legal hermeneutics.
The Universality of the Hermeneutical Problem by H G Gadamer.pdf
borges library of babel.pdf
Labyrinths
his condition was that of a mere image. Not to be a man, to be the projection of another man's dream, w.hat a feeling of humilia tion, of vertigo! All fathers are interested in tpe children they have procreated (they have permitted to exist) in mere confusion � or pleasure; it was natural that the magician �hould fear for the future of that son, created in thought, limb by limb and fea�e by feature, in a thousand an� one secret nights.
The end of his meditations was sudden, though it was fQretold in certain signs. First (after a long drought) a faraway cloud on a hill, light and rapid as a bird; then, toward the south, the sky which had the rose color of the leopard's mouth; then the smoke which cbrroded the metallic nights; finally, the panicky flight of the animals. For what was happening had happened many centuries ago. The ruins of the fire.god's sanctuary were destroyed by fire. In a birdless dawn the magician saw the concentric blaze close ro.und the walls. For a moment, he thought of taking
. refuge in the river, but then he knew that death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him of his labors. He walked into the shreds of flame. But they' did not bite into his flesh, they caressed him and engulfed him without heat or combustion. With relief, with ,humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another.
Translated by,. E. 1.
50
The Library of Babel
By ¢is art you may contemplate the '\(ariation of the 23 letters • • •
The Anatomy of Melancholy, part 2, sect. II, memo lV
Th� universe (which others call the Library) is composed of aD; mdefinit� and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, WIth vast atr shafts between, surrounfled by very low railings. From any of the.he'Fagons one can se�, interminably, 'the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable. Twenty shelves, five long shelves pe�: side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is tlie distance from floor to ceilin�, scarcely exceeds that of a norf11al bookcase. One of the free SIdes leads to a narrow hallway ,vhich opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the rest. To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. In the first, one may sleep standing up; in the other, satisfy one's fec:u ne
. cessities, A!so through here passes a spiral stairway,
which smks abysmally and sO,ars upwi1rds to remote distances. In the hallway there is a mirror whicp. faithfully duplicates all �ppear�nce�. M�n .
usually infer from this. n:uror that the Library 15 not Infirute (if tt really were, why this Illusory duplication?); I pr�fer �o dream .that �ts poli�hed surfa\ces represent and promise the tnfirute ... LIght 15 prOVIded by some spherical fruit which bear the name of lamps. There are two, transversally placed, in each hexagon. The light they emit is -insufficient, incessant.
51
Labyrinths
Like all men of the Library, I have traveled in my youth; I have wandered in search of a qook, perhaps- the catalogue of catalogues;, now that my eyes can hardly decipher what I write, I am preparing to die just a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born. Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is in�nite. I say that the Library is unending. The idealists argue that the hexagonal rooms are a necessary form of absolute space o�, at, least, of our intuition of space. They reason that a triangular or pentagonal room is inconceivable. (The mystics claim that their ecstasy reveals to them a circular chamber containing a great circular book, whose spine is continuous and which follows the complete circle of the walls; but their testimony is suspect; their word,s, obscure. This cyclical book is God.) Let it suffice now for me to repeat the classic dictum: The Library is a sphere whose exact center is any one of its hexagons and whose circumference is inaccessible.
There are qve shelves for each of the hexagon's walls; each shelf contains thirty-five books of uniform format; each book is of four hundred and ten pages; each page, of forty lines, each line, of some eighty letters which are black in color. There are also letters on the spine of each book; these letters do not indicate or prefigure what the pages will say. I know that this incoherence at one time seemed mysterious. Before summarizing the solution (whose discovery, in spit!! of its tragic projections, is perhaps the capital fact in history) I wish to recall a few axioms.
First: The Library exists ab aeterno. This truth, whose immediate corollary is the future eternity of the world, cannot be placed in doubt by any reasonable mind. Man, the imperfect librarian, may be the product of chance or of malevolent demiurgi; the univerSe, with its elegant endowment of shelves, of enigmatical volumes, of inexhaustible stairways for the traveler and latrines for the seated librarian, can only be the work of a god. To perceive the distance between the divine and the human, it is enough to compare these crude wavering
52
i
I ! I I 1
1
The Library of Babel
symliols which my fallible band scrawls on the cover bf a book ��th, the organic letters inside: prtnctual, delicate, perfectly black: tnlmltably symmetrical.
Second: The orthographical symbols are twenty-five in number.1 Tliis finding made it possible, three hundred years ag�, to f�rmulate a general theory of the Library and solve satIsfactorIly the problem which no Gonjecture had deciphered: the formless and chaotic nature of almost all the books. One which my father saw in a hexagon on circuit fifteeh ninety-four was �ade up of the letters M�V, perversely repeated from the first line to t?e last. Anothert(very much consulted in this area) is a mere laby:nnth o� letters, ?ut the next-ttl-last page says Oh time thy pyramtds. This much IS already known: for every sensible line of sr:aightforwa:d statement, there are leagues of senseless cacophorues, verbal Jumbles and incoherences. (I know of an ur��outh regio� whose librarians repudiate the vain and super ��ous custom' o� finding a
. mea�ng in books and equate it
�th that of find10g a mearung 10 dreams or in the chaotic line� of one's palm . . . They admit that the inventors of this writing imitated the twenty-five natural symbols, but maintain that
,. this
. application is accidental and that the books signify
nothing In themselves. This dictum, we shall see, is not entirely fallacious. )
For a long time it was b,elieved that these impenetrable bOOKS corresponded to past or remote languages. It is true that the most
ancient men, the first libraPians, used a l,anguage quite different ft:.om the .one we now speak; it is true that a few miles to the �i�h� ,
the tongue . is dialectal and, that ninety floors farther up,
It 15 1Ocomprehenslble. All this, I repeat, is true, but four hundred and ten pages of -inalterable MCV's cannot correspond to any langua?,e,.
no matter how dialectal or rudimentary it may be. Some 1Os1Ouated that each letter could influence the followit;J.g one and that the value of MCV in the third line of page 7I was not the one the saf!1e series may have in another position on
1 The or�ginal manuscr�pt .
does not contain digits or capital letters. The punctuatlon has been limited _to the comma and the period. These tWo si�, the space �d the tweno/-two lett;ers of the alphabet are the twenty five symbols cOllSldered suffiCIent by this unknown author. (Editor's note.)
53
Labyrinths
another page, but this vague thesis did not prevail. Others though of cryptographs; generally, this conjecture has been accepted, though not in the sense in which it was formulated by its originators.
Five hundred years ago, the chief of an upper hexagon1 came upon a book as confusing as the others, but which had nearly two pages of homogeneous lines. H� showed his �nd to. a wandering decoder who .told him the lines were Written In Portuguese; others,said they were Yiddish. Within a century, the language was established: a Samoyedic Lithuanian dialect of Guarani, with classical Arabian inflections. The content was also deciphered: some notions of combinative analysis, illustrated with examples of variation with unlimited rep�tition. These examples made it possible for a librarian of genius to discover the fundamental law of the Library. This thinker observed that all the books, no matter how diverse they might be, are _ made up of the same elements: the space, the period, the comma, the twenty-two letters of the alphabet. He also alleged a' fact which travelers have confirmed: In the vast Library there are no two identical books. From these two incontrovertible premises he deduced that the Library is total and that its shelves register all the possible combinations of the twenty7"odd orthographical symbols (a number which, though extremely vast, is not infinite): in other words, all that it is given to express, in all languages. Everything: the minutely detailed history of the futu�e, the archangels' autobiographies, the faithful catalogue of the LIbrary, thousands and thousands of false catalogues, the demonstration of the fallacy of those catalogues, the demonstration of the fallacy of the true catalogue, the Gnostic gospel of Basilides, tpe commentary on that gospel, the. commeJ?tary on the com mentary on that gospel, .the true story of �our dea�h, the translation of every book In all languages, the InterpolatIons of every book in all books.
When it was proclaimed that the Library contained all
1 Before, there was a -man for e.very three hexagons. Suicide and pulmonary diseases have destroyed that proportion. A memory of unspeakable m�lancholy: at times I have traveled for many niglits through corridors and along polished stairways without finding a single librarian.
The Library of Babel
books, the first impression was one of extravagant happiness. All men felt themselves to be the masters of an intact and secret treasure. There was no personal or world problem whose eloquent solution did not exist in some hexagon. The universe was justified, the universe suddenly usurped the unlimited dimen sions of hope. At that time a great deal was said about the Vindications: books of apology and prophecy which vindicated for all time the acts of every man in the universe and retained prodigious arcana for his future. Thousands of the greedy abandoned their sweet native. hexagons and rushed up the stairways, urged on. by the vain intention of finding their Vindication. These pilgrims disputed in the narrow corridors, proffered dark curses, strangled each other on the divine stair ways,_ flung the deceptive books into the air shafts, met their death cast down in a similar fashion by tlie inhabitants of remote regions. Others went mad . . . The Vindications eXist (I have seen two which refer to persons of the future, to persons who perhaps are not imaginary) but the searchers did not remember that the possibility of a man's finding his Vindication, or some treacherous variation thereof, can be computed as zero.
At that time it was also hoped that a clarification of humanity's basic mysteries-the origin of the Library and of time-might be found. It is verisimilar that these grave mysteries could be explained in words: if the language of philosdphers is not suffi cient, the multiform Library will have produced the unp1;'ece dented language required, with its vocabularies and grammars. For four centuries now men have exhausted the hexagons ... There ar� official searchers, inquisitor.s. I have seen them in the performance of their function: they always arrive extremely tired from their journeys; they speak of a broken stairway which almost killed them; they talk with the librarian of galleries and stairs; sometimes they pick up the nearest volume and leaf through it, looking for infamous words. Obviously, no one expects to discover anything.
As was natura� this inordinate hope was followed by an excessive depression. The certitude that some shelf in some hexagon held precious books and that these precious books were inaccessible, seemed almost intolerable. A blasphemous sect
55
,
1 I
"II
i '"
,'"
Labyrinths
suggested that the searches should tease and that all men should juggle letters and symbols until they constructed, by an improbable, gift of chance, these canonical books. T?e authorities were obliged to issue severe orders. The sect dIS appeared, but in my childhood I have seen old men whot for long periods of time, would hide in the latrines w�th.
some metal disks in a forbidden dice cup and feebly lDlmlC the divine disorder.
Others, inversely, believed that it was fundamental to eliminate useless works. Tl1ey invaded the hexagons, showed credenti.als which were not always false, leafed through a volum'e WIth displeasure and condemned whole shelves: their hygienic, ascetic furor caused the senseless perdition of millions of books. Their name is execrated, but those who deplore the "treasures" destroyed by this frenzy neglect two no
. table facts. One: . t?e
Library is so enormous that any reduction of human ong�n is infinitesimal . The other: every copy is unique, irreplaceable, but (since the Library is total) there are always several hundred thousand imperfect facsimiles: works which differ only in a letter or a comma. Counter to general opinion, I venture to suppose that the consequences of the Purifiers' depredations have been exaggerated by the horror these fanatics produced. They were urged on by the delirium of trying to reach the books in the Crimson Hexagdn: books whose format is smaller than usual, all-powerful, illustrated and magical.
We also know of another superstition of that time: that of the Man of the Book. On some shelf in'some hexagon (men reasoned) there must exist a book which is the formula and perfect compendium of all the rest: some librarian has go�e though it and he is analogous to a god. In the language of this zone vestiges of this remote functionary's cult still persist. Many wandered in search of Him. For a century they exhausted in vain the most varied areas. How could one locate the venerated and secret hexagon which housed Him? Someone proposed a regressive method: To locate book A, consult first a book B which indicates A's position; to locate book B, consult first a book C, and so on to infinity . . . In adventures such as these, 'I have squandered and wasted my years. It does not seem un likely to me that 'there is a total book on some shelf of the
56
I I
I l
The Library of Babel
universe;l I pray to the unknown gods that a man-just <me, even though it were thousands of years ago!-may have examiped and read it. If honor and wisdom and happiness are not for me, let them be for others. Let heaven exist, though my place be in hell. Let me be outraged and annihilated, but for one instant, in one being, let Your enormous Library be justified. The impious maintain that nonsense is normal in the Library and that the reasonable (and even. humble and pure coherence) is an almost miraculous exception. They speak (I know) of the "feverish Library whose chance volumes are constantly in danger of changing into others and affirm, negate and confuse every thing like a delirious divinity." These words, which not only denounce the disorder but exemplify it as well, notoriollsly prove their authors' abominable taste and desperate ignorance. In truth, 'the Library includes all verbal structures, ,all variations permitted by the twenty-five orthographical symbois, but not a single example of absolute nonsense. It is useless to observe that the b�t volume of the many hexagons under my administratioq is entitled The Combed Thunderclap and another The Plaster Cramp and another Axaxaxas mla. These phrases, at first glance incoherent, can no doubt be justified in a cryptographical or allegorical manner; such a justification is verbal and, ex hypothesi, already figures in the Library. I cannot combine ,some charac�ers
dhcmrlchtdj
which the divine Library has not foreset:n and 'Yhicll in one of its secret tongues do not contain a terrible meaning. No one can articulate a syllable which is not filled with tenderness and fear, which is not, in one of these languages, the powerful name of a god. To speak is to fall into tautology. This wordy 3,nd useless epistle already exists in one of the thirty volumes of the five shelves of one of the innumerable hexagons-and its refuta tion as well. (An n number of possible languages use the same vocabulary; in some of them, the symbol library allows the
1 I repeat: it suffices that a book be possible for it to exist. Only the impossible is excluded. For example: no book can be a ladder, although no doubt there are books which discuss and negate and ,demonstrate l;his possibility and others whose structure corresponds to that 'of a lad(ler.
57
Labyrinths
correct definition a ubiquitous and lasting system of· hexagonal galleries, but library is bread or pyramid or anything else, and these seven words which define it have another value. You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?)
The methodical task of writing distracts me from �e present state of men. The certitude that everything has been �ritten negates us or turns us into phantoms. I know of districts in which the young men prostrate themselves before books and kiss their pages in a barbarous manner, but they do not know how to decipher a single letter. Epidemics, heretical conflicts, peregrinations which inevitably degenerate into banditry, bave decimated the population. I believe I have mentioned the suicides, more and more frequent- with the years. Perhaps myoId age and fearfulness deceive me, but I suspect that the human species- the unique species-is about to be extinguished, but the Library will endure: illuminated, solitary, infinite, perfectly motionless, equipped with precious volumes, useless, incorruptible, secret.
I have just written the word "infinite." I have not interpolated this adjective out of rhetorical habit; I say that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite. Those who judge it to be limited postulate that in remote places the corridors and stairways and hexagons can conceivably come to an end-":'which is absurd. Those who imagine it to be,without limit forget that the possible number of books does have such a limit. I venture to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited and cy clical. If an eternal traveler were to cross it in any direc tion after centuries he would see that the same volumes , were repeated in the same disorder (which, thus ,repeated, would be an order: the Order) . My solitude is gladdened by this elegant hope.1
Translated by J. E. I. 1 Letizia Alvarez de Toledo has observed that this vast Library is useless: rigorously speaking, If smgle volume would be sufficient, a volume of ordinary format, printed in nine or ten point type, containing an infinite number of infinitely" thin leaves. (In Ithe early seventeenth century, Cavalieri said that all solid bodies are the superimposition of an infinite number of planes.) The handling of this silky vade mecum would not be convenient: each apparent page would unfold into other analogous ones; the inconceivable middle page would have no reverse. '
58
Funes the Memorious
I remember him (I have no right to utter this sacred ver�, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead) with 11 dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn till that of evening, a whole lifetime. I remember him, with his face �citum and Indian-like and singularly remote, behind the cigarett�. I re member (I think) his angular, leather-braiding hands. I reIl1ember near those hands a mate gourd bearing the Uruguayan coat of arms; I remember a yellow screen with a vague lake landsQape in the window of his house. I clearly remember his voic�: the slow, resentful, nasal voice of the old-time dweller c,f the suburbs, without the Italian sibilants we have today. I nev\!r saw him more than three times; the last was in 1887 ... I, pnd it very satisfactory that all those who knew him should write about him; my testimony will perhaps be the shortest and no doubt the poorest, but not the most impartial in the volume you will edit. My deplorable status as an Argentine will prevent m� from indulging in a dithyramb, an obligatory genre in Uruguay whenever the subject is an Uruguayan. Highbrow, city slicker, dude: Fun�s never spoke these injurious words, but I am sufficiently certain I represented for him those misfOltunes. Pedro Leandro Ipuche has written that Funes was a pre.;:ursor o{ the supermen, "a vernacular and rustic Zarathustra"; I shall not debate the point, but one shoulc,l not forget that h� was al�o a kid from Fray Bentos, with certain incurable limitations.
59
David Lowenthal The Past is a Foreign Country Chapter 1.pdf
Bostock v Clayton County 590 US ___.pdf
(Slip Opinion) OCTOBER TERM, 2019 1
Syllabus
NOTE: Where it is feasible, a syllabus (headnote) will be released, as is being done in connection with this case, at the time the opinion is issued. The syllabus constitutes no part of the opinion of the Court but has been prepared by the Reporter of Decisions for the convenience of the reader. See United States v. Detroit Timber & Lumber Co., 200 U. S. 321, 337.
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
Syllabus
BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY, GEORGIA
CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT
No. 17–1618. Argued October 8, 2019—Decided June 15, 2020*
In each of these cases, an employer allegedly fired a long-time employee simply for being homosexual or transgender. Clayton County, Geor- gia, fired Gerald Bostock for conduct “unbecoming” a county employee shortly after he began participating in a gay recreational softball league. Altitude Express fired Donald Zarda days after he mentioned being gay. And R. G. & G. R. Harris Funeral Homes fired Aimee Ste- phens, who presented as a male when she was hired, after she in- formed her employer that she planned to “live and work full-time as a woman.” Each employee sued, alleging sex discrimination under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. The Eleventh Circuit held that Title VII does not prohibit employers from firing employees for being gay and so Mr. Bostock’s suit could be dismissed as a matter of law. The Second and Sixth Circuits, however, allowed the claims of Mr. Zarda and Ms. Stephens, respectively, to proceed.
Held: An employer who fires an individual merely for being gay or transgender violates Title VII. Pp. 4–33. (a) Title VII makes it “unlawful . . . for an employer to fail or refuse to hire or to discharge any individual, or otherwise to discriminate against any individual . . . because of such individual’s race, color, re- ligion, sex, or national origin.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a)(1). The straightforward application of Title VII’s terms interpreted in accord
—————— * Together with No. 17–1623, Altitude Express, Inc., et al. v. Zarda
et al., as Co-Independent Executors of the Estate of Zarda, on certiorari to the United States Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit, and No. 18– 107, R. G. & G. R. Harris Funeral Homes, Inc. v. Equal Employment Op- portunity Commission et al., on certiorari to the United States Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit.
2 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Syllabus
with their ordinary public meaning at the time of their enactment re- solves these cases. Pp. 4–12.
(1) The parties concede that the term “sex” in 1964 referred to the biological distinctions between male and female. And “the ordinary meaning of ‘because of’ is ‘by reason of’ or ‘on account of,’ ” University of Tex. Southwestern Medical Center v. Nassar, 570 U. S. 338, 350. That term incorporates the but-for causation standard, id., at 346, 360, which, for Title VII, means that a defendant cannot avoid liability just by citing some other factor that contributed to its challenged employ- ment action. The term “discriminate” meant “[t]o make a difference in treatment or favor (of one as compared with others).” Webster’s New International Dictionary 745. In so-called “disparate treatment” cases, this Court has held that the difference in treatment based on sex must be intentional. See, e.g., Watson v. Fort Worth Bank & Trust, 487 U. S. 977, 986. And the statute’s repeated use of the term “indi- vidual” means that the focus is on “[a] particular being as distin- guished from a class.” Webster’s New International Dictionary, at 1267. Pp. 4–9.
(2) These terms generate the following rule: An employer violates Title VII when it intentionally fires an individual employee based in part on sex. It makes no difference if other factors besides the plain- tiff’s sex contributed to the decision or that the employer treated women as a group the same when compared to men as a group. A statutory violation occurs if an employer intentionally relies in part on an individual employee’s sex when deciding to discharge the employee. Because discrimination on the basis of homosexuality or transgender status requires an employer to intentionally treat individual employ- ees differently because of their sex, an employer who intentionally pe- nalizes an employee for being homosexual or transgender also violates Title VII. There is no escaping the role intent plays: Just as sex is necessarily a but-for cause when an employer discriminates against homosexual or transgender employees, an employer who discriminates on these grounds inescapably intends to rely on sex in its decisionmak- ing. Pp. 9–12.
(b) Three leading precedents confirm what the statute’s plain terms suggest. In Phillips v. Martin Marietta Corp., 400 U. S. 542, a com- pany was held to have violated Title VII by refusing to hire women with young children, despite the fact that the discrimination also de- pended on being a parent of young children and the fact that the com- pany favored hiring women over men. In Los Angeles Dept. of Water and Power v. Manhart, 435 U. S. 702, an employer’s policy of requiring women to make larger pension fund contributions than men because women tend to live longer was held to violate Title VII, notwithstand- ing the policy’s evenhandedness between men and women as groups.
3 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Syllabus
And in Oncale v. Sundowner Offshore Services, Inc., 523 U. S. 75, a male plaintiff alleged a triable Title VII claim for sexual harassment by co-workers who were members of the same sex.
The lessons these cases hold are instructive here. First, it is irrele- vant what an employer might call its discriminatory practice, how oth- ers might label it, or what else might motivate it. In Manhart, the employer might have called its rule a “life expectancy” adjustment, and in Phillips, the employer could have accurately spoken of its policy as one based on “motherhood.” But such labels and additional intentions or motivations did not make a difference there, and they cannot make a difference here. When an employer fires an employee for being ho- mosexual or transgender, it necessarily intentionally discriminates against that individual in part because of sex. Second, the plaintiff’s sex need not be the sole or primary cause of the employer’s adverse action. In Phillips, Manhart, and Oncale, the employer easily could have pointed to some other, nonprotected trait and insisted it was the more important factor in the adverse employment outcome. Here, too, it is of no significance if another factor, such as the plaintiff’s attrac- tion to the same sex or presentation as a different sex from the one assigned at birth, might also be at work, or even play a more important role in the employer’s decision. Finally, an employer cannot escape liability by demonstrating that it treats males and females comparably as groups. Manhart is instructive here. An employer who intention- ally fires an individual homosexual or transgender employee in part because of that individual’s sex violates the law even if the employer is willing to subject all male and female homosexual or transgender employees to the same rule. Pp. 12–15.
(c) The employers do not dispute that they fired their employees for being homosexual or transgender. Rather, they contend that even in- tentional discrimination against employees based on their homosexual or transgender status is not a basis for Title VII liability. But their statutory text arguments have already been rejected by this Court’s precedents. And none of their other contentions about what they think the law was meant to do, or should do, allow for ignoring the law as it is. Pp. 15–33.
(1) The employers assert that it should make a difference that plaintiffs would likely respond in conversation that they were fired for being gay or transgender and not because of sex. But conversational conventions do not control Title VII’s legal analysis, which asks simply whether sex is a but-for cause. Nor is it a defense to insist that inten- tional discrimination based on homosexuality or transgender status is not intentional discrimination based on sex. An employer who discrim- inates against homosexual or transgender employees necessarily and intentionally applies sex-based rules. Nor does it make a difference
4 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Syllabus
that an employer could refuse to hire a gay or transgender individual without learning that person’s sex. By intentionally setting out a rule that makes hiring turn on sex, the employer violates the law, whatever he might know or not know about individual applicants. The employ- ers also stress that homosexuality and transgender status are distinct concepts from sex, and that if Congress wanted to address these mat- ters in Title VII, it would have referenced them specifically. But when Congress chooses not to include any exceptions to a broad rule, this Court applies the broad rule. Finally, the employers suggest that be- cause the policies at issue have the same adverse consequences for men and women, a stricter causation test should apply. That argu- ment unavoidably comes down to a suggestion that sex must be the sole or primary cause of an adverse employment action under Title VII, a suggestion at odds with the statute. Pp. 16–23.
(2) The employers contend that few in 1964 would have expected Title VII to apply to discrimination against homosexual and transgender persons. But legislative history has no bearing here, where no ambiguity exists about how Title VII’s terms apply to the facts. See Milner v. Department of Navy, 562 U. S. 562, 574. While it is possible that a statutory term that means one thing today or in one context might have meant something else at the time of its adoption or might mean something different in another context, the employers do not seek to use historical sources to illustrate that the meaning of any of Title VII’s language has changed since 1964 or that the statute’s terms ordinarily carried some missed message. Instead, they seem to say when a new application is both unexpected and important, even if it is clearly commanded by existing law, the Court should merely point out the question, refer the subject back to Congress, and decline to en- force the law’s plain terms in the meantime. This Court has long re- jected that sort of reasoning. And the employers’ new framing may only add new problems and leave the Court with more than a little law to overturn. Finally, the employers turn to naked policy appeals, sug- gesting that the Court proceed without the law’s guidance to do what it thinks best. That is an invitation that no court should ever take up. Pp. 23–33.
No. 17–1618, 723 Fed. Appx. 964, reversed and remanded; No. 17–1623, 883 F. 3d 100, and No. 18–107, 884 F. 3d 560, affirmed.
GORSUCH, J., delivered the opinion of the Court, in which ROBERTS, C. J., and GINSBURG, BREYER, SOTOMAYOR, and KAGAN, JJ., joined. ALITO, J., filed a dissenting opinion, in which THOMAS, J., joined. KAVANAUGH, J., filed a dissenting opinion.
_________________
_________________
1 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Opinion of the Court
NOTICE: This opinion is subject to formal revision before publication in the preliminary print of the United States Reports. Readers are requested to notify the Reporter of Decisions, Supreme Court of the United States, Wash- ington, D. C. 20543, of any typographical or other formal errors, in order that corrections may be made before the preliminary print goes to press.
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
Nos. 17–1618, 17–1623 and 18–107
GERALD LYNN BOSTOCK, PETITIONER 17–1618 v.
CLAYTON COUNTY, GEORGIA
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT
ALTITUDE EXPRESS, INC., ET AL., PETITIONERS 17–1623 v. MELISSA ZARDA AND WILLIAM ALLEN MOORE, JR.,
CO-INDEPENDENT EXECUTORS OF THE ESTATE OF DONALD ZARDA
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE SECOND CIRCUIT
R.G. & G.R. HARRIS FUNERAL HOMES, INC., PETITIONER
18–107 v. EQUAL EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITY COMMISSION,
ET AL.
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE SIXTH CIRCUIT
[June 15, 2020]
JUSTICE GORSUCH delivered the opinion of the Court.
2 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Opinion of the Court
Sometimes small gestures can have unexpected conse- quences. Major initiatives practically guarantee them. In our time, few pieces of federal legislation rank in signifi- cance with the Civil Rights Act of 1964. There, in Title VII, Congress outlawed discrimination in the workplace on the basis of race, color, religion, sex, or national origin. Today, we must decide whether an employer can fire someone simply for being homosexual or transgender. The answer is clear. An employer who fires an individual for being ho- mosexual or transgender fires that person for traits or ac- tions it would not have questioned in members of a different sex. Sex plays a necessary and undisguisable role in the decision, exactly what Title VII forbids.
Those who adopted the Civil Rights Act might not have anticipated their work would lead to this particular result. Likely, they weren’t thinking about many of the Act’s con- sequences that have become apparent over the years, in- cluding its prohibition against discrimination on the basis of motherhood or its ban on the sexual harassment of male employees. But the limits of the drafters’ imagination sup- ply no reason to ignore the law’s demands. When the ex- press terms of a statute give us one answer and extratex- tual considerations suggest another, it’s no contest. Only the written word is the law, and all persons are entitled to its benefit.
I Few facts are needed to appreciate the legal question we
face. Each of the three cases before us started the same way: An employer fired a long-time employee shortly after the employee revealed that he or she is homosexual or transgender—and allegedly for no reason other than the employee’s homosexuality or transgender status.
Gerald Bostock worked for Clayton County, Georgia, as a child welfare advocate. Under his leadership, the county won national awards for its work. After a decade with the
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county, Mr. Bostock began participating in a gay recrea- tional softball league. Not long after that, influential mem- bers of the community allegedly made disparaging com- ments about Mr. Bostock’s sexual orientation and participation in the league. Soon, he was fired for conduct “unbecoming” a county employee.
Donald Zarda worked as a skydiving instructor at Alti- tude Express in New York. After several seasons with the company, Mr. Zarda mentioned that he was gay and, days later, was fired.
Aimee Stephens worked at R. G. & G. R. Harris Funeral Homes in Garden City, Michigan. When she got the job, Ms. Stephens presented as a male. But two years into her service with the company, she began treatment for despair and loneliness. Ultimately, clinicians diagnosed her with gender dysphoria and recommended that she begin living as a woman. In her sixth year with the company, Ms. Ste- phens wrote a letter to her employer explaining that she planned to “ live and work full-time as a woman” after she returned from an upcoming vacation. The funeral home fired her before she left, telling her “this is not going to work out.”
While these cases began the same way, they ended differ- ently. Each employee brought suit under Title VII alleging unlawful discrimination on the basis of sex. 78 Stat. 255, 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a)(1). In Mr. Bostock’s case, the Elev- enth Circuit held that the law does not prohibit employers from firing employees for being gay and so his suit could be dismissed as a matter of law. 723 Fed. Appx. 964 (2018). Meanwhile, in Mr. Zarda’s case, the Second Circuit con- cluded that sexual orientation discrimination does violate Title VII and allowed his case to proceed. 883 F. 3d 100 (2018). Ms. Stephens’s case has a more complex procedural history, but in the end the Sixth Circuit reached a decision along the same lines as the Second Circuit’s, holding that Title VII bars employers from firing employees because of
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their transgender status. 884 F. 3d 560 (2018). During the course of the proceedings in these long-running disputes, both Mr. Zarda and Ms. Stephens have passed away. But their estates continue to press their causes for the benefit of their heirs. And we granted certiorari in these matters to resolve at last the disagreement among the courts of ap- peals over the scope of Title VII’s protections for homosex- ual and transgender persons. 587 U. S. ___ (2019).
II This Court normally interprets a statute in accord with
the ordinary public meaning of its terms at the time of its enactment. After all, only the words on the page constitute the law adopted by Congress and approved by the Presi- dent. If judges could add to, remodel, update, or detract from old statutory terms inspired only by extratextual sources and our own imaginations, we would risk amending statutes outside the legislative process reserved for the peo- ple’s representatives. And we would deny the people the right to continue relying on the original meaning of the law they have counted on to settle their rights and obligations. See New Prime Inc. v. Oliveira, 586 U. S. ___, ___–___ (2019) (slip op., at 6–7).
With this in mind, our task is clear. We must determine the ordinary public meaning of Title VII’s command that it is “unlawful . . . for an employer to fail or refuse to hire or to discharge any individual, or otherwise to discriminate against any individual with respect to his compensation, terms, conditions, or privileges of employment, because of such individual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.” §2000e–2(a)(1). To do so, we orient ourselves to the time of the statute’s adoption, here 1964, and begin by ex- amining the key statutory terms in turn before assessing their impact on the cases at hand and then confirming our work against this Court’s precedents.
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A The only statutorily protected characteristic at issue in
today’s cases is “sex”—and that is also the primary term in Title VII whose meaning the parties dispute. Appealing to roughly contemporaneous dictionaries, the employers say that, as used here, the term “sex” in 1964 referred to “status as either male or female [as] determined by reproductive biology.” The employees counter by submitting that, even in 1964, the term bore a broader scope, capturing more than anatomy and reaching at least some norms concerning gen- der identity and sexual orientation. But because nothing in our approach to these cases turns on the outcome of the par- ties’ debate, and because the employees concede the point for argument’s sake, we proceed on the assumption that “sex” signified what the employers suggest, referring only to biological distinctions between male and female.
Still, that’s just a starting point. The question isn’t just what “sex” meant, but what Title VII says about it. Most notably, the statute prohibits employers from taking cer- tain actions “because of ” sex. And, as this Court has previ- ously explained, “the ordinary meaning of ‘because of ’ is ‘by reason of ’ or ‘on account of.’ ” University of Tex. Southwest- ern Medical Center v. Nassar, 570 U. S. 338, 350 (2013) (cit- ing Gross v. FBL Financial Services, Inc., 557 U. S. 167, 176 (2009); quotation altered). In the language of law, this means that Title VII’s “because of ” test incorporates the “ ‘simple’ ” and “traditional” standard of but-for causation. Nassar, 570 U. S., at 346, 360. That form of causation is established whenever a particular outcome would not have happened “but for” the purported cause. See Gross, 557 U. S., at 176. In other words, a but-for test directs us to change one thing at a time and see if the outcome changes. If it does, we have found a but-for cause.
This can be a sweeping standard. Often, events have multiple but-for causes. So, for example, if a car accident
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occurred both because the defendant ran a red light and be- cause the plaintiff failed to signal his turn at the intersec- tion, we might call each a but-for cause of the collision. Cf. Burrage v. United States, 571 U. S. 204, 211–212 (2014). When it comes to Title VII, the adoption of the traditional but-for causation standard means a defendant cannot avoid liability just by citing some other factor that contributed to its challenged employment decision. So long as the plain- tiff ’s sex was one but-for cause of that decision, that is enough to trigger the law. See ibid.; Nassar, 570 U. S., at 350.
No doubt, Congress could have taken a more parsimoni- ous approach. As it has in other statutes, it could have added “solely” to indicate that actions taken “because of ” the confluence of multiple factors do not violate the law. Cf. 11 U. S. C. §525; 16 U. S. C. §511. Or it could have written “primarily because of ” to indicate that the prohibited factor had to be the main cause of the defendant’s challenged em- ployment decision. Cf. 22 U. S. C. §2688. But none of this is the law we have. If anything, Congress has moved in the opposite direction, supplementing Title VII in 1991 to allow a plaintiff to prevail merely by showing that a protected trait like sex was a “motivating factor” in a defendant’s challenged employment practice. Civil Rights Act of 1991, §107, 105 Stat. 1075, codified at 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(m). Under this more forgiving standard, liability can sometimes follow even if sex wasn’t a but-for cause of the employer’s challenged decision. Still, because nothing in our analysis depends on the motivating factor test, we focus on the more traditional but-for causation standard that continues to af- ford a viable, if no longer exclusive, path to relief under Ti- tle VII. §2000e–2(a)(1).
As sweeping as even the but-for causation standard can be, Title VII does not concern itself with everything that happens “because of ” sex. The statute imposes liability on
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employers only when they “fail or refuse to hire,” “dis- charge,” “or otherwise . . . discriminate against” someone because of a statutorily protected characteristic like sex. Ibid. The employers acknowledge that they discharged the plaintiffs in today’s cases, but assert that the statute’s list of verbs is qualified by the last item on it: “otherwise . . . discriminate against.” By virtue of the word otherwise, the employers suggest, Title VII concerns itself not with every discharge, only with those discharges that involve discrim- ination.
Accepting this point, too, for argument’s sake, the ques- tion becomes: What did “discriminate” mean in 1964? As it turns out, it meant then roughly what it means today: “To make a difference in treatment or favor (of one as com- pared with others).” Webster’s New International Diction- ary 745 (2d ed. 1954). To “discriminate against” a person, then, would seem to mean treating that individual worse than others who are similarly situated. See Burlington N. & S. F. R. Co. v. White, 548 U. S. 53, 59 (2006). In so-called “disparate treatment” cases like today’s, this Court has also held that the difference in treatment based on sex must be intentional. See, e.g., Watson v. Fort Worth Bank & Trust, 487 U. S. 977, 986 (1988). So, taken together, an employer who intentionally treats a person worse because of sex— such as by firing the person for actions or attributes it would tolerate in an individual of another sex—discrimi- nates against that person in violation of Title VII.
At first glance, another interpretation might seem possi- ble. Discrimination sometimes involves “the act, practice, or an instance of discriminating categorically rather than individually.” Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary 326 (1975); see also post, at 27–28, n. 22 (ALITO, J., dissenting). On that understanding, the statute would require us to con- sider the employer’s treatment of groups rather than indi- viduals, to see how a policy affects one sex as a whole versus the other as a whole. That idea holds some intuitive appeal
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too. Maybe the law concerns itself simply with ensuring that employers don’t treat women generally less favorably than they do men. So how can we tell which sense, individ- ual or group, “discriminate” carries in Title VII?
The statute answers that question directly. It tells us three times—including immediately after the words “dis- criminate against”—that our focus should be on individu- als, not groups: Employers may not “fail or refuse to hire or . . . discharge any individual, or otherwise . . . discrimi- nate against any individual with respect to his compensa- tion, terms, conditions, or privileges of employment, be- cause of such individual’s . . . sex.” §2000e–2(a)(1) (emphasis added). And the meaning of “individual” was as uncontroversial in 1964 as it is today: “A particular being as distinguished from a class, species, or collection.” Web- ster’s New International Dictionary, at 1267. Here, again, Congress could have written the law differently. It might have said that “it shall be an unlawful employment practice to prefer one sex to the other in hiring, firing, or the terms or conditions of employment.” It might have said that there should be no “sex discrimination,” perhaps implying a focus on differential treatment between the two sexes as groups. More narrowly still, it could have forbidden only “sexist pol- icies” against women as a class. But, once again, that is not the law we have.
The consequences of the law’s focus on individuals rather than groups are anything but academic. Suppose an em- ployer fires a woman for refusing his sexual advances. It’s no defense for the employer to note that, while he treated that individual woman worse than he would have treated a man, he gives preferential treatment to female employees overall. The employer is liable for treating this woman worse in part because of her sex. Nor is it a defense for an employer to say it discriminates against both men and women because of sex. This statute works to protect indi- viduals of both sexes from discrimination, and does so
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equally. So an employer who fires a woman, Hannah, be- cause she is insufficiently feminine and also fires a man, Bob, for being insufficiently masculine may treat men and women as groups more or less equally. But in both cases the employer fires an individual in part because of sex. In- stead of avoiding Title VII exposure, this employer doubles it.
B From the ordinary public meaning of the statute’s lan-
guage at the time of the law’s adoption, a straightforward rule emerges: An employer violates Title VII when it inten- tionally fires an individual employee based in part on sex. It doesn’t matter if other factors besides the plaintiff ’s sex contributed to the decision. And it doesn’t matter if the em- ployer treated women as a group the same when compared to men as a group. If the employer intentionally relies in part on an individual employee’s sex when deciding to dis- charge the employee—put differently, if changing the em- ployee’s sex would have yielded a different choice by the em- ployer—a statutory violation has occurred. Title VII’s message is “simple but momentous”: An individual em- ployee’s sex is “not relevant to the selection, evaluation, or compensation of employees.” Price Waterhouse v. Hopkins, 490 U. S. 228, 239 (1989) (plurality opinion).
The statute’s message for our cases is equally simple and momentous: An individual’s homosexuality or transgender status is not relevant to employment decisions. That’s be- cause it is impossible to discriminate against a person for being homosexual or transgender without discriminating against that individual based on sex. Consider, for exam- ple, an employer with two employees, both of whom are at- tracted to men. The two individuals are, to the employer’s mind, materially identical in all respects, except that one is a man and the other a woman. If the employer fires the
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male employee for no reason other than the fact he is at- tracted to men, the employer discriminates against him for traits or actions it tolerates in his female colleague. Put differently, the employer intentionally singles out an em- ployee to fire based in part on the employee’s sex, and the affected employee’s sex is a but-for cause of his discharge. Or take an employer who fires a transgender person who was identified as a male at birth but who now identifies as a female. If the employer retains an otherwise identical employee who was identified as female at birth, the em- ployer intentionally penalizes a person identified as male at birth for traits or actions that it tolerates in an employee identified as female at birth. Again, the individual em- ployee’s sex plays an unmistakable and impermissible role in the discharge decision.
That distinguishes these cases from countless others where Title VII has nothing to say. Take an employer who fires a female employee for tardiness or incompetence or simply supporting the wrong sports team. Assuming the employer would not have tolerated the same trait in a man, Title VII stands silent. But unlike any of these other traits or actions, homosexuality and transgender status are inex- tricably bound up with sex. Not because homosexuality or transgender status are related to sex in some vague sense or because discrimination on these bases has some dispar- ate impact on one sex or another, but because to discrimi- nate on these grounds requires an employer to intentionally treat individual employees differently because of their sex.
Nor does it matter that, when an employer treats one em- ployee worse because of that individual’s sex, other factors may contribute to the decision. Consider an employer with a policy of firing any woman he discovers to be a Yankees fan. Carrying out that rule because an em- ployee is a woman and a fan of the Yankees is a firing “because of sex” if the employer would have tolerated the same allegiance in a male employee. Likewise here.
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When an employer fires an employee because she is homo- sexual or transgender, two causal factors may be in play— both the individual’s sex and something else (the sex to which the individual is attracted or with which the individ- ual identifies). But Title VII doesn’t care. If an employer would not have discharged an employee but for that in- dividual’s sex, the statute’s causation standard is met, and liability may attach.
Reframing the additional causes in today’s cases as addi- tional intentions can do no more to insulate the employers from liability. Intentionally burning down a neighbor’s house is arson, even if the perpetrator’s ultimate intention (or motivation) is only to improve the view. No less, inten- tional discrimination based on sex violates Title VII, even if it is intended only as a means to achieving the employer’s ultimate goal of discriminating against homosexual or transgender employees. There is simply no escaping the role intent plays here: Just as sex is necessarily a but-for cause when an employer discriminates against homosex- ual or transgender employees, an employer who discrim- inates on these grounds inescapably intends to rely on sex in its decisionmaking. Imagine an employer who has a policy of firing any employee known to be homosexual. The employer hosts an office holiday party and invites em- ployees to bring their spouses. A model employee arrives and introduces a manager to Susan, the employee’s wife. Will that employee be fired? If the policy works as the em- ployer intends, the answer depends entirely on whether the model employee is a man or a woman. To be sure, that em- ployer’s ultimate goal might be to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation. But to achieve that purpose the em- ployer must, along the way, intentionally treat an employee worse based in part on that individual’s sex.
An employer musters no better a defense by responding that it is equally happy to fire male and female employees who are homosexual or transgender. Title VII liability is
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not limited to employers who, through the sum of all of their employment actions, treat the class of men differently than the class of women. Instead, the law makes each instance of discriminating against an individual employee because of that individual’s sex an independent violation of Title VII. So just as an employer who fires both Hannah and Bob for failing to fulfill traditional sex stereotypes doubles ra- ther than eliminates Title VII liability, an employer who fires both Hannah and Bob for being gay or transgender does the same.
At bottom, these cases involve no more than the straight- forward application of legal terms with plain and settled meanings. For an employer to discriminate against em- ployees for being homosexual or transgender, the employer must intentionally discriminate against individual men and women in part because of sex. That has always been prohibited by Title VII’s plain terms—and that “should be the end of the analysis.” 883 F. 3d, at 135 (Cabranes, J., concurring in judgment).
C If more support for our conclusion were required, there’s
no need to look far. All that the statute’s plain terms sug- gest, this Court’s cases have already confirmed. Consider three of our leading precedents.
In Phillips v. Martin Marietta Corp., 400 U. S. 542 (1971) (per curiam), a company allegedly refused to hire women with young children, but did hire men with children the same age. Because its discrimination depended not only on the employee’s sex as a female but also on the presence of another criterion—namely, being a parent of young chil- dren—the company contended it hadn’t engaged in discrim- ination “because of ” sex. The company maintained, too, that it hadn’t violated the law because, as a whole, it tended to favor hiring women over men. Unsurprisingly by now,
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these submissions did not sway the Court. That an em- ployer discriminates intentionally against an individual only in part because of sex supplies no defense to Title VII. Nor does the fact an employer may happen to favor women as a class. In Los Angeles Dept. of Water and Power v. Manhart, 435 U. S. 702 (1978), an employer required women to make larger pension fund contributions than men. The employer sought to justify its disparate treatment on the ground that women tend to live longer than men, and thus are likely to receive more from the pension fund over time. By every- one’s admission, the employer was not guilty of animosity against women or a “purely habitual assumptio[n] about a woman’s inability to perform certain kinds of work”; in- stead, it relied on what appeared to be a statistically accu- rate statement about life expectancy. Id., at 707–708. Even so, the Court recognized, a rule that appears evenhanded at the group level can prove discriminatory at the level of in- dividuals. True, women as a class may live longer than men as a class. But “[t]he statute’s focus on the individual is unambiguous,” and any individual woman might make the larger pension contributions and still die as early as a man. Id., at 708. Likewise, the Court dismissed as irrelevant the employer’s insistence that its actions were motivated by a wish to achieve classwide equality between the sexes: An employer’s intentional discrimination on the basis of sex is no more permissible when it is prompted by some further intention (or motivation), even one as prosaic as seeking to account for actuarial tables. Ibid. The employer violated Title VII because, when its policy worked exactly as planned, it could not “pass the simple test” asking whether an individual female employee would have been treated the same regardless of her sex. Id., at 711.
In Oncale v. Sundowner Offshore Services, Inc., 523 U. S. 75 (1998), a male plaintiff alleged that he was singled out by his male co-workers for sexual harassment. The Court
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held it was immaterial that members of the same sex as the victim committed the alleged discrimination. Nor did the Court concern itself with whether men as a group were sub- ject to discrimination or whether something in addition to sex contributed to the discrimination, like the plaintiff ’s conduct or personal attributes. “[A]ssuredly,” the case didn’t involve “the principal evil Congress was concerned with when it enacted Title VII.” Id., at 79. But, the Court unanimously explained, it is “the provisions of our laws ra- ther than the principal concerns of our legislators by which we are governed.” Ibid. Because the plaintiff alleged that the harassment would not have taken place but for his sex—that is, the plaintiff would not have suffered similar treatment if he were female—a triable Title VII claim ex- isted.
The lessons these cases hold for ours are by now familiar. First, it’s irrelevant what an employer might call its dis-
criminatory practice, how others might label it, or what else might motivate it. In Manhart, the employer called its rule requiring women to pay more into the pension fund a “life expectancy” adjustment necessary to achieve sex equality. In Phillips, the employer could have accurately spoken of its policy as one based on “motherhood.” In much the same way, today’s employers might describe their actions as mo- tivated by their employees’ homosexuality or transgender status. But just as labels and additional intentions or mo- tivations didn’t make a difference in Manhart or Phillips, they cannot make a difference here. When an employer fires an employee for being homosexual or transgender, it necessarily and intentionally discriminates against that in- dividual in part because of sex. And that is all Title VII has ever demanded to establish liability.
Second, the plaintiff ’s sex need not be the sole or primary cause of the employer’s adverse action. In Phillips, Man- hart, and Oncale, the defendant easily could have pointed to some other, nonprotected trait and insisted it was the
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more important factor in the adverse employment outcome. So, too, it has no significance here if another factor—such as the sex the plaintiff is attracted to or presents as—might also be at work, or even play a more important role in the employer’s decision.
Finally, an employer cannot escape liability by demon- strating that it treats males and females comparably as groups. As Manhart teaches, an employer is liable for in- tentionally requiring an individual female employee to pay more into a pension plan than a male counterpart even if the scheme promotes equality at the group level. Likewise, an employer who intentionally fires an individual homosex- ual or transgender employee in part because of that indi- vidual’s sex violates the law even if the employer is willing to subject all male and female homosexual or transgender employees to the same rule.
III What do the employers have to say in reply? For present
purposes, they do not dispute that they fired the plaintiffs for being homosexual or transgender. Sorting out the true reasons for an adverse employment decision is often a hard business, but none of that is at issue here. Rather, the em- ployers submit that even intentional discrimination against employees based on their homosexuality or transgender status supplies no basis for liability under Title VII.
The employers’ argument proceeds in two stages. Seek- ing footing in the statutory text, they begin by advancing a number of reasons why discrimination on the basis of ho- mosexuality or transgender status doesn’t involve discrim- ination because of sex. But each of these arguments turns out only to repackage errors we’ve already seen and this Court’s precedents have already rejected. In the end, the employers are left to retreat beyond the statute’s text, where they fault us for ignoring the legislature’s purposes
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in enacting Title VII or certain expectations about its oper- ation. They warn, too, about consequences that might fol- low a ruling for the employees. But none of these conten- tions about what the employers think the law was meant to do, or should do, allow us to ignore the law as it is.
A Maybe most intuitively, the employers assert that dis-
crimination on the basis of homosexuality and transgender status aren’t referred to as sex discrimination in ordinary conversation. If asked by a friend (rather than a judge) why they were fired, even today’s plaintiffs would likely respond that it was because they were gay or transgender, not be- cause of sex. According to the employers, that conversa- tional answer, not the statute’s strict terms, should guide our thinking and suffice to defeat any suggestion that the employees now before us were fired because of sex. Cf. post, at 3 (ALITO, J., dissenting); post, at 8–13 (KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting).
But this submission rests on a mistaken understanding of what kind of cause the law is looking for in a Title VII case. In conversation, a speaker is likely to focus on what seems most relevant or informative to the listener. So an employee who has just been fired is likely to identify the primary or most direct cause rather than list literally every but-for cause. To do otherwise would be tiring at best. But these conversational conventions do not control Title VII’s legal analysis, which asks simply whether sex was a but-for cause. In Phillips, for example, a woman who was not hired under the employer’s policy might have told her friends that her application was rejected because she was a mother, or because she had young children. Given that many women could be hired under the policy, it’s unlikely she would say she was not hired because she was a woman. But the Court did not hesitate to recognize that the employer in Phillips discriminated against the plaintiff because of her sex. Sex
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wasn’t the only factor, or maybe even the main factor, but it was one but-for cause—and that was enough. You can call the statute’s but-for causation test what you will—ex- pansive, legalistic, the dissents even dismiss it as wooden or literal. But it is the law.
Trying another angle, the defendants before us suggest that an employer who discriminates based on homosexual- ity or transgender status doesn’t intentionally discriminate based on sex, as a disparate treatment claim requires. See post, at 9–12 (ALITO, J., dissenting); post, at 12–13 (KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting). But, as we’ve seen, an em- ployer who discriminates against homosexual or transgender employees necessarily and intentionally ap- plies sex-based rules. An employer that announces it will not employ anyone who is homosexual, for example, intends to penalize male employees for being attracted to men and female employees for being attracted to women.
What, then, do the employers mean when they insist in- tentional discrimination based on homosexuality or transgender status isn’t intentional discrimination based on sex? Maybe the employers mean they don’t intend to harm one sex or the other as a class. But as should be clear by now, the statute focuses on discrimination against indi- viduals, not groups. Alternatively, the employers may mean that they don’t perceive themselves as motivated by a desire to discriminate based on sex. But nothing in Title VII turns on the employer’s labels or any further intentions (or motivations) for its conduct beyond sex discrimination. In Manhart, the employer intentionally required women to make higher pension contributions only to fulfill the further purpose of making things more equitable between men and women as groups. In Phillips, the employer may have per- ceived itself as discriminating based on motherhood, not sex, given that its hiring policies as a whole favored women. But in both cases, the Court set all this aside as irrelevant. The employers’ policies involved intentional discrimination
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because of sex, and Title VII liability necessarily followed. Aren’t these cases different, the employers ask, given
that an employer could refuse to hire a gay or transgender individual without ever learning the applicant’s sex? Sup- pose an employer asked homosexual or transgender appli- cants to tick a box on its application form. The employer then had someone else redact any information that could be used to discern sex. The resulting applications would dis- close which individuals are homosexual or transgender without revealing whether they also happen to be men or women. Doesn’t that possibility indicate that the em- ployer’s discrimination against homosexual or transgender persons cannot be sex discrimination?
No, it doesn’t. Even in this example, the individual ap- plicant’s sex still weighs as a factor in the employer’s deci- sion. Change the hypothetical ever so slightly and its flaws become apparent. Suppose an employer’s application form offered a single box to check if the applicant is either black or Catholic. If the employer refuses to hire anyone who checks that box, would we conclude the employer has com- plied with Title VII, so long as it studiously avoids learning any particular applicant’s race or religion? Of course not: By intentionally setting out a rule that makes hiring turn on race or religion, the employer violates the law, whatever he might know or not know about individual applicants.
The same holds here. There is no way for an applicant to decide whether to check the homosexual or transgender box without considering sex. To see why, imagine an applicant doesn’t know what the words homosexual or transgender mean. Then try writing out instructions for who should check the box without using the words man, woman, or sex (or some synonym). It can’t be done. Likewise, there is no way an employer can discriminate against those who check the homosexual or transgender box without discriminating in part because of an applicant’s sex. By discriminating against homosexuals, the employer intentionally penalizes
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men for being attracted to men and women for being at- tracted to women. By discriminating against transgender persons, the employer unavoidably discriminates against persons with one sex identified at birth and another today. Any way you slice it, the employer intentionally refuses to hire applicants in part because of the affected individuals’ sex, even if it never learns any applicant’s sex.
Next, the employers turn to Title VII’s list of protected characteristics—race, color, religion, sex, and national origin. Because homosexuality and transgender status can’t be found on that list and because they are conceptu- ally distinct from sex, the employers reason, they are im- plicitly excluded from Title VII’s reach. Put another way, if Congress had wanted to address these matters in Title VII, it would have referenced them specifically. Cf. post, at 7–8 (ALITO, J., dissenting); post, at 13–15 (KAVANAUGH, J., dis- senting).
But that much does not follow. We agree that homosex- uality and transgender status are distinct concepts from sex. But, as we’ve seen, discrimination based on homosex- uality or transgender status necessarily entails discrimina- tion based on sex; the first cannot happen without the sec- ond. Nor is there any such thing as a “canon of donut holes,” in which Congress’s failure to speak directly to a specific case that falls within a more general statutory rule creates a tacit exception. Instead, when Congress chooses not to include any exceptions to a broad rule, courts apply the broad rule. And that is exactly how this Court has always approached Title VII. “Sexual harassment” is conceptually distinct from sex discrimination, but it can fall within Title VII’s sweep. Oncale, 523 U. S., at 79–80. Same with “moth- erhood discrimination.” See Phillips, 400 U. S., at 544. Would the employers have us reverse those cases on the theory that Congress could have spoken to those problems more specifically? Of course not. As enacted, Title VII pro- hibits all forms of discrimination because of sex, however
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they may manifest themselves or whatever other labels might attach to them.
The employers try the same point another way. Since 1964, they observe, Congress has considered several pro- posals to add sexual orientation to Title VII’s list of pro- tected characteristics, but no such amendment has become law. Meanwhile, Congress has enacted other statutes ad- dressing other topics that do discuss sexual orientation. This postenactment legislative history, they urge, should tell us something. Cf. post, at 2, 42–43 (ALITO, J., dissent- ing); post, at 4, 15–16 (KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting).
But what? There’s no authoritative evidence explaining why later Congresses adopted other laws referencing sex- ual orientation but didn’t amend this one. Maybe some in the later legislatures understood the impact Title VII’s broad language already promised for cases like ours and didn’t think a revision needed. Maybe others knew about its impact but hoped no one else would notice. Maybe still others, occupied by other concerns, didn’t consider the issue at all. All we can know for certain is that speculation about why a later Congress declined to adopt new legislation of- fers a “particularly dangerous” basis on which to rest an in- terpretation of an existing law a different and earlier Con- gress did adopt. Pension Benefit Guaranty Corporation v. LTV Corp., 496 U. S. 633, 650 (1990); see also United States v. Wells, 519 U. S. 482, 496 (1997); Sullivan v. Finkelstein, 496 U. S. 617, 632 (1990) (Scalia, J., concurring) (“Argu- ments based on subsequent legislative history . . . should not be taken seriously, not even in a footnote”).
That leaves the employers to seek a different sort of ex- ception. Maybe the traditional and simple but-for causa- tion test should apply in all other Title VII cases, but it just doesn’t work when it comes to cases involving homosexual and transgender employees. The test is too blunt to capture the nuances here. The employers illustrate their concern with an example. When we apply the simple test to Mr.
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Bostock—asking whether Mr. Bostock, a man attracted to other men, would have been fired had he been a woman— we don’t just change his sex. Along the way, we change his sexual orientation too (from homosexual to heterosexual). If the aim is to isolate whether a plaintiff ’s sex caused the dismissal, the employers stress, we must hold sexual orien- tation constant—meaning we need to change both his sex and the sex to which he is attracted. So for Mr. Bostock, the question should be whether he would’ve been fired if he were a woman attracted to women. And because his em- ployer would have been as quick to fire a lesbian as it was a gay man, the employers conclude, no Title VII violation has occurred.
While the explanation is new, the mistakes are the same. The employers might be onto something if Title VII only en- sured equal treatment between groups of men and women or if the statute applied only when sex is the sole or primary reason for an employer’s challenged adverse employment action. But both of these premises are mistaken. Title VII’s plain terms and our precedents don’t care if an employer treats men and women comparably as groups; an employer who fires both lesbians and gay men equally doesn’t dimin- ish but doubles its liability. Just cast a glance back to Man- hart, where it was no defense that the employer sought to equalize pension contributions based on life expectancy. Nor does the statute care if other factors besides sex con- tribute to an employer’s discharge decision. Mr. Bostock’s employer might have decided to fire him only because of the confluence of two factors, his sex and the sex to which he is attracted. But exactly the same might have been said in Phillips, where motherhood was the added variable.
Still, the employers insist, something seems different here. Unlike certain other employment policies this Court has addressed that harmed only women or only men, the employers’ policies in the cases before us have the same ad- verse consequences for men and women. How could sex be
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necessary to the result if a member of the opposite sex might face the same outcome from the same policy?
What the employers see as unique isn’t even unusual. Of- ten in life and law two but-for factors combine to yield a result that could have also occurred in some other way. Im- agine that it’s a nice day outside and your house is too warm, so you decide to open the window. Both the cool tem- perature outside and the heat inside are but-for causes of your choice to open the window. That doesn’t change just because you also would have opened the window had it been warm outside and cold inside. In either case, no one would deny that the window is open “because of ” the outside tem- perature. Our cases are much the same. So, for example, when it comes to homosexual employees, male sex and at- traction to men are but-for factors that can combine to get them fired. The fact that female sex and attraction to women can also get an employee fired does no more than show the same outcome can be achieved through the com- bination of different factors. In either case, though, sex plays an essential but-for role.
At bottom, the employers’ argument unavoidably comes down to a suggestion that sex must be the sole or primary cause of an adverse employment action for Title VII liability to follow. And, as we’ve seen, that suggestion is at odds with everything we know about the statute. Consider an employer eager to revive the workplace gender roles of the 1950s. He enforces a policy that he will hire only men as mechanics and only women as secretaries. When a quali- fied woman applies for a mechanic position and is denied, the “simple test” immediately spots the discrimination: A qualified man would have been given the job, so sex was a but-for cause of the employer’s refusal to hire. But like the employers before us today, this employer would say not so fast. By comparing the woman who applied to be a me- chanic to a man who applied to be a mechanic, we’ve quietly
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changed two things: the applicant’s sex and her trait of fail- ing to conform to 1950s gender roles. The “simple test” thus overlooks that it is really the applicant’s bucking of 1950s gender roles, not her sex, doing the work. So we need to hold that second trait constant: Instead of comparing the disappointed female applicant to a man who applied for the same position, the employer would say, we should compare her to a man who applied to be a secretary. And because that jobseeker would be refused too, this must not be sex discrimination.
No one thinks that, so the employers must scramble to justify deploying a stricter causation test for use only in cases involving discrimination based on sexual orientation or transgender status. Such a rule would create a curious discontinuity in our case law, to put it mildly. Employer hires based on sexual stereotypes? Simple test. Employer sets pension contributions based on sex? Simple test. Em- ployer fires men who do not behave in a sufficiently mascu- line way around the office? Simple test. But when that same employer discriminates against women who are at- tracted to women, or persons identified at birth as women who later identify as men, we suddenly roll out a new and more rigorous standard? Why are these reasons for taking sex into account different from all the rest? Title VII’s text can offer no answer.
B Ultimately, the employers are forced to abandon the stat-
utory text and precedent altogether and appeal to assump- tions and policy. Most pointedly, they contend that few in 1964 would have expected Title VII to apply to discrimina- tion against homosexual and transgender persons. And whatever the text and our precedent indicate, they say, shouldn’t this fact cause us to pause before recognizing lia- bility?
It might be tempting to reject this argument out of hand.
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This Court has explained many times over many years that, when the meaning of the statute’s terms is plain, our job is at an end. The people are entitled to rely on the law as written, without fearing that courts might disregard its plain terms based on some extratextual consideration. See, e.g., Carcieri v. Salazar, 555 U. S. 379, 387 (2009); Connect- icut Nat. Bank v. Germain, 503 U. S. 249, 253–254 (1992); Rubin v. United States, 449 U. S. 424, 430 (1981). Of course, some Members of this Court have consulted legisla- tive history when interpreting ambiguous statutory lan- guage. Cf. post, at 40 (ALITO, J., dissenting). But that has no bearing here. “Legislative history, for those who take it into account, is meant to clear up ambiguity, not create it.” Milner v. Department of Navy, 562 U. S. 562, 574 (2011). And as we have seen, no ambiguity exists about how Title VII’s terms apply to the facts before us. To be sure, the statute’s application in these cases reaches “beyond the principal evil” legislators may have intended or expected to address. Oncale, 523 U. S., at 79. But “ ‘the fact that [a statute] has been applied in situations not expressly antic- ipated by Congress’ ” does not demonstrate ambiguity; in- stead, it simply “ ‘demonstrates [the] breadth’ ” of a legisla- tive command. Sedima, S. P. R. L. v. Imrex Co., 473 U. S. 479, 499 (1985). And “it is ultimately the provisions of ” those legislative commands “rather than the principal con- cerns of our legislators by which we are governed.” Oncale, 523 U. S., at 79; see also A. Scalia & B. Garner, Reading Law: The Interpretation of Legal Texts 101 (2012) (noting that unexpected applications of broad language reflect only Congress’s “presumed point [to] produce general coverage— not to leave room for courts to recognize ad hoc exceptions”).
Still, while legislative history can never defeat unambig- uous statutory text, historical sources can be useful for a different purpose: Because the law’s ordinary meaning at the time of enactment usually governs, we must be sensi- tive to the possibility a statutory term that means one thing
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today or in one context might have meant something else at the time of its adoption or might mean something different in another context. And we must be attuned to the possi- bility that a statutory phrase ordinarily bears a different meaning than the terms do when viewed individually or lit- erally. To ferret out such shifts in linguistic usage or subtle distinctions between literal and ordinary meaning, this Court has sometimes consulted the understandings of the law’s drafters as some (not always conclusive) evidence. For example, in the context of the National Motor Vehicle Theft Act, this Court admitted that the term “vehicle” in 1931 could literally mean “a conveyance working on land, water or air.” McBoyle v. United States, 283 U. S. 25, 26 (1931). But given contextual clues and “everyday speech” at the time of the Act’s adoption in 1919, this Court con- cluded that “vehicles” in that statute included only things “moving on land,” not airplanes too. Ibid. Similarly, in New Prime, we held that, while the term “contracts of employ- ment” today might seem to encompass only contracts with employees, at the time of the statute’s adoption the phrase was ordinarily understood to cover contracts with inde- pendent contractors as well. 586 U. S., at ___–___ (slip op., at 6–9). Cf. post, at 7–8 (KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting) (providing additional examples).
The employers, however, advocate nothing like that here. They do not seek to use historical sources to illustrate that the meaning of any of Title VII’s language has changed since 1964 or that the statute’s terms, whether viewed in- dividually or as a whole, ordinarily carried some message we have missed. To the contrary, as we have seen, the em- ployers agree with our understanding of all the statutory language—“discriminate against any individual . . . be- cause of such individual’s . . . sex.” Nor do the competing dissents offer an alternative account about what these terms mean either when viewed individually or in the ag-
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gregate. Rather than suggesting that the statutory lan- guage bears some other meaning, the employers and dis- sents merely suggest that, because few in 1964 expected to- day’s result, we should not dare to admit that it follows ineluctably from the statutory text. When a new applica- tion emerges that is both unexpected and important, they would seemingly have us merely point out the question, re- fer the subject back to Congress, and decline to enforce the plain terms of the law in the meantime.
That is exactly the sort of reasoning this Court has long rejected. Admittedly, the employers take pains to couch their argument in terms of seeking to honor the statute’s “expected applications” rather than vindicate its “legisla- tive intent.” But the concepts are closely related. One could easily contend that legislators only intended expected ap- plications or that a statute’s purpose is limited to achieving applications foreseen at the time of enactment. However framed, the employer’s logic impermissibly seeks to dis- place the plain meaning of the law in favor of something lying beyond it.
If anything, the employers’ new framing may only add new problems. The employers assert that “no one” in 1964 or for some time after would have anticipated today’s result. But is that really true? Not long after the law’s passage, gay and transgender employees began filing Title VII com- plaints, so at least some people foresaw this potential appli- cation. See, e.g., Smith v. Liberty Mut. Ins. Co., 395 F. Supp. 1098, 1099 (ND Ga. 1975) (addressing claim from 1969); Holloway v. Arthur Andersen & Co., 566 F. 2d 659, 661 (CA9 1977) (addressing claim from 1974). And less than a decade after Title VII’s passage, during debates over the Equal Rights Amendment, others counseled that its language—which was strikingly similar to Title VII’s— might also protect homosexuals from discrimination. See, e.g., Note, The Legality of Homosexual Marriage, 82 Yale L. J. 573, 583–584 (1973).
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Why isn’t that enough to demonstrate that today’s result isn’t totally unexpected? How many people have to foresee the application for it to qualify as “expected”? Do we look only at the moment the statute was enacted, or do we allow some time for the implications of a new statute to be worked out? Should we consider the expectations of those who had no reason to give a particular application any thought or only those with reason to think about the question? How do we account for those who change their minds over time, after learning new facts or hearing a new argument? How specifically or generally should we frame the “application” at issue? None of these questions have obvious answers, and the employers don’t propose any.
