 79). In line with this account is the belief that the decline

35

in religious fervor has been accompanied, roughly concurrently, by the rise in popular political

enthusiasm. Thus we find ourselves today generally tolerant of the panoply of religious beliefs

and practices because they matter little or nothing to us, while intolerant of political differences

because politics matters.

Although this description may tell part of the story, it certainly does not relate the entire

story. Religion’s societal significance persisted for much longer than most people recognize and

continues to be of great significance to many people today. And religious tolerance does not

necessarily imply religious indifference. The United States’ right to freedom of religion,

enshrined in the First Amendment, won approval not only through the efforts of a coalition of

religious skeptics, like Thomas Jefferson, but also of religious believers including devout

Baptists like Isaac Backus and John Leland (Curry 1986).

Among the earliest supporters of religious toleration were such religiously committed

Renaissance humanists as Desiderius Erasmus, who hoped that inter-denominational

conversation would lead to agreement among Christians on a few fundamentals of faith. This

plan was based on Cicero’s model of conversation leading to philosophical agreement (Remer

1996). Ultimately, however, it became clear that religious conversation would not re-create the

Christian unity shattered by the Reformation. Witnessing the futility of relying on conversation

to effect religious unity, Jean Bodin presented another model of conversation whose goal was

mutual tolerance, not religious change. He offered this alternative version of conversation in the

Colloquium heptaplomeres.22

The Colloquium is a series of conversations, divided into six books, between men of

seven different religions: a Catholic; a Lutheran; a Calvinist; a Jew; a Moslem; a proponent of

natural religion; and a Skeptic. The participants discuss a wide variety of topics, but the

36

Colloquium's central discussion concerns the question of the true religion. Unlike Renaissance

humanists whose dialogues conclude in religious agreement, Bodin offers us a dialogue in which

the interlocutors fail to agree on religion. The conversations in Bodin’s Colloquium revolve

around the fundamentals of faith, but no consensus emerges from among the discussions. The

Jew, the Moslem, and the follower of natural religion reject Christ as Lord; the Christians’ proofs

derived from New Testament citations are meaningless to them. Yet for Christians, the

evangelical testimonies are akin to the principles of science, “without which not even the

geometricians will have any proof” (Kuntz 1975, 292). Unable to agree on the basic proofs of

arguments, the interlocutors lack the tools of persuasion. Accordingly, the Skeptic states: “I think

those discussions about religion will come to nothing” (Kuntz 1975, 170).

But the discussions are only useless if we expect religious change. Bodin, however, does

not seek change. Rather, for Bodin, religious discourse offers the interlocutors the opportunity to

understand their own religion better. In addition, it familiarizes each interlocutor with the

religious beliefs of the other interlocutors, thereby transforming “the religious other” into

someone less alien, even if each speaker remains convinced of his own truth and continues to

believe that his fellow interlocutors remain mired in error.

Like religious fundamentals, ideology among the politically committed is not generally

amenable to change through argumentation. Therefore, deliberative democratic conversation in

which all persons—regardless of their ideological diversity—attempt to influence others’ basic

political values is unlikely to succeed. Change, as I have argued, is more probable among the

politically like-minded, who, like co-religionists, engage in conversations about more specific

matters, not essential beliefs.

37

The parallels between politics and religion extend to the issue of tolerance. In politics, as

in religion, individuals and groups may differ—the differences may even grow—without

becoming intolerant of each other. Talking with the other side not to convert them but to know

their point of view (as well as one’s own) brings about greater tolerance. This increase in

tolerance presupposes, however, that we believe the others to be well intentioned. As we saw,

Cicero accepted political difference so long as he believed that those who offered contrary

political solutions were motivated by concern for the well-being of the republic. Living during

the breakdown of the Republic, Cicero himself was unable to acknowledge that his political

opponents, the populares, were genuinely motivated by an interest in the common good. Group

polarization today is not as extreme as in Cicero’s day. Nor do we accept, prima facie, that

political foes are all bad people. Getting to know them and their views better, if only to see the

authenticity of their convictions, promotes tolerance between groups.

The political space that accommodates these different groups of friends must be

capacious. The modern democratic state with its protections of expression for all political

perspectives—in theory, if not always in fact—is sufficiently inclusive to accept communities of

strangers committed to common political ideals only in the weakest sense. But, surprisingly,

Cicero conceives of the ties that bind citizens more like a modern liberal than does Aristotle. For

Aristotle, one form of friendship, albeit more diluted and reduced than personal friendship, is

civic friendship. Such friendship connects fellow-citizens so that each citizen, “like (philein) one

another, that is, [wish well] (and is known to wish well) for the others” (Cooper 1999, 332-335).

According to the classicist and Aristotelian scholar John Cooper, Aristotle’s citizens

will approach one another for business or other purposes in a spirit of mutual

good will and with willingness to sacrifice their own immediate interests to those

38

of one another, as friendship demands. They are accommodating rather than

suspicious, anxious to yield a point rather than insisting on the full letter of their

rights whenever some dispute arises (Cooper 1999, 333).

The solidarity implicit in this conception of civic friendship raises questions about how accepting

Aristotle’s polis would be of the political divisions existing in the society I describe. Citizens of

this closely-knit polis are unlikely to embrace the emotional distance that usually accompanies

deep political divisions.

Although Cicero himself vehemently opposed the political gulf that divided Romans, his

theory is well-suited to allow for a polarized, but tolerant, political society. Classical

republicanism is often criticized for its aversion to difference. But Cicero’s framework works

well with difference. Cicero appears to link citizens indirectly through their common love of the

republic; his citizens do not love each other as much as love the same object, the patria. Thus

Cicero, when speaking of human love and affection, lists as examples the love of the gods and of

parents, and our affection for “brothers and wives and children and households” (Cicero 1942,

56). When it comes to the citizenry, however, Cicero, unlike Aristotle, is silent about any such

sentiment, speaking instead of the love of country. According to Cicero, human beings—even

humans who are citizens of the same state—share a natural sociability (societas naturalis), but

not friendship; sociability or societas “lacks the personal intimacy associated with friendship”

(Konstan 2010, 242-43). Present-day republicans and communitarians will probably be

disappointed with the weak ties Cicero envisions among citizens. A political society made up of

tolerant strangers who, in turn, can form themselves into groups of politically like-minded

friends may not evoke appealing images of a society founded on fraternity or sorority. This more

39

emotionally attenuated society, nonetheless, is, in reality, a better milieu for popular political

deliberation.

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NOTES

1 “More than any other theorist, Jürgen Habermas is responsible for reviving the idea of deliberation in our time, and giving it a more thoroughly democratic foundation” (Gutmann and Thompson 2004, 9). 2 Similarly, Gutmann and Thompson define “deliberative democracy as a form of government in which free and equal citizens (and their representatives), justify decisions in a process in which they give one another reasons that are mutually acceptable and generally accessible, with the aim of reaching conclusions that are binding in the present on all citizens but open to challenge in the future” (Gutmann and Thompson 2004, 7).

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3 Habermas describes communication in the public sphere as communication among strangers that abounds in conflicts. For Habermas, “the communicative mastery of these conflicts constitutes the sole source of solidarity among strangers” (Habermas 1996, 308). 4 Allen, however, accepts that political conversation is, and should be, between strangers, so that her goal is to build trust between strangers. As opposed to Allen, who grounds her position on her reading of Aristotle, I maintain, and interpret Cicero as contending, that only limited trust is possible, or at least likely, among strangers. Although limited trust may suffice for public speakers trying to persuade an audience, in conversation a higher degree of trust, like that found among friends (including persons with some level of ideological compatibility), is required. Allen does not distinguish between the rhetoric of oratory and of conversation, which I discuss later, by denying hierarchy in Aristotle’s Rhetoric (2004, 142). 5 For empirical sources demonstrating the connection between trust and homogeneity of views, see Mutz 2006, 86, n. 53. 6 Political scientists, particularly those who are empirically oriented, distinguish between those citizens who are largely apolitical and usually politically ignorant and those citizens who are partisan, politically committed, and, typically, politically savvy. I am addressing here, primarily, conversation among the politically committed. When discussing conversation, Cicero had these citizens in mind. And the conception of friends as like-minded politically—even if the like-mindedness is fairly loose—presupposes some sort of political commitment to begin with. 7 Cicero argues that epideictic oratory is less important than deliberative or forensic, partly because the Romans “do not generally use laudatory speeches that much” (Cicero 2001a, 2.341). 8 See also De finibus bonum et malorum, where Cicero constructs a philosophical dialogue between four equal speakers: Lucius Manlius Torquatus, representing Epicureanism; Marcus Porcius Cato, speaking for the Stoics; Marcus Pupius Piso Frugi Calpurnius expounding Antiochus’ philosophy of the “Old Academy” and of the early Peripatetics; and Cicero, as the Academic skeptic, refuting the arguments of the three previous speakers. Like De natura deorum, this dialogue concludes with no speaker possessing the authority to decide the matters under debate (Cicero 2001b, 5.96). 9 See also Cicero 1927, 5.83. 10 See also Cicero 1914, 4.57; 2.119. 11 The interlocutors in De oratore “are all actual or potential members of the ruling class (principes); they form a mutual admiration society in which the young show respect to their elders; the elders defer to one another, dissimulate their wisdom, and are self-deprecating” (MacKendrick 1989, 41). 12 Cicero also emphasizes loyalty, frankness, sociability and sympathy as important qualities in friendship (Cicero 1923, 65). These characteristics would also benefit political conversations. 13 Therefore, Cicero has Laelius argue that “when the characters of friends are blameless”—an ideal condition—“then there should be between them complete harmony of opinions and inclinations in everything without any exception” (1923, 61). 14 In 133 BCE, the tribune Tiberius Gracchus put through a bill distributing public land among the poor; Scipio opposed the measure, while Metellus supported it (Cicero 2000, 143, n. 82). Cicero, in the person of Laelius, describes the disagreement in De amicita as “without any bitter resentment” and as conducted “with deliberation and moderation” (Cicero 1923, 77-78). See also Cicero 1991, 1.87. By contrast, in De republica, Cicero, adopting the same persona, portrays the conflict as a bitter feud (Cicero 1999a, 1.31).

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15 See White 2010, 22. 16 “In letters to at least three quarters of his nearly one hundred correspondents, Cicero expressly refers to ties of friendship, and I doubt that there is a single correspondent from whom he would have intentionally withheld the appellation of ‘friend’” (White 2010, 123). 17 Romans of Cicero’s class were aware of the difference between close friendships and polite or expedient relationships in public life (Konstan 1997, 128). 18 Cicero attributes the criterion of protecting the republic to Plato, although it is unclear where Plato makes this point. 19 Political actors may have linked their specific policy decisions to broader political perspectives. Thus, Cicero’s letters show that “advising consisted above all in relating questions of practical action to generally accepted moral values” (White 2010, 134). 20 For an overview of the current scholarly literature on aggregating political information from friends, see Sinclair 2012, 8-10. 21 On the ambiguity of data concerning the positive impact of cross-cutting exposure on political tolerance, see Mutz 2006, 76-87. 22 My summary of Bodin derives mostly from Remer 1994, 321-336.