Ernest Becker (1924-1974) says a man carries two terrors he cannot face at the same time. The first: he will die. The second runs deeper. His death will leave the world unchanged, the water closing over the spot where he went down. Against the second terror a man builds what Becker calls a hero system. He earns a place in a scheme of value that outlasts his body. He fathers sons, raises a barn, writes a book, salutes a flag, joins a church, takes a side. The scheme tells him his life counts in a story longer than his lifespan, and the story lets him sleep.
Gary Chartier (b. 1966) builds his hero system out of the one thing Becker warns us we crave and dread in the same breath. He builds it out of refusing to be ruled, and out of refusing to rule.
I knew him before either of us read Becker. We sat in the same seventh-grade classroom at Pacific Union College, two Adventist boys raised to expect the world to end soon and to keep our rooms clean while we waited. We lost touch. Years passed. I came down with chronic fatigue syndrome, and a man learns fast who stays and who finds the exit when his body quits on him. Many found the exit. I wrote to Gary. He knew my letter was coming and he must have dreaded it, word got around that I was lost and needy, but he wrote back. His words held a sick man to the land of the living. The philosopher who later wrote a book called Understanding Friendship practiced the thing before he theorized it.
Chartier tells a subtraction story, as every serious man does. His runs like this. Take the world as you find it, with its presidents and police and prisons and borders and the long habit of obedience that holds them up. Subtract the part where some men command and other men obey or go in a cage. What remains holds together. People trade, help, promise, forgive, and keep faith with one another because they choose to. He gives this remainder a name that frightens the respectable. He calls it anarchy. In Anarchy and Legal Order he argues that law does not descend from a throne. It rises from below, from the agreements free men make and the courts they build by consent. Order without rulers. The phrase sounds like a contradiction to a man raised on Hobbes. To Chartier it names the only order worth the name.
Becker notices what the subtraction does for the man who performs it. The state, in his account, ranks among the grandest immortality vehicles men have built. The flag outlives the soldier. The nation hands the citizen a piece of forever and asks his life in return. To subtract the state is to refuse that consolation. Chartier gives up the largest immortality symbol on offer and stakes his hope on something smaller and harder: that men will choose the good with no gun at their backs.
A word is a coin that buys different goods in different countries. Say the word “freedom” to Gary and he hears voluntary cooperation, the absence of the command, men ordering their lives by consent. Say it to a Trappist monk and he hears the reverse. The monk’s freedom comes through obedience, the surrender of self-will that releases him from the tyranny of his own appetites. Say it to a wildland firefighter on a burning ridge and freedom shrinks to the next choice under the next gust, the narrow room a man has to move before the fire moves for him. Say it to an old woman who spent forty years under a regime that read her mail, and freedom means the mail arrives unopened. One coin. Four countries. Each man spends it on what his hero system sells.
Take “friendship,” the word at the center of Gary’s life and work. For Gary friendship is a moral, political, and spiritual good, the shape love takes between equals, the bond men make without being bound. For a Marine rifleman friendship is the man on his left, the one he dies beside and for, a tie sealed by shared danger and enforced by shame. For a venture capitalist a “friend” is a useful node, a contact who returns the call, a line of credit drawn on goodwill. For a hospice nurse friendship lasts three weeks and ends every time at the same place, and she gives it anyway. Gary’s friendship asks nothing of danger, nothing of use, and does not close when the body fails. I have the letters to prove it.
Take “commitment.” Chartier wrote a book by that name, The Logic of Commitment. He means a vow freely given that then binds the giver, the free man who chains himself and calls the chain a gift. For a Las Vegas bail bondsman commitment means collateral and a signature and a man you can find again. For a midwife commitment means staying until the child comes, however long the night. For a Sicilian widow commitment means the black dress she wears until they bury her in it. The same word organizes a courtroom, a birth, and a grave, and each speaker thinks his meaning the obvious one.
Most men hide their hero system from themselves. They mistake it for the way things are. Chartier belongs to the rare class who name the thing they live by. He says love sits at the center. He wrote it in The Analogy of Love and again in Loving Creation, where the love that moves the world traces back to the God who is love. He knows he trades the hard consolation of power for the soft and risky one of consent. A man this awake to his own scheme earns a high mark on the one test Becker offers, which asks whether you know what you reach for when you reach for a way to outlast death. Gary knows.
One question stays open. The order Chartier rejects, for all its cages and commands, also shelters the weak who cannot defend themselves and have no strong friend to write to. Voluntary love is glorious for the man whose letter gets answered but a scheme built on the free choice to love holds no answer for the one whose neighbors choose not to.
Three coordinates, then, to fix the man.
The shape of the hero. Chartier stands as the man who refuses both the throne and the cage, who looks at the oldest bargain in politics, obey me and I will keep you safe, and declines it, and spends his life drawing the blueprint of an order held up by nothing but the word free men keep.
The unnamed rival. His true opponent never appears on the page by name. It lives in the longing of every frightened man for a strong father, a sovereign, a Leviathan to take the terror off his hands and tell him what to do. Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679) gave that longing its great argument. Gary spends his work answering a craving older than any state.
The cost the ledger cannot price. The anarchist of love bets everything on the answered letter. He trusts that men will choose one another, will write back, will stay. Sometimes they do. I am alive to say so. But a system of voluntary love cannot price the cost of the letter that goes unanswered, the sick man whose friends find the exit, the one for whom no Gary writes. That bill sits at the bottom of his beautiful arithmetic.
In his 2018 book, The Great Delusion: Liberal Dreams and International Realities, John J. Mearsheimer wrote:
My view is that we are profoundly social beings from the start to the finish of our lives and that individualism is of secondary importance… Liberalism downplays the social nature of human beings to the point of almost ignoring it, instead treating people largely as atomistic actors… Political liberalism… is an ideology that is individualistic at its core and assigns great importance to the concept of inalienable rights. This concern for rights is the basis of its universalism—everyone on the planet has the same inherent set of rights—and this is what motivates liberal states to pursue ambitious foreign policies. The public and scholarly discourse about liberalism since World War II has placed enormous emphasis on what are commonly called human rights. This is true all around the world, not just in the West. “Human rights,” Samuel Moyn notes, “have come to define the most elevated aspirations of both social movements and political entities—state and interstate. They evoke hope and provoke action.”
[Humans] do not operate as lone wolves but are born into social groups or societies that shape their identities well before they can assert their individualism. Moreover, individuals usually develop strong attachments to their group and are sometimes willing to make great sacrifices for their fellow members. Humans are often said to be tribal at their core. The main reason for our social nature is that the best way for a person to survive is to be embedded in a society and to cooperate with fellow members rather than act alone… Despite its elevated ranking, reason is the least important of the three ways we determine our preferences. It certainly is less important than socialization. The main reason socialization matters so much is that humans have a long childhood in which they are protected and nurtured by their families and the surrounding society, and meanwhile exposed to intense socialization. At the same time, they are only beginning to develop their critical faculties, so they are not equipped to think for themselves. By the time an individual reaches the point where his reasoning skills are well developed, his family and society have already imposed an enormous value infusion on him. Moreover, that individual is born with innate sentiments that also strongly influence how he thinks about the world around him. All of this means that people have limited choice in formulating a moral code, because so much of their thinking about right and wrong comes from inborn attitudes and socialization.
If Mearsheimer is right, Chartier loses the floor he stands on.
John J. Mearsheimer (b. 1947) builds his anthropology on three claims. Man is social and tribal before he is anything else. Socialization and inborn sentiment set his values before his reason wakes up. Reason ranks last of the three drivers, behind both. Each claim cuts at a load-bearing wall in Chartier’s house.
Start with the consenting individual. Chartier rests his whole edifice on the person as the unit of moral concern, the one who holds rights and grants or withholds consent, and his case against the state turns on the point that no man agrees to be ruled. Mearsheimer answers that the man who “consents” arrived pre-loaded. Family and society infused him with a value code through a long childhood, before his critical faculties came online, so the agent Chartier needs as foundation shows up only after the formative work is done. Consent becomes a ratification of what socialization already wrote.
The point lands hard on Chartier’s own path. He found economic libertarian authors in high school, following his father’s lean. Mearsheimer reads that sequence as the rule rather than the exception. The value infusion arrives first. The reasons come later and dress it.
Next, natural law. Chartier grounds morality in practical reason apprehending basic goods, and he extends the result as a universal apprehensible by any rational agent. Put reason last, as Mearsheimer does, and the motor stalls. The “natural law” a man reads off the world starts to look like the moral grammar of his particular formation, Adventist, Anglo-American, Cambridge-trained, mistaken for the deliverances of universal reason. Flourishing Lives: Exploring Natural Law Liberalism and Radicalizing Rawls both reach for the whole planet. Mearsheimer treats that reach as the liberal delusion itself: everyone holds the same rights, so the liberal feels licensed to carry them abroad. Tribal man does not love mankind. He loves his own and will bleed for them.
Then the stateless order. Here Mearsheimer turns from inconvenient to lethal, because his social man predicts the state. If survival runs through the group, the group builds hierarchy, authority, and enforcement, and then it builds walls against the next group. The realist reads anarchy as the danger, the absence of authority that breeds fear and violence, not the prize. Anarchy and Legal Order asks free men to order their lives by consent and polycentric courts. Mearsheimer points at every state that ever formed and asks why social man, left alone, keeps reinventing the master Chartier wants abolished.
Love and friendship cut both ways. Mearsheimer agrees with the deepest thing in Chartier. We are profoundly social, we form strong attachments, we sacrifice for our fellows. Understanding Friendship and Vulnerability and Community sing the same social man Mearsheimer describes. But Mearsheimer’s bond runs thick inside the line and thin or hostile across it. In-group love implies the out-group edge. Chartier takes the bounded thing, tribal solidarity, and stretches it into a universal principle, friendship as the template for an order among all men everywhere. The stretch is the delusion Mearsheimer names.
So the fair verdict, with the comfort removed: under Mearsheimer, Chartier is a liberal at the root, an individual core, a universal right, a faith in reason, wearing anarchist dress, and the dress exposes him further rather than less, because he strips away even the coercive tribe his own social nature throws up and trusts a purer version of the consenting rational man.
Now the strongest reply Chartier has. He is not the atomist Mearsheimer attacks. His left-libertarianism comes thick with mutual aid, community, anti-capitalism, and the claim that men owe one another more than non-interference. He concedes most of the social anthropology going in. His quarrel narrows to a single bet: social man can order himself by consent without a sovereign over him. Mearsheimer answers that bet with the historical record, every state, everywhere, always. Chartier answers with customary law, polycentric courts, and the long history of cooperation that needs no throne. The disagreement turns empirical, about what social man builds when no one rules him, and the record leans Mearsheimer’s way while leaving Chartier his examples.
One convergence. Both men distrust the crusading universalist state and its wars, Mearsheimer because realism should restrain the liberal crusade, Chartier because the state holds no legitimate claim at all. They reach the same door from opposite rooms.
If Mearsheimer is right, then, Chartier has not been refuted so much as outbet. The realist has not shown that society needs a master. He has wagered that it always finds one, and handed Chartier the burden of proof.
David Pinsof says we should set the mission statement beside the deed and ask what a man’s behavior buys him in a world of status-climbing, coalition-building primates. Forget what he says he wants. Watch what he gets. Run Chartier through that test and the picture turns sharp and unkind, and then it turns on the frame.
Start with the sell. The anarchist case, Chartier’s included, leans on a belief about belief. Men prop up the state because they accept a myth, the myth that some men hold the right to rule. Strip the myth, show the citizen that authority rests on nothing he ever agreed to, and the voluntary order comes out from under it. Pinsof has a name for that shape. The misunderstanding myth. The flattering story that bad beliefs cause the trouble and the thinker who corrects beliefs saves the day. His answer comes blunt. Men do not back the state because they misread its legitimacy. They back it because it points guns at their rivals and they want their hands near the trigger. The voter is not confused. He is competing. Chartier asks him to set down the richest prize in the society, the coercive apparatus, on the strength of an argument, and the frame reads the request as the one move a competitor never makes.
So the philosophy, on this reading, aims at a target that is not there. No misunderstanding waits to be cleared. A fight over the machine runs underneath, and Chartier proposes that everyone walk away from the machine at once.
Then the position. Pinsof treats stupidity as strategic and treats a man’s stances as a portfolio. Left-libertarian market anarchism pays a dividend most positions cannot. It draws moral credit from the left, against bosses, inequality, corporate power, structural poverty, and draws the contrarian’s distinction from the libertarian refusal of the state, and it lets the holder stand above the left-right scrum claiming a purity neither side can match. The mainstream cost of wearing the word anarchist is the price of product differentiation in a crowded market of intellectuals. The man holding the position is a distinguished professor, an associate dean, a Cambridge LLD, prolific across two presses a year. The frame notes that the anarchism, far from costing him his place, made the place distinctive. Anarchy and Legal Order is the brand.
Now the hard part, love and friendship, where the frame meets its strongest counterexample. Chartier’s stated center is love. He wrote The Analogy of Love and Loving Creation and built a whole ethic on Understanding Friendship. Pinsof’s first move is the Starbucks move. The elevated universal love reads as mission statement, and pretending to care differs from caring, and actions speak louder. Then comes the deed. The man answered a sick man’s letters across two years, with no return in status. Actions speak louder, and these actions say the words were not empty.
Watch how the frame absorbs this. Pinsof grants the friendship at once. Particular, reciprocal kindness to an ally is the oldest evolved behavior in the primate book, and his model predicts it. What his model doubts is the leap, the jump from one answered letter to an order among all men held up by love. The particular bond is the real and evolved thing. The universal banner is the display. The warmth that clears the man of cynicism is the warmth aimed at one former classmate, and Chartier asks it to scale to humanity, and the scaling is the part the frame calls a mission statement. The deed vindicates the man and undercuts the doctrine in the same stroke.
Pinsof’s lens re-describes every act of love as a status move and every argument as a weapon, and hand it any behavior and it returns the same verdict. A tool that cannot fail to convict tells you more about the tool than the defendant. The letters are the test case. A frame that has to read two years of correspondence to a sick nobody as coalition maintenance has stretched the word coalition until it wraps around everything and grips nothing. Pinsof half-knows this. His essay closes by swallowing its own tail, the only misunderstanding is that there was a misunderstanding, and that ending is a confession that the lens explains too much to explain anything in particular. The cynic’s frame cuts deep on the crowd and shallow on the man. It is sharp on stated motive at scale and blunt on the private deed done in the dark.
So under Pinsof, Chartier’s politics looks like a portfolio aimed at a misunderstanding that is not there, and his universal love looks like a banner flown for moral altitude. His friendship survives the test. And the survival of that one friendship is the crack in the frame, the place where the deed outruns the cynicism built to explain it away. I was the data point. The man wrote back when no status came from writing back, and the most cynical reading on the market cannot make that disappear.