One could also reasonably fear that objections about un- expected applications will not be deployed neutrally. Often lurking just behind such objections resides a cynicism that Congress could not possibly have meant to protect a disfa- vored group. Take this Court’s encounter with the Ameri- cans with Disabilities Act’s directive that no “ ‘public en- tity’ ” can discriminate against any “ ‘qualified individual with a disability.’ ” Pennsylvania Dept. of Corrections v. Yeskey, 524 U. S. 206, 208 (1998). Congress, of course, didn’t list every public entity the statute would apply to. And no one batted an eye at its application to, say, post of- fices. But when the statute was applied to prisons, curi- ously, some demanded a closer look: Pennsylvania argued that “Congress did not ‘envisio[n] that the ADA would be applied to state prisoners.’ ” Id., at 211–212. This Court emphatically rejected that view, explaining that, “in the context of an unambiguous statutory text,” whether a spe- cific application was anticipated by Congress “is irrele- vant.” Id., at 212. As Yeskey and today’s cases exemplify, applying protective laws to groups that were politically un- popular at the time of the law’s passage—whether prison- ers in the 1990s or homosexual and transgender employees
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in the 1960s—often may be seen as unexpected. But to re- fuse enforcement just because of that, because the parties before us happened to be unpopular at the time of the law’s passage, would not only require us to abandon our role as interpreters of statutes; it would tilt the scales of justice in favor of the strong or popular and neglect the promise that all persons are entitled to the benefit of the law’s terms. Cf. post, at 28–35 (ALITO, J., dissenting); post, at 21–22 (KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting).
The employer’s position also proves too much. If we ap- plied Title VII’s plain text only to applications some (yet-to- be-determined) group expected in 1964, we’d have more than a little law to overturn. Start with Oncale. How many people in 1964 could have expected that the law would turn out to protect male employees? Let alone to protect them from harassment by other male employees? As we acknowl- edged at the time, “male-on-male sexual harassment in the workplace was assuredly not the principal evil Congress was concerned with when it enacted Title VII.” 523 U. S., at 79. Yet the Court did not hesitate to recognize that Title VII’s plain terms forbade it. Under the employer’s logic, it would seem this was a mistake.
That’s just the beginning of the law we would have to un- ravel. As one Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) Commissioner observed shortly after the law’s pas- sage, the words of “ ‘the sex provision of Title VII [are] diffi- cult to . . . control.’ ” Franklin, Inventing the “Traditional Concept” of Sex Discrimination, 125 Harv. L. Rev. 1307, 1338 (2012) (quoting Federal Mediation Service To Play Role in Implementing Title VII, [1965–1968 Transfer Binder] CCH Employment Practices ¶8046, p. 6074). The “difficult[y]” may owe something to the initial proponent of the sex discrimination rule in Title VII, Representative Howard Smith. On some accounts, the congressman may have wanted (or at least was indifferent to the possibility
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of ) broad language with wide-ranging effect. Not neces- sarily because he was interested in rooting out sex discrim- ination in all its forms, but because he may have hoped to scuttle the whole Civil Rights Act and thought that adding language covering sex discrimination would serve as a poi- son pill. See C. Whalen & B. Whalen, The Longest Debate: A Legislative History of the 1964 Civil Rights Act 115–118 (1985). Certainly nothing in the meager legislative history of this provision suggests it was meant to be read narrowly.
Whatever his reasons, thanks to the broad language Representative Smith introduced, many, maybe most, ap- plications of Title VII’s sex provision were “unanticipated” at the time of the law’s adoption. In fact, many now-obvious applications met with heated opposition early on, even among those tasked with enforcing the law. In the years immediately following Title VII’s passage, the EEOC offi- cially opined that listing men’s positions and women’s posi- tions separately in job postings was simply helpful rather than discriminatory. Franklin, 125 Harv. L. Rev., at 1340 (citing Press Release, EEOC (Sept. 22, 1965)). Some courts held that Title VII did not prevent an employer from firing an employee for refusing his sexual advances. See, e.g., Barnes v. Train, 1974 WL 10628, *1 (D DC, Aug. 9, 1974). And courts held that a policy against hiring mothers but not fathers of young children wasn’t discrimination because of sex. See Phillips v. Martin Marietta Corp., 411 F. 2d 1 (CA5 1969), rev’d, 400 U. S. 542 (1971) (per curiam).
Over time, though, the breadth of the statutory language proved too difficult to deny. By the end of the 1960s, the EEOC reversed its stance on sex-segregated job advertis- ing. See Franklin, 125 Harv. L. Rev., at 1345. In 1971, this Court held that treating women with children differently from men with children violated Title VII. Phillips, 400 U. S., at 544. And by the late 1970s, courts began to recog- nize that sexual harassment can sometimes amount to sex discrimination. See, e.g., Barnes v. Costle, 561 F. 2d 983,
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990 (CADC 1977). While to the modern eye each of these examples may seem “plainly [to] constitut[e] discrimination because of biological sex,” post, at 38 (ALITO, J., dissenting), all were hotly contested for years following Title VII’s en- actment. And as with the discrimination we consider today, many federal judges long accepted interpretations of Title VII that excluded these situations. Cf. post, at 21–22 (KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting) (highlighting that certain lower courts have rejected Title VII claims based on homo- sexuality and transgender status). Would the employers have us undo every one of these unexpected applications too?
The weighty implications of the employers’ argument from expectations also reveal why they cannot hide behind the no-elephants-in-mouseholes canon. That canon recog- nizes that Congress “does not alter the fundamental details of a regulatory scheme in vague terms or ancillary provi- sions.” Whitman v. American Trucking Assns., Inc., 531 U. S. 457, 468 (2001). But it has no relevance here. We can’t deny that today’s holding—that employers are prohib- ited from firing employees on the basis of homosexuality or transgender status—is an elephant. But where’s the mousehole? Title VII’s prohibition of sex discrimination in employment is a major piece of federal civil rights legisla- tion. It is written in starkly broad terms. It has repeatedly produced unexpected applications, at least in the view of those on the receiving end of them. Congress’s key drafting choices—to focus on discrimination against individuals and not merely between groups and to hold employers liable whenever sex is a but-for cause of the plaintiff ’s injuries— virtually guaranteed that unexpected applications would emerge over time. This elephant has never hidden in a mousehole; it has been standing before us all along.
With that, the employers are left to abandon their con- cern for expected applications and fall back to the last line
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of defense for all failing statutory interpretation argu- ments: naked policy appeals. If we were to apply the stat- ute’s plain language, they complain, any number of unde- sirable policy consequences would follow. Cf. post, at 44–54 (ALITO, J., dissenting). Gone here is any pretense of statu- tory interpretation; all that’s left is a suggestion we should proceed without the law’s guidance to do as we think best. But that’s an invitation no court should ever take up. The place to make new legislation, or address unwanted conse- quences of old legislation, lies in Congress. When it comes to statutory interpretation, our role is limited to applying the law’s demands as faithfully as we can in the cases that come before us. As judges we possess no special expertise or authority to declare for ourselves what a self-governing people should consider just or wise. And the same judicial humility that requires us to refrain from adding to statutes requires us to refrain from diminishing them.
What are these consequences anyway? The employers worry that our decision will sweep beyond Title VII to other federal or state laws that prohibit sex discrimination. And, under Title VII itself, they say sex-segregated bathrooms, locker rooms, and dress codes will prove unsustainable af- ter our decision today. But none of these other laws are before us; we have not had the benefit of adversarial testing about the meaning of their terms, and we do not prejudge any such question today. Under Title VII, too, we do not purport to address bathrooms, locker rooms, or anything else of the kind. The only question before us is whether an employer who fires someone simply for being homosexual or transgender has discharged or otherwise discriminated against that individual “because of such individual’s sex.” As used in Title VII, the term “ ‘discriminate against’ ” refers to “distinctions or differences in treatment that injure pro- tected individuals.” Burlington N. & S. F. R., 548 U. S., at 59. Firing employees because of a statutorily protected trait surely counts. Whether other policies and practices
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might or might not qualify as unlawful discrimination or find justifications under other provisions of Title VII are questions for future cases, not these.
Separately, the employers fear that complying with Title VII’s requirement in cases like ours may require some em- ployers to violate their religious convictions. We are also deeply concerned with preserving the promise of the free exercise of religion enshrined in our Constitution; that guarantee lies at the heart of our pluralistic society. But worries about how Title VII may intersect with religious lib- erties are nothing new; they even predate the statute’s pas- sage. As a result of its deliberations in adopting the law, Congress included an express statutory exception for reli- gious organizations. §2000e–1(a). This Court has also rec- ognized that the First Amendment can bar the application of employment discrimination laws “to claims concerning the employment relationship between a religious institu- tion and its ministers.” Hosanna-Tabor Evangelical Lu- theran Church and School v. EEOC, 565 U. S. 171, 188 (2012). And Congress has gone a step further yet in the Religious Freedom Restoration Act of 1993 (RFRA), 107 Stat. 1488, codified at 42 U. S. C. §2000bb et seq. That stat- ute prohibits the federal government from substantially burdening a person’s exercise of religion unless it demon- strates that doing so both furthers a compelling governmen- tal interest and represents the least restrictive means of furthering that interest. §2000bb–1. Because RFRA oper- ates as a kind of super statute, displacing the normal oper- ation of other federal laws, it might supersede Title VII’s commands in appropriate cases. See §2000bb–3.
But how these doctrines protecting religious liberty inter- act with Title VII are questions for future cases too. Harris Funeral Homes did unsuccessfully pursue a RFRA-based defense in the proceedings below. In its certiorari petition, however, the company declined to seek review of that ad- verse decision, and no other religious liberty claim is now
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before us. So while other employers in other cases may raise free exercise arguments that merit careful considera- tion, none of the employers before us today represent in this Court that compliance with Title VII will infringe their own religious liberties in any way.
* Some of those who supported adding language to Title VII
to ban sex discrimination may have hoped it would derail the entire Civil Rights Act. Yet, contrary to those inten- tions, the bill became law. Since then, Title VII’s effects have unfolded with far-reaching consequences, some likely beyond what many in Congress or elsewhere expected.
But none of this helps decide today’s cases. Ours is a so- ciety of written laws. Judges are not free to overlook plain statutory commands on the strength of nothing more than suppositions about intentions or guesswork about expecta- tions. In Title VII, Congress adopted broad language mak- ing it illegal for an employer to rely on an employee’s sex when deciding to fire that employee. We do not hesitate to recognize today a necessary consequence of that legislative choice: An employer who fires an individual merely for be- ing gay or transgender defies the law.
The judgments of the Second and Sixth Circuits in Nos. 17–1623 and 18–107 are affirmed. The judgment of the Eleventh Circuit in No. 17–1618 is reversed, and the case is remanded for further proceedings consistent with this opinion.
It is so ordered.
Opinion of the Court
_________________
_________________
1 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
ALITO, J., dissenting
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
Nos. 17–1618, 17–1623 and 18–107
GERALD LYNN BOSTOCK, PETITIONER 17–1618 v.
CLAYTON COUNTY, GEORGIA
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT
ALTITUDE EXPRESS, INC., ET AL., PETITIONERS 17–1623 v. MELISSA ZARDA AND WILLIAM ALLEN MOORE, JR.,
CO-INDEPENDENT EXECUTORS OF THE ESTATE OF DONALD ZARDA
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE SECOND CIRCUIT
R.G. & G.R. HARRIS FUNERAL HOMES, INC., PETITIONER
18–107 v. EQUAL EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITY COMMISSION,
ET AL.
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE SIXTH CIRCUIT
[June 15, 2020]
JUSTICE ALITO, with whom JUSTICE THOMAS joins, dissenting.
There is only one word for what the Court has done today: legislation. The document that the Court releases is in the form of a judicial opinion interpreting a statute, but that is deceptive.
2 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
ALITO, J., dissenting
Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibits employ- ment discrimination on any of five specified grounds: “race, color, religion, sex, [and] national origin.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a)(1). Neither “sexual orientation” nor “gender identity” appears on that list. For the past 45 years, bills have been introduced in Congress to add “sexual orienta- tion” to the list,1 and in recent years, bills have included “gender identity” as well.2 But to date, none has passed both Houses.
Last year, the House of Representatives passed a bill that would amend Title VII by defining sex discrimination to in- clude both “sexual orientation” and “gender identity,” H. R. 5, 116th Cong., 1st Sess. (2019), but the bill has stalled in the Senate. An alternative bill, H. R. 5331, 116th Cong., 1st Sess. (2019), would add similar prohibitions but con- tains provisions to protect religious liberty.3 This bill re- mains before a House Subcommittee.
Because no such amendment of Title VII has been en- acted in accordance with the requirements in the Constitu- tion (passage in both Houses and presentment to the Pres- ident, Art. I, §7, cl. 2), Title VII’s prohibition of
—————— 1 E.g., H. R. 166, 94th Cong., 1st Sess., §6 (1975); H. R. 451, 95th Cong.,
1st Sess., §6 (1977); S. 2081, 96th Cong., 1st Sess. (1979); S. 1708, 97th Cong., 1st Sess. (1981); S. 430, 98th Cong., 1st Sess. (1983); S. 1432, 99th Cong., 1st Sess., §5 (1985); S. 464, 100th Cong., 1st Sess., §5 (1987); H. R. 655, 101st Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (1989); S. 574, 102d Cong., 1st Sess., §5 (1991); H. R. 423, 103d Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (1993); S. 932, 104th Cong., 1st Sess. (1995); H. R. 365, 105th Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (1997); H. R. 311, 106th Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (1999); H. R. 217, 107th Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (2001); S. 16, 108th Cong., 1st Sess., §§701–704 (2003); H. R. 288, 109th Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (2005).
2 See, e.g., H. R. 2015, 110th Cong., 1st Sess. (2007); H. R. 3017, 111th Cong., 1st Sess. (2009); H. R. 1397, 112th Cong., 1st Sess. (2011); H. R. 1755, 113th Cong., 1st Sess. (2013); H. R. 3185, 114th Cong., 1st Sess., §7 (2015); H. R. 2282, 115th Cong., 1st Sess., §7 (2017); H. R. 5, 116th Cong., 1st Sess. (2019).
3 H. R. 5331, 116th Cong., 1st Sess., §§4(b), (c) (2019).
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discrimination because of “sex” still means what it has al- ways meant. But the Court is not deterred by these consti- tutional niceties. Usurping the constitutional authority of the other branches, the Court has essentially taken H. R. 5’s provision on employment discrimination and issued it under the guise of statutory interpretation.4 A more brazen abuse of our authority to interpret statutes is hard to recall.
The Court tries to convince readers that it is merely en- forcing the terms of the statute, but that is preposterous. Even as understood today, the concept of discrimination be- cause of “sex” is different from discrimination because of “sexual orientation” or “gender identity.” And in any event, our duty is to interpret statutory terms to “mean what they conveyed to reasonable people at the time they were writ- ten.” A. Scalia & B. Garner, Reading Law: The Interpreta- tion of Legal Texts 16 (2012) (emphasis added). If every single living American had been surveyed in 1964, it would have been hard to find any who thought that discrimination because of sex meant discrimination because of sexual ori- entation––not to mention gender identity, a concept that was essentially unknown at the time.
The Court attempts to pass off its decision as the inevita- ble product of the textualist school of statutory interpreta- tion championed by our late colleague Justice Scalia, but no one should be fooled. The Court’s opinion is like a pirate ship. It sails under a textualist flag, but what it actually represents is a theory of statutory interpretation that Jus- tice Scalia excoriated––the theory that courts should “up- date” old statutes so that they better reflect the current val- ues of society. See A. Scalia, A Matter of Interpretation 22
—————— 4 Section 7(b) of H. R. 5 strikes the term “sex” in 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2
and inserts: “SEX (INCLUDING SEXUAL ORIENTATION AND GENDER IDENTITY).”
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(1997). If the Court finds it appropriate to adopt this the- ory, it should own up to what it is doing.5
Many will applaud today’s decision because they agree on policy grounds with the Court’s updating of Title VII. But the question in these cases is not whether discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity should be outlawed. The question is whether Congress did that in 1964.
It indisputably did not.
I A
Title VII, as noted, prohibits discrimination “because of . . . sex,” §2000e–2(a)(1), and in 1964, it was as clear as clear could be that this meant discrimination because of the ge- netic and anatomical characteristics that men and women have at the time of birth. Determined searching has not found a single dictionary from that time that defined “sex” to mean sexual orientation, gender identity, or “transgender status.”6 Ante, at 2. (Appendix A, infra, to
—————— 5 That is what Judge Posner did in the Seventh Circuit case holding
that Title VII prohibits discrimination because of sexual orientation. See Hively v. Ivy Tech Community College of Ind., 853 F. 3d 339 (2017) (en banc). Judge Posner agreed with that result but wrote:
“I would prefer to see us acknowledge openly that today we, who are judges rather than members of Congress, are imposing on a half-century- old statute a meaning of ‘sex discrimination’ that the Congress that en- acted it would not have accepted.” Id., at 357 (concurring opinion) (em- phasis added).
6 The Court does not define what it means by “transgender status,” but the American Psychological Association describes “transgender” as “[a]n umbrella term encompassing those whose gender identities or gender roles differ from those typically associated with the sex they were as- signed at birth.” A Glossary: Defining Transgender Terms, 49 Monitor on Psychology 32 (Sept. 2018), https://www.apa.org/monitor/2018/09/ce- corner-glossary. It defines “gender identity” as “[a]n internal sense of being male, female or something else, which may or may not correspond
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this opinion includes the full definitions of “sex” in the un- abridged dictionaries in use in the 1960s.)
In all those dictionaries, the primary definition of “sex” was essentially the same as that in the then-most recent edition of Webster’s New International Dictionary 2296 (def. 1) (2d ed. 1953): “[o]ne of the two divisions of organisms formed on the distinction of male and female.” See also American Heritage Dictionary 1187 (def. 1(a)) (1969) (“The property or quality by which organisms are classified ac- cording to their reproductive functions”); Random House Dictionary of the English Language 1307 (def. 1) (1966) (Random House Dictionary) (“the fact or character of being either male or female”); 9 Oxford English Dictionary 577 (def. 1) (1933) (“Either of the two divisions of organic beings distinguished as male and female respectively”).
The Court does not dispute that this is what “sex” means in Title VII, although it coyly suggests that there is at least some support for a different and potentially relevant defi- nition. Ante, at 5. (I address alternative definitions below. See Part I–B–3, infra.) But the Court declines to stand on that ground and instead “proceed[s] on the assumption that ‘sex’ . . . refer[s] only to biological distinctions between male and female.” Ante, at 5.
If that is so, it should be perfectly clear that Title VII does not reach discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity. If “sex” in Title VII means biologically male or female, then discrimination because of sex means discrimination because the person in question is biologi- cally male or biologically female, not because that person is sexually attracted to members of the same sex or identifies as a member of a particular gender.
How then does the Court claim to avoid that conclusion? —————— to an individual’s sex assigned at birth or sex characteristics.” Ibid. Un- der these definitions, there is no apparent difference between discrimi- nation because of transgender status and discrimination because of gen- der identity.
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The Court tries to cloud the issue by spending many pages discussing matters that are beside the point. The Court ob- serves that a Title VII plaintiff need not show that “sex” was the sole or primary motive for a challenged employ- ment decision or its sole or primary cause; that Title VII is limited to discrimination with respect to a list of specified actions (such as hiring, firing, etc.); and that Title VII protects individual rights, not group rights. See ante, at 5– 9, 11.
All that is true, but so what? In cases like those before us, a plaintiff must show that sex was a “motivating factor” in the challenged employment action, 42 U. S. C. §2000e– 2(m), so the question we must decide comes down to this: if an individual employee or applicant for employment shows that his or her sexual orientation or gender identity was a “motivating factor” in a hiring or discharge decision, for ex- ample, is that enough to establish that the employer dis- criminated “because of . . . sex”? Or, to put the same ques- tion in different terms, if an employer takes an employment action solely because of the sexual orientation or gender identity of an employee or applicant, has that employer nec- essarily discriminated because of biological sex?
The answers to those questions must be no, unless dis- crimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity inherently constitutes discrimination because of sex. The Court attempts to prove that point, and it argues, not merely that the terms of Title VII can be interpreted that way but that they cannot reasonably be interpreted any other way. According to the Court, the text is unambiguous. See ante, at 24, 27, 30.
The arrogance of this argument is breathtaking. As I will show, there is not a shred of evidence that any Member of Congress interpreted the statutory text that way when Ti- tle VII was enacted. See Part III–B, infra. But the Court apparently thinks that this was because the Members were not “smart enough to realize” what its language means.
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Hively v. Ivy Tech Community College of Ind., 853 F. 3d 339, 357 (CA7 2017) (Posner, J., concurring). The Court seem- ingly has the same opinion about our colleagues on the Courts of Appeals, because until 2017, every single Court of Appeals to consider the question interpreted Title VII’s pro- hibition against sex discrimination to mean discrimination on the basis of biological sex. See Part III–C, infra. And for good measure, the Court’s conclusion that Title VII unam- biguously reaches discrimination on the basis of sexual ori- entation and gender identity necessarily means that the EEOC failed to see the obvious for the first 48 years after Title VII became law.7 Day in and day out, the Commission enforced Title VII but did not grasp what discrimination “because of . . . sex” unambiguously means. See Part III–C, infra.
The Court’s argument is not only arrogant, it is wrong. It fails on its own terms. “Sex,” “sexual orientation,” and “gen- der identity” are different concepts, as the Court concedes. Ante, at 19 (“homosexuality and transgender status are dis- tinct concepts from sex”). And neither “sexual orientation” nor “gender identity” is tied to either of the two biological sexes. See ante, at 10 (recognizing that “discrimination on these bases” does not have “some disparate impact on one sex or another”). Both men and women may be attracted to members of the opposite sex, members of the same sex, or members of both sexes.8 And individuals who are born with
—————— 7 The EEOC first held that “discrimination against a transgender indi-
vidual because that person is transgender” violates Title VII in 2012 in Macy v. Holder, 2012 WL 1435995, *11 (Apr. 20, 2012), though it earlier advanced that position in an amicus brief in Federal District Court in 2011, ibid., n. 16. It did not hold that discrimination on the basis of sex- ual orientation violated Title VII until 2015. See Baldwin v. Foxx, 2015 WL 4397641 (July 15, 2015).
8 “Sexual orientation refers to a person’s erotic response tendency or sexual attractions, be they directed toward individuals of the same sex (homosexual), the other sex (heterosexual), or both sexes (bisexual).” 1 B.
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the genes and organs of either biological sex may identify with a different gender.9
Using slightly different terms, the Court asserts again and again that discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity inherently or necessarily entails discrim- ination because of sex. See ante, at 2 (When an employer “fires an individual for being homosexual or transgender,” “[s]ex plays a necessary and undisguisable role in the deci- sion”); ante, at 9 (“[I]t is impossible to discriminate against a person for being homosexual or transgender without dis- criminating against that individual based on sex”); ante, at 11 (“[W]hen an employer discriminates against homosexual or transgender employees, [the] employer . . . inescapably intends to rely on sex in its decisionmaking”); ante, at 12 (“For an employer to discriminate against employees for be- ing homosexual or transgender, the employer must inten- tionally discriminate against individual men and women in part because of sex”); ante, at 14 (“When an employer fires an employee for being homosexual or transgender, it neces- sarily and intentionally discriminates against that individ- ual in part because of sex”); ante, at 19 (“[D]iscrimination based on homosexuality or transgender status necessarily entails discrimination based on sex”). But repetition of an assertion does not make it so, and the Court’s repeated as- sertion is demonstrably untrue.
Contrary to the Court’s contention, discrimination be- cause of sexual orientation or gender identity does not in —————— Sadock, V. Sadock, & P. Ruiz, Comprehensive Textbook of Psychiatry 2061 (9th ed. 2009); see also American Heritage Dictionary 1607 (5th ed. 2011) (defining “sexual orientation” as “[t]he direction of a person’s sex- ual interest, as toward people of the opposite sex, the same sex, or both sexes”); Webster’s New College Dictionary 1036 (3d ed. 2008) (defining “sexual orientation” as “[t]he direction of one’s sexual interest toward members of the same, opposite, or both sexes”).
9 See n. 6, supra; see also Sadock, supra, at 2063 (“transgender” refers to “any individual who identifies with and adopts the gender role of a member of the other biological sex”).
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and of itself entail discrimination because of sex. We can see this because it is quite possible for an employer to dis- criminate on those grounds without taking the sex of an in- dividual applicant or employee into account. An employer can have a policy that says: “We do not hire gays, lesbians, or transgender individuals.” And an employer can imple- ment this policy without paying any attention to or even knowing the biological sex of gay, lesbian, and transgender applicants. In fact, at the time of the enactment of Title VII, the United States military had a blanket policy of re- fusing to enlist gays or lesbians, and under this policy for years thereafter, applicants for enlistment were required to complete a form that asked whether they were “homosex- ual.” Appendix D, infra, at 88, 101.
At oral argument, the attorney representing the employ- ees, a prominent professor of constitutional law, was asked if there would be discrimination because of sex if an em- ployer with a blanket policy against hiring gays, lesbians, and transgender individuals implemented that policy with- out knowing the biological sex of any job applicants. Her candid answer was that this would “not” be sex discrimina- tion.10 And she was right.
The attorney’s concession was necessary, but it is fatal to the Court’s interpretation, for if an employer discriminates against individual applicants or employees without even knowing whether they are male or female, it is impossible to argue that the employer intentionally discriminated be- cause of sex. Contra, ante, at 19. An employer cannot in- tentionally discriminate on the basis of a characteristic of which the employer has no knowledge. And if an employer does not violate Title VII by discriminating on the basis of ——————
10 See Tr. of Oral Arg. in Nos. 17–1618, 17–1623, pp. 69–70 (“If there was that case, it might be the rare case in which sexual orientation dis- crimination is not a subset of sex”); see also id., at 69 (“Somebody who comes in and says I’m not going to tell you what my sex is, but, believe me, I was fired for my sexual orientation, that person will lose”).
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sexual orientation or gender identity without knowing the sex of the affected individuals, there is no reason why the same employer could not lawfully implement the same pol- icy even if it knows the sex of these individuals. If an em- ployer takes an adverse employment action for a perfectly legitimate reason—for example, because an employee stole company property—that action is not converted into sex discrimination simply because the employer knows the em- ployee’s sex. As explained, a disparate treatment case re- quires proof of intent—i.e., that the employee’s sex moti- vated the firing. In short, what this example shows is that discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender iden- tity does not inherently or necessarily entail discrimination because of sex, and for that reason, the Court’s chief argu- ment collapses.
Trying to escape the consequences of the attorney’s con- cession, the Court offers its own hypothetical:
“Suppose an employer’s application form offered a sin- gle box to check if the applicant is either black or Cath- olic. If the employer refuses to hire anyone who checks that box, would we conclude the employer has complied with Title VII, so long as it studiously avoids learning any particular applicant’s race or religion? Of course not.” Ante, at 18.
How this hypothetical proves the Court’s point is a mys- tery. A person who checked that box would presumably be black, Catholic, or both, and refusing to hire an applicant because of race or religion is prohibited by Title VII. Re- jecting applicants who checked a box indicating that they are homosexual is entirely different because it is impossible to tell from that answer whether an applicant is male or female.
The Court follows this strange hypothetical with an even stranger argument. The Court argues that an applicant
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could not answer the question whether he or she is homo- sexual without knowing something about sex. If the appli- cant was unfamiliar with the term “homosexual,” the appli- cant would have to look it up or ask what the term means. And because this applicant would have to take into account his or her sex and that of the persons to whom he or she is sexually attracted to answer the question, it follows, the Court reasons, that an employer could not reject this appli- cant without taking the applicant’s sex into account. See ante, at 18–19.
This is illogical. Just because an applicant cannot say whether he or she is homosexual without knowing his or her own sex and that of the persons to whom the applicant is attracted, it does not follow that an employer cannot re- ject an applicant based on homosexuality without knowing the applicant’s sex.
While the Court’s imagined application form proves noth- ing, another hypothetical case offered by the Court is tell- ing. But what it proves is not what the Court thinks. The Court posits:
“Imagine an employer who has a policy of firing any employee known to be homosexual. The employer hosts an office holiday party and invites employees to bring their spouses. A model employee arrives and in- troduces a manager to Susan, the employee’s wife. Will that employee be fired? If the policy works as the em- ployer intends, the answer depends entirely on whether the model employee is a man or a woman.” Ante, at 11.
This example disproves the Court’s argument because it is perfectly clear that the employer’s motivation in firing the female employee had nothing to do with that employee’s sex. The employer presumably knew that this employee was a woman before she was invited to the fateful party. Yet the employer, far from holding her biological sex
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against her, rated her a “model employee.” At the party, the employer learned something new, her sexual orienta- tion, and it was this new information that motivated her discharge. So this is another example showing that dis- crimination because of sexual orientation does not inher- ently involve discrimination because of sex.
In addition to the failed argument just discussed, the Court makes two other arguments, more or less in passing. The first of these is essentially that sexual orientation and gender identity are closely related to sex. The Court argues that sexual orientation and gender identity are “inextrica- bly bound up with sex,” ante, at 10, and that discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity in- volves the application of “sex-based rules,” ante, at 17. This is a variant of an argument found in many of the briefs filed in support of the employees and in the lower court decisions that agreed with the Court’s interpretation. All these vari- ants stress that sex, sexual orientation, and gender identity are related concepts. The Seventh Circuit observed that “[i]t would require considerable calisthenics to remove ‘sex’ from ‘sexual orientation.’ ” Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 350.11 The Second Circuit wrote that sex is necessarily “a factor in sex- ual orientation” and further concluded that “sexual orien- tation is a function of sex.” 883 F. 3d 100, 112–113 (CA2 2018) (en banc). Bostock’s brief and those of amici support- ing his position contend that sexual orientation is “a sex- based consideration.”12 Other briefs state that sexual ori- entation is “a function of sex”13 or is “intrinsically related to
—————— 11 See also Brief for William N. Eskridge Jr. et al. as Amici Curiae 2
(“[T]here is no reasonable way to disentangle sex from same-sex attrac- tion or transgender status”).
12 Brief for Petitioner in No. 17–1618, at 14; see also Brief for Southern Poverty Law Center et al. as Amici Curiae 7–8.
13 Brief for Scholars Who Study the LGB Population as Amici Curiae in Nos. 17–1618, 17–1623, p. 10.
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sex.”14 Similarly, Stephens argues that sex and gender identity are necessarily intertwined: “By definition, a transgender person is someone who lives and identifies with a sex different than the sex assigned to the person at birth.”15
It is curious to see this argument in an opinion that pur- ports to apply the purest and highest form of textualism be- cause the argument effectively amends the statutory text. Title VII prohibits discrimination because of sex itself, not everything that is related to, based on, or defined with ref- erence to, “sex.” Many things are related to sex. Think of all the nouns other than “orientation” that are commonly modified by the adjective “sexual.” Some examples yielded by a quick computer search are “sexual harassment,” “sex- ual assault, “sexual violence,” “sexual intercourse,” and “sexual content.”
Does the Court really think that Title VII prohibits dis- crimination on all these grounds? Is it unlawful for an em- ployer to refuse to hire an employee with a record of sexual harassment in prior jobs? Or a record of sexual assault or violence?
To be fair, the Court does not claim that Title VII prohib- its discrimination because of everything that is related to sex. The Court draws a distinction between things that are “inextricably” related and those that are related in “some vague sense.” Ante, at 10. Apparently the Court would graft onto Title VII some arbitrary line separating the things that are related closely enough and those that are not.16 And it would do this in the name of high textualism.
—————— 14 Brief for American Psychological Association et al. as Amici Curiae
11. 15 Reply Brief for Respondent Aimee Stephens in No. 18–107, p. 5. 16 Notably, Title VII itself already suggests a line, which the Court ig-
nores. The statute specifies that the terms “because of sex” and “on the basis of sex” cover certain conditions that are biologically tied to sex,
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An additional argument made in passing also fights the text of Title VII and the policy it reflects. The Court pro- claims that “[a]n individual’s homosexuality or transgender status is not relevant to employment decisions.” Ante, at 9. That is the policy view of many people in 2020, and perhaps Congress would have amended Title VII to implement it if this Court had not intervened. But that is not the policy embodied in Title VII in its current form. Title VII prohib- its discrimination based on five specified grounds, and nei- ther sexual orientation nor gender identity is on the list. As long as an employer does not discriminate based on one of the listed grounds, the employer is free to decide for itself which characteristics are “relevant to [its] employment de- cisions.” Ibid. By proclaiming that sexual orientation and gender identity are “not relevant to employment decisions,” the Court updates Title VII to reflect what it regards as 2020 values.
The Court’s remaining argument is based on a hypothet- ical that the Court finds instructive. In this hypothetical, an employer has two employees who are “attracted to men,” and “to the employer’s mind” the two employees are “mate- rially identical” except that one is a man and the other is a woman. Ante, at 9 (emphasis added). The Court reasons that if the employer fires the man but not the woman, the employer is necessarily motivated by the man’s biological sex. Ante, at 9–10. After all, if two employees are identical in every respect but sex, and the employer fires only one, what other reason could there be?
The problem with this argument is that the Court loads the dice. That is so because in the mind of an employer who does not want to employ individuals who are attracted to —————— namely, “pregnancy, childbirth, [and] related medical conditions.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e(k). This definition should inform the meaning of “be- cause of sex” in Title VII more generally. Unlike pregnancy, neither sex- ual orientation nor gender identity is biologically linked to women or men.
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members of the same sex, these two employees are not ma- terially identical in every respect but sex. On the contrary, they differ in another way that the employer thinks is quite material. And until Title VII is amended to add sexual ori- entation as a prohibited ground, this is a view that an em- ployer is permitted to implement. As noted, other than pro- hibiting discrimination on any of five specified grounds, “race, color, religion, sex, [and] national origin.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a)(1), Title VII allows employers to decide whether two employees are “materially identical.” Even id- iosyncratic criteria are permitted; if an employer thinks that Scorpios make bad employees, the employer can refuse to hire Scorpios. Such a policy would be unfair and foolish, but under Title VII, it is permitted. And until Title VII is amended, so is a policy against employing gays, lesbians, or transgender individuals.
Once this is recognized, what we have in the Court’s hy- pothetical case are two employees who differ in two ways–– sex and sexual orientation––and if the employer fires one and keeps the other, all that can be inferred is that the em- ployer was motivated either entirely by sexual orientation, entirely by sex, or in part by both. We cannot infer with any certainty, as the hypothetical is apparently meant to suggest, that the employer was motivated even in part by sex. The Court harps on the fact that under Title VII a pro- hibited ground need not be the sole motivation for an ad- verse employment action, see ante, at 10–11, 14–15, 21, but its example does not show that sex necessarily played any part in the employer’s thinking.
The Court tries to avoid this inescapable conclusion by arguing that sex is really the only difference between the two employees. This is so, the Court maintains, because both employees “are attracted to men.” Ante, at 9–10. Of course, the employer would couch its objection to the man differently. It would say that its objection was his sexual orientation. So this may appear to leave us with a battle of
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labels. If the employer’s objection to the male employee is characterized as attraction to men, it seems that he is just like the woman in all respects except sex and that the em- ployer’s disparate treatment must be based on that one dif- ference. On the other hand, if the employer’s objection is sexual orientation or homosexuality, the two employees dif- fer in two respects, and it cannot be inferred that the dis- parate treatment was due even in part to sex.
The Court insists that its label is the right one, and that presumably is why it makes such a point of arguing that an employer cannot escape liability under Title VII by giving sex discrimination some other name. See ante, at 14, 17. That is certainly true, but so is the opposite. Something that is not sex discrimination cannot be converted into sex discrimination by slapping on that label. So the Court can- not prove its point simply by labeling the employer’s objec- tion as “attract[ion] to men.” Ante, at 9–10. Rather, the Court needs to show that its label is the correct one.
And a labeling standoff would not help the Court because that would mean that the bare text of Title VII does not unambiguously show that its interpretation is right. The Court would have no justification for its stubborn refusal to look any further.
As it turns out, however, there is no standoff. It can eas- ily be shown that the employer’s real objection is not “at- tract[ion] to men” but homosexual orientation.
In an effort to prove its point, the Court carefully includes in its example just two employees, a homosexual man and a heterosexual woman, but suppose we add two more indi- viduals, a woman who is attracted to women and a man who is attracted to women. (A large employer will likely have applicants and employees who fall into all four categories, and a small employer can potentially have all four as well.) We now have the four exemplars listed below, with the dis- charged employees crossed out:
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Man attracted to men Woman attracted to men Woman attracted to women Man attracted to women
The discharged employees have one thing in common. It is not biological sex, attraction to men, or attraction to women. It is attraction to members of their own sex—in a word, sexual orientation. And that, we can infer, is the em- ployer’s real motive.
In sum, the Court’s textual arguments fail on their own terms. The Court tries to prove that “it is impossible to dis- criminate against a person for being homosexual or transgender without discriminating against that individual based on sex,” ante, at 9, but as has been shown, it is en- tirely possible for an employer to do just that. “[H]omosex- uality and transgender status are distinct concepts from sex,” ante, at 19, and discrimination because of sexual ori- entation or transgender status does not inherently or nec- essarily constitute discrimination because of sex. The Court’s arguments are squarely contrary to the statutory text.
But even if the words of Title VII did not definitively re- fute the Court’s interpretation, that would not justify the Court’s refusal to consider alternative interpretations. The Court’s excuse for ignoring everything other than the bare statutory text is that the text is unambiguous and therefore no one can reasonably interpret the text in any way other than the Court does. Unless the Court has met that high standard, it has no justification for its blinkered approach. And to say that the Court’s interpretation is the only possi- ble reading is indefensible.
B Although the Court relies solely on the arguments dis-
cussed above, several other arguments figure prominently in the decisions of the lower courts and in briefs submitted
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by or in support of the employees. The Court apparently finds these arguments unpersuasive, and so do I, but for the sake of completeness, I will address them briefly.
1 One argument, which relies on our decision in Price Wa-
terhouse v. Hopkins, 490 U. S. 228 (1989) (plurality opin- ion), is that discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity violates Title VII because it constitutes pro- hibited discrimination on the basis of sex stereotypes. See 883 F. 3d, at 119–123; Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 346; 884 F. 3d 560, 576–577 (CA6 2018). The argument goes like this. Ti- tle VII prohibits discrimination based on stereotypes about the way men and women should behave; the belief that a person should be attracted only to persons of the opposite sex and the belief that a person should identify with his or her biological sex are examples of such stereotypes; there- fore, discrimination on either of these grounds is unlawful.
This argument fails because it is based on a faulty prem- ise, namely, that Title VII forbids discrimination based on sex stereotypes. It does not. It prohibits discrimination be- cause of “sex,” and the two concepts are not the same. See Price Waterhouse, 490 U. S., at 251. That does not mean, however, that an employee or applicant for employment cannot prevail by showing that a challenged decision was based on a sex stereotype. Such evidence is relevant to prove discrimination because of sex, and it may be convinc- ing where the trait that is inconsistent with the stereotype is one that would be tolerated and perhaps even valued in a person of the opposite sex. See ibid.
Much of the plaintiff ’s evidence in Price Waterhouse was of this nature. The plaintiff was a woman who was passed over for partnership at an accounting firm, and some of the adverse comments about her work appeared to criticize her for being forceful and insufficiently “feminin[e].” Id., at 235–236.
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The main issue in Price Waterhouse––the proper alloca- tion of the burdens of proof in a so-called mixed motives Ti- tle VII case—is not relevant here, but the plurality opinion, endorsed by four Justices, commented on the issue of sex stereotypes. The plurality observed that “sex stereotypes do not inevitably prove that gender played a part in a par- ticular employment decision” but “can certainly be evidence that gender played a part.” Id., at 251.17 And the plurality made it clear that “[t]he plaintiff must show that the em- ployer actually relied on her gender in making its decision.” Ibid.
Plaintiffs who allege that they were treated unfavorably because of their sexual orientation or gender identity are not in the same position as the plaintiff in Price Water- house. In cases involving discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity, the grounds for the em- ployer’s decision—that individuals should be sexually at- tracted only to persons of the opposite biological sex or should identify with their biological sex—apply equally to men and women. “[H]eterosexuality is not a female stereo- type; it not a male stereotype; it is not a sex- specific stereotype at all.” Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 370 (Sykes, J., dissenting).
To be sure, there may be cases in which a gay, lesbian, or transgender individual can make a claim like the one in Price Waterhouse. That is, there may be cases where traits or behaviors that some people associate with gays, lesbians, or transgender individuals are tolerated or valued in per- sons of one biological sex but not the other. But that is a
—————— 17 Two other Justices concurred in the judgment but did not comment
on the issue of stereotypes. See id., at 258–261 (opinion of White, J.); id., at 261–279 (opinion of O’Connor, J.). And Justice Kennedy reiterated on behalf of the three Justices in dissent that “Title VII creates no independ- ent cause of action for sex stereotyping,” but he added that “[e]vidence of use by decisionmakers of sex stereotypes is, of course, quite relevant to the question of discriminatory intent.” Id., at 294.
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different matter.
2 A second prominent argument made in support of the re-
sult that the Court now reaches analogizes discrimination against gays and lesbians to discrimination against a per- son who is married to or has an intimate relationship with a person of a different race. Several lower court cases have held that discrimination on this ground violates Title VII. See, e.g., Holcomb v. Iona College, 521 F. 3d 130 (CA2 2008); Parr v. Woodmen of World Life Ins. Co., 791 F. 2d 888 (CA11 1986). And the logic of these decisions, it is argued, applies equally where an employee or applicant is treated unfavor- ably because he or she is married to, or has an intimate re- lationship with, a person of the same sex.
This argument totally ignores the historically rooted rea- son why discrimination on the basis of an interracial rela- tionship constitutes race discrimination. And without tak- ing history into account, it is not easy to see how the decisions in question fit the terms of Title VII.
Recall that Title VII makes it unlawful for an employer to discriminate against an individual “because of such indi- vidual’s race.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a) (emphasis added). So if an employer is happy to employ whites and blacks but will not employ any employee in an interracial relationship, how can it be said that the employer is discriminating against either whites or blacks “because of such individual’s race”? This employer would be applying the same rule to all its employees regardless of their race.
The answer is that this employer is discriminating on a ground that history tells us is a core form of race discrimi- nation.18 “It would require absolute blindness to the history
—————— 18 Notably, Title VII recognizes that in light of history distinctions on
the basis of race are always disadvantageous, but it permits certain dis-
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of racial discrimination in this country not to understand what is at stake in such cases . . . . A prohibition on ‘race- mixing’ was . . . grounded in bigotry against a particular race and was an integral part of preserving the rigid hier- archical distinction that denominated members of the black race as inferior to whites.” 883 F. 3d, at 158–159 (Lynch, J., dissenting).
Discrimination because of sexual orientation is different. It cannot be regarded as a form of sex discrimination on the ground that applies in race cases since discrimination be- cause of sexual orientation is not historically tied to a pro- ject that aims to subjugate either men or women. An em- ployer who discriminates on this ground might be called “homophobic” or “transphobic,” but not sexist. See Wittmer v. Phillips 66 Co., 915 F. 3d 328, 338 (CA5 2019) (Ho, J., concurring).
3 The opinion of the Court intimates that the term “sex”
was not universally understood in 1964 to refer just to the categories of male and female, see ante, at 5, and while the Court does not take up any alternative definition as a ground for its decision, I will say a word on this subject.
As previously noted, the definitions of “sex” in the una- bridged dictionaries in use in the 1960s are reproduced in Appendix A, infra. Anyone who examines those definitions can see that the primary definition in every one of them re- fers to the division of living things into two groups, male and female, based on biology, and most of the definitions further down the list are the same or very similar. In addi- tion, some definitions refer to heterosexual sex acts. See
—————— tinctions based on sex. Title 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(e)(1) allows for “in- stances where religion, sex, or national origin is a bona fide occupational qualification reasonably necessary to the normal operation of [a] partic- ular business or enterprise.” Race is wholly absent from this list.
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Random House Dictionary 1307 (“coitus,” “sexual inter- course” (defs. 5–6)); American Heritage Dictionary, at 1187 (“sexual intercourse” (def. 5)).19
Aside from these, what is there? One definition, “to neck passionately,” Random House Dictionary 1307 (def. 8), re- fers to sexual conduct that is not necessarily heterosexual. But can it be seriously argued that one of the aims of Title VII is to outlaw employment discrimination against em- ployees, whether heterosexual or homosexual, who engage in necking? And even if Title VII had that effect, that is not what is at issue in cases like those before us.
That brings us to the two remaining subsidiary defini- tions, both of which refer to sexual urges or instincts and their manifestations. See the fourth definition in the Amer- ican Heritage Dictionary, at 1187 (“the sexual urge or in- stinct as it manifests itself in behavior”), and the fourth def- inition in both Webster’s Second and Third (“[p]henomena of sexual instincts and their manifestations,” Webster’s New International Dictionary, at 2296 (2d ed.); Webster’s Third New International Dictionary 2081 (1966)). Since both of these come after three prior definitions that refer to men and women, they are most naturally read to have the same association, and in any event, is it plausible that Title VII prohibits discrimination based on any sexual urge or instinct and its manifestations? The urge to rape?
Viewing all these definitions, the overwhelming impact is that discrimination because of “sex” was understood during the era when Title VII was enacted to refer to men and women. (The same is true of current definitions, which are reproduced in Appendix B, infra.) This no doubt explains why neither this Court nor any of the lower courts have tried to make much of the dictionary definitions of sex just ——————
19 See American Heritage Dictionary 1188 (1969) (defining “sexual in- tercourse”); Webster’s Third New International Dictionary 2082 (1966) (same); Random House Dictionary of the English Language 1308 (1966) (same).
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discussed.
II A
So far, I have not looked beyond dictionary definitions of “sex,” but textualists like Justice Scalia do not confine their inquiry to the scrutiny of dictionaries. See Manning, Tex- tualism and the Equity of the Statute, 101 Colum. L. Rev. 1, 109 (2001). Dictionary definitions are valuable because they are evidence of what people at the time of a statute’s enactment would have understood its words to mean. Ibid. But they are not the only source of relevant evidence, and what matters in the end is the answer to the question that the evidence is gathered to resolve: How would the terms of a statute have been understood by ordinary people at the time of enactment?
Justice Scalia was perfectly clear on this point. The words of a law, he insisted, “mean what they conveyed to reasonable people at the time.” Reading Law, at 16 (empha- sis added).20
Leading proponents of Justice Scalia’s school of textual- ism have expounded on this principle and explained that it is grounded on an understanding of the way language works. As Dean John F. Manning explains, “the meaning of language depends on the way a linguistic community uses words and phrases in context.” What Divides Textu- alists From Purposivists? 106 Colum. L. Rev. 70, 78 (2006). “[O]ne can make sense of others’ communications only by placing them in their appropriate social and linguistic con- text,” id., at 79–80, and this is no less true of statutes than any other verbal communications. “[S]tatutes convey meaning only because members of a relevant linguistic
—————— 20 See also Chisom v. Roemer, 501 U. S. 380, 405 (1991) (Scalia, J., dis-
senting) (“We are to read the words of [a statutory] text as any ordinary Member of Congress would have read them . . . and apply the meaning so determined”).
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community apply shared background conventions for un- derstanding how particular words are used in particular contexts.” Manning, The Absurdity Doctrine, 116 Harv. L. Rev. 2387, 2457 (2003). Therefore, judges should ascribe to the words of a statute “what a reasonable person conver- sant with applicable social conventions would have under- stood them to be adopting.” Manning, 106 Colum. L. Rev., at 77. Or, to put the point in slightly different terms, a judge interpreting a statute should ask “ ‘what one would ordinarily be understood as saying, given the circumstances in which one said it.’ ” Manning, 116 Harv. L. Rev., at 2397– 2398.
Judge Frank Easterbrook has made the same points:
“Words are arbitrary signs, having meaning only to the extent writers and readers share an understanding. . . . Language in general, and legislation in particular, is a social enterprise to which both speakers and listeners contribute, drawing on background understandings and the structure and circumstances of the utterance.” Herrmann v. Cencom Cable Assocs., Inc., 978 F. 2d 978, 982 (CA7 1992).
Consequently, “[s]licing a statute into phrases while ig- noring . . . the setting of the enactment . . . is a formula for disaster.” Ibid.; see also Continental Can Co. v. Chicago Truck Drivers, Helpers and Warehouse Workers Union (In- dependent) Pension Fund, 916 F. 2d 1154, 1157 (CA7 1990) (“You don’t have to be Ludwig Wittgenstein or Hans-Georg Gadamer to know that successful communication depends on meanings shared by interpretive communities”).
Thus, when textualism is properly understood, it calls for an examination of the social context in which a statute was enacted because this may have an important bearing on what its words were understood to mean at the time of en- actment. Textualists do not read statutes as if they were messages picked up by a powerful radio telescope from a
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distant and utterly unknown civilization. Statutes consist of communications between members of a particular lin- guistic community, one that existed in a particular place and at a particular time, and these communications must therefore be interpreted as they were understood by that community at that time.
For this reason, it is imperative to consider how Ameri- cans in 1964 would have understood Title VII’s prohibition of discrimination because of sex. To get a picture of this, we may imagine this scene. Suppose that, while Title VII was under consideration in Congress, a group of average Amer- icans decided to read the text of the bill with the aim of writing or calling their representatives in Congress and conveying their approval or disapproval. What would these ordinary citizens have taken “discrimination because of sex” to mean? Would they have thought that this language prohibited discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity?
B The answer could not be clearer. In 1964, ordinary Amer-
icans reading the text of Title VII would not have dreamed that discrimination because of sex meant discrimination be- cause of sexual orientation, much less gender identity. The ordinary meaning of discrimination because of “sex” was discrimination because of a person’s biological sex, not sex- ual orientation or gender identity. The possibility that dis- crimination on either of these grounds might fit within some exotic understanding of sex discrimination would not have crossed their minds.
1 In 1964, the concept of prohibiting discrimination “be-
cause of sex” was no novelty. It was a familiar and well- understood concept, and what it meant was equal treat- ment for men and women.
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Long before Title VII was adopted, many pioneering state and federal laws had used language substantively indistin- guishable from Title VII’s critical phrase, “discrimination because of sex.” For example, the California Constitution of 1879 stipulated that no one, “on account of sex, [could] be disqualified from entering upon or pursuing any lawful business, vocation, or profession.” Art. XX, §18 (emphasis added). It also prohibited a student’s exclusion from any state university department “on account of sex.” Art. IX, §9; accord, Mont. Const., Art. XI, §9 (1889).
Wyoming’s first Constitution proclaimed broadly that “[b]oth male and female citizens of this state shall equally enjoy all civil, political and religious rights and privileges,” Art. VI, §1 (1890), and then provided specifically that “[i]n none of the public schools . . . shall distinction or discrimi- nation be made on account of sex,” Art. VII, §10 (emphasis added); see also §16 (the “university shall be equally open to students of both sexes”). Washington’s Constitution like- wise required “ample provision for the education of all chil- dren . . . without distinction or preference on account of . . . sex.” Art. IX, §1 (1889) (emphasis added).
The Constitution of Utah, adopted in 1895, provided that the right to vote and hold public office “shall not be denied or abridged on account of sex.” Art. IV, §1 (emphasis added). And in the next sentence it made clear what “on account of sex” meant, stating that “[b]oth male and female citizens . . . shall enjoy equally all civil, political and religious rights and privileges.” Ibid.
The most prominent example of a provision using this language was the Nineteenth Amendment, ratified in 1920, which bans the denial or abridgment of the right to vote “on account of sex.” U. S. Const., Amdt. 19. Similar language appeared in the proposal of the National Woman’s Party for an Equal Rights Amendment. As framed in 1921, this pro- posal forbade all “political, civil or legal disabilities or ine- qualities on account of sex, [o]r on account of marriage.”
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Women Lawyers Meet: Representatives of 20 States En- dorse Proposed Equal Rights Amendment, N. Y. Times, Sept. 16, 1921, p. 10.
Similar terms were used in the precursor to the Equal Pay Act. Introduced in 1944 by Congresswoman Winifred C. Stanley, it proclaimed that “[d]iscrimination against em- ployees, in rates of compensation paid, on account of sex” was “contrary to the public interest.” H. R. 5056, 78th Cong., 2d Sess.
In 1952, the new Constitution for Puerto Rico, which was approved by Congress, 66 Stat. 327, prohibited all “discrim- ination . . . on account of . . . sex,” Art. II, Bill of Rights §1 (emphasis added), and in the landmark Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952, Congress outlawed discrimination in naturalization “because of . . . sex.” 8 U. S. C. §1422 (em- phasis added).
In 1958, the International Labour Organisation, a United Nations agency of which the United States is a member, recommended that nations bar employment discrimination “made on the basis of . . . sex.” Convention (No. 111) Con- cerning Discrimination in Respect of Employment and Oc- cupation, Art. 1(a), June 25, 1958, 362 U. N. T. S. 32 (em- phasis added).
In 1961, President Kennedy ordered the Civil Service Commission to review and modify personnel policies “to as- sure that selection for any career position is hereinafter made solely on the basis of individual merit and fitness, without regard to sex.”21 He concurrently established a “Commission on the Status of Women” and directed it to recommend policies “for overcoming discriminations in gov- ernment and private employment on the basis of sex.” Exec. Order No. 10980, 3 CFR 138 (1961 Supp.) (emphasis ——————
21 J. Kennedy, Statement by the President on the Establishment of the President’s Commission on the Status of Women 3 (Dec. 14, 1961) (emphasis added), https://www.jfklibrary.org/asset-viewer/archives/ JFKPOF/093/JFKPOF-093-004.
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added). In short, the concept of discrimination “because of,” “on
account of,” or “on the basis of ” sex was well understood. It was part of the campaign for equality that had been waged by women’s rights advocates for more than a century, and what it meant was equal treatment for men and women.22
2 Discrimination “because of sex” was not understood as
having anything to do with discrimination because of sex- ual orientation or transgender status. Any such notion would have clashed in spectacular fashion with the societal norms of the day.
For most 21st-century Americans, it is painful to be re- minded of the way our society once treated gays and lesbi- ans, but any honest effort to understand what the terms of Title VII were understood to mean when enacted must take into account the societal norms of that time. And the plain truth is that in 1964 homosexuality was thought to be a mental disorder, and homosexual conduct was regarded as morally culpable and worthy of punishment.
—————— 22 Analysis of the way Title VII’s key language was used in books and
articles during the relevant time period supports this conclusion. A study searched a vast database of documents from that time to determine how the phrase “discriminate against . . . because of [some trait]” was used. Phillips, The Overlooked Evidence in the Title VII Cases: The Lin- guistic (and Therefore Textualist) Principle of Compositionality (manu- script, at 3) (May 11, 2020) (brackets in original), https://ssrn.com/ abstract=3585940. The study found that the phrase was used to denote discrimination against “someone . . . motivated by prejudice, or biased ideas or attitudes . . . directed at people with that trait in particular.” Id., at 7 (emphasis deleted). In other words, “discriminate against” was “associated with negative treatment directed at members of a discrete group.” Id., at 5. Thus, as used in 1964, “discrimination because of sex” would have been understood to mean discrimination against a woman or a man based on “unfair beliefs or attitudes” about members of that par- ticular sex. Id., at 7.
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In its then-most recent Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (1952) (DSM–I), the American Psychi- atric Association (APA) classified same-sex attraction as a “sexual deviation,” a particular type of “sociopathic person- ality disturbance,” id., at 38–39, and the next edition, is- sued in 1968, similarly classified homosexuality as a “sex- ual deviatio[n],” Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 44 (2d ed.) (DSM–II). It was not until the sixth printing of the DSM–II in 1973 that this was changed.23
Society’s treatment of homosexuality and homosexual conduct was consistent with this understanding. Sodomy was a crime in every State but Illinois, see W. Eskridge, Dishonorable Passions 387–407 (2008), and in the District of Columbia, a law enacted by Congress made sodomy a fel- ony punishable by imprisonment for up to 10 years and per- mitted the indefinite civil commitment of “sexual psycho- path[s],” Act of June 9, 1948, §§104, 201–207, 62 Stat. 347– 349.24
—————— 23 APA, Homosexuality and Sexual Orientation Disturbance: Proposed
Change in DSM–II, 6th Printing, p. 44 (APA Doc. Ref. No. 730008, 1973) (reclassifying “homosexuality” as a “[s]exual orientation disturbance,” a category “for individuals whose sexual interests are directed primarily toward people of the same sex and who are either disturbed by . . . or wish to change their sexual orientation,” and explaining that “homosex- uality . . . by itself does not constitute a psychiatric disorder”); see also APA, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 281–282 (3d ed. 1980) (DSM–III) (similarly creating category of “Ego-dystonic Homo- sexuality” for “homosexuals for whom changing sexual orientation is a persistent concern,” while observing that “homosexuality itself is not con- sidered a mental disorder”); Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U. S. 644, 661 (2015).
24 In 1981, after achieving home rule, the District attempted to decrim- inalize sodomy, see D. C. Act No. 4–69, but the House of Representatives vetoed the bill, H. Res. 208, 97th Cong., 1st Sess. (1981); 127 Cong. Rec. 22764–22779 (1981). Sodomy was not decriminalized in the District un- til 1995. See Anti-Sexual Abuse Act of 1994, §501(b), 41 D. C. Reg. 53 (1995), enacted as D. C. Law 10–257.
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This view of homosexuality was reflected in the rules gov- erning the federal work force. In 1964, federal “[a]gencies could deny homosexual men and women employment be- cause of their sexual orientation,” and this practice contin- ued until 1975. GAO, D. Heivilin, Security Clearances: Consideration of Sexual Orientation in the Clearance Pro- cess 2 (GAO/NSIAD–95–21, 1995). See, e.g., Anonymous v. Macy, 398 F. 2d 317, 318 (CA5 1968) (affirming dismissal of postal employee for homosexual acts).
In 1964, individuals who were known to be homosexual could not obtain security clearances, and any who possessed clearances were likely to lose them if their orientation was discovered. A 1953 Executive Order provided that back- ground investigations should look for evidence of “sexual perversion,” as well as “[a]ny criminal, infamous, dishonest, immoral, or notoriously disgraceful conduct.” Exec. Order No. 10450, §8(a)(1)(iii), 3 CFR 938 (1949–1953 Comp.). “Until about 1991, when agencies began to change their se- curity policies and practices regarding sexual orientation, there were a number of documented cases where defense civilian or contractor employees’ security clearances were denied or revoked because of their sexual orientation.” GAO, Security Clearances, at 2. See, e.g., Adams v. Laird, 420 F. 2d 230, 240 (CADC 1969) (upholding denial of secu- rity clearance to defense contractor employee because he had “engaged in repeated homosexual acts”); see also Web- ster v. Doe, 486 U. S. 592, 595, 601 (1988) (concluding that decision to fire a particular individual because he was ho- mosexual fell within the “discretion” of the Director of Cen- tral Intelligence under the National Security Act of 1947 and thus was unreviewable under the APA).
The picture in state employment was similar. In 1964, it was common for States to bar homosexuals from serving as teachers. An article summarizing the situation 15 years af- ter Title VII became law reported that “[a]ll states have statutes that permit the revocation of teaching certificates
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(or credentials) for immorality, moral turpitude, or unpro- fessionalism,” and, the survey added, “[h]omosexuality is considered to fall within all three categories.”25
The situation in California is illustrative. California laws prohibited individuals who engaged in “immoral conduct” (which was construed to include homosexual behavior), as well as those convicted of “sex offenses” (like sodomy), from employment as teachers. Cal. Educ. Code Ann. §§13202, 13207, 13209, 13218, 13255 (West 1960). The teaching cer- tificates of individuals convicted of engaging in homosexual acts were revoked. See, e.g., Sarac v. State Bd. of Ed., 249 Cal. App. 2d 58, 62–64, 57 Cal. Rptr. 69, 72–73 (1967) (up- holding revocation of secondary teaching credential from teacher who was convicted of engaging in homosexual con- duct on public beach), overruled in part, Morrison v. State Bd. of Ed., 1 Cal. 3d 214, 461 P. 2d 375 (1969).
In Florida, the legislature enacted laws authorizing the revocation of teaching certificates for “misconduct involving moral turpitude,” Fla. Stat. Ann. §229.08(16) (1961), and this law was used to target homosexual conduct. In 1964, a legislative committee was wrapping up a 6-year campaign to remove homosexual teachers from public schools and state universities. As a result of these efforts, the state board of education apparently revoked at least 71 teachers’ certificates and removed at least 14 university professors. Eskridge, Dishonorable Passions, at 103.
Individuals who engaged in homosexual acts also faced the loss of other occupational licenses, such as those needed to work as a “lawyer, doctor, mortician, [or] beautician.”26 See, e.g., Florida Bar v. Kay, 232 So. 2d 378 (Fla. 1970) (at- torney disbarred after conviction for homosexual conduct in ——————
25 Rivera, Our Straight-Laced Judges: The Legal Position of Homosex- ual Persons in the United States, 30 Hastings L. J. 799, 861 (1979).
26 Eskridge, Challenging the Apartheid of the Closet: Establishing Conditions for Lesbian and Gay Intimacy, Nomos, and Citizenship, 1961–1981, 25 Hofstra L. Rev. 817, 819 (1997).
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public bathroom). In 1964 and for many years thereafter, homosexuals were
barred from the military. See, e.g., Army Reg. 635–89, §I(2) (a) (July 15, 1966) (“Personnel who voluntarily engage in homosexual acts, irrespective of sex, will not be permitted to serve in the Army in any capacity, and their prompt sep- aration is mandatory”); Army Reg. 600–443, §I(2) (April 10, 1953) (similar). Prohibitions against homosexual conduct by members of the military were not eliminated until 2010. See Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Repeal Act of 2010, 124 Stat. 3515 (repealing 10 U. S. C. §654, which required members of the Armed Forces to be separated for engaging in homosexual conduct).
Homosexuals were also excluded from entry into the United States. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952 (INA) excluded aliens “afflicted with psychopathic per- sonality.” 8 U. S. C. §1182(a)(4) (1964 ed.). In Boutilier v. INS, 387 U. S. 118, 120–123 (1967), this Court, relying on the INA’s legislative history, interpreted that term to en- compass homosexuals and upheld an alien’s deportation on that ground. Three Justices disagreed with the majority’s interpretation of the phrase “psychopathic personality.”27 But it apparently did not occur to anyone to argue that the Court’s interpretation was inconsistent with the INA’s ex- press prohibition of discrimination “because of sex.” That was how our society—and this Court—saw things a half century ago. Discrimination because of sex and discrimina- tion because of sexual orientation were viewed as two en- tirely different concepts.
To its credit, our society has now come to recognize the injustice of past practices, and this recognition provides the impetus to “update” Title VII. But that is not our job. Our ——————
27 Justices Douglas and Fortas thought that a homosexual is merely “one, who by some freak, is the product of an arrested development.” Boutilier, 387 U. S., at 127 (Douglas, J., dissenting); see also id., at 125 (Brennan, J., dissenting) (based on lower court dissent).
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duty is to understand what the terms of Title VII were un- derstood to mean when enacted, and in doing so, we must take into account the societal norms of that time. We must therefore ask whether ordinary Americans in 1964 would have thought that discrimination because of “sex” carried some exotic meaning under which private-sector employers would be prohibited from engaging in a practice that repre- sented the official policy of the Federal Government with respect to its own employees. We must ask whether Amer- icans at that time would have thought that Title VII banned discrimination against an employee for engaging in conduct that Congress had made a felony and a ground for civil commitment.
The questions answer themselves. Even if discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity could be squeezed into some arcane understanding of sex discrimi- nation, the context in which Title VII was enacted would tell us that this is not what the statute’s terms were under- stood to mean at that time. To paraphrase something Jus- tice Scalia once wrote, “our job is not to scavenge the world of English usage to discover whether there is any possible meaning” of discrimination because of sex that might be broad enough to encompass discrimination because of sex- ual orientation or gender identity. Chisom v. Roemer, 501 U. S. 380, 410 (1991) (dissenting opinion). Without strong evidence to the contrary (and there is none here), our job is to ascertain and apply the “ordinary meaning” of the stat- ute. Ibid. And in 1964, ordinary Americans most certainly would not have understood Title VII to ban discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity.
The Court makes a tiny effort to suggest that at least some people in 1964 might have seen what Title VII really means. Ante, at 26. What evidence does it adduce? One complaint filed in 1969, another filed in 1974, and argu- ments made in the mid-1970s about the meaning of the Equal Rights Amendment. Ibid. To call this evidence
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merely feeble would be generous.
C While Americans in 1964 would have been shocked to
learn that Congress had enacted a law prohibiting sexual orientation discrimination, they would have been bewil- dered to hear that this law also forbids discrimination on the basis of “transgender status” or “gender identity,” terms that would have left people at the time scratching their heads. The term “transgender” is said to have been coined “ ‘in the early 1970s,’ ”28 and the term “gender identity,” now understood to mean “[a]n internal sense of being male, fe- male or something else,”29 apparently first appeared in an academic article in 1964.30 Certainly, neither term was in common parlance; indeed, dictionaries of the time still pri- marily defined the word “gender” by reference to grammat- ical classifications. See, e.g., American Heritage Diction- ary, at 548 (def. 1(a)) (“Any set of two or more categories, such as masculine, feminine, and neuter, into which words are divided . . . and that determine agreement with or the
—————— 28 Drescher, Transsexualism, Gender Identity Disorder and the DSM,
14 J. Gay & Lesbian Mental Health 109, 110 (2010). 29 American Psychological Association, 49 Monitor on Psychology, at
32. 30 Green, Robert Stoller’s Sex and Gender: 40 Years On, 39 Archives
Sexual Behav. 1457 (2010); see Stoller, A Contribution to the Study of Gender Identity, 45 Int’l J. Psychoanalysis 220 (1964). The term appears to have been coined a year or two earlier. See Haig, The Inexorable Rise of Gender and the Decline of Sex: Social Change in Academic Titles, 1945–2001, 33 Archives Sexual Behav. 87, 93 (2004) (suggesting the term was first introduced at 23rd International Psycho-Analytical Con- gress in Stockholm in 1963); J. Meyerowitz, How Sex Changed 213 (2002) (referring to founding of “Gender Identity Research Clinic” at UCLA in 1962). In his book, Sex and Gender, published in 1968, Robert Stoller referred to “gender identity” as “a working term” “associated with” his research team but noted that they were not “fixed on copyrighting the term or on defending the concept as one of the splendors of the scientific world.” Sex and Gender, p. viii.
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selection of modifiers, referents, or grammatical forms”). While it is likely true that there have always been indi-
viduals who experience what is now termed “gender dys- phoria,” i.e., “[d]iscomfort or distress related to an incongru- ence between an individual’s gender identity and the gender assigned at birth,”31 the current understanding of the concept postdates the enactment of Title VII. Nothing resembling what is now called gender dysphoria appeared in either DSM–I (1952) or DSM–II (1968). It was not until 1980 that the APA, in DSM–III, recognized two main psy- chiatric diagnoses related to this condition, “Gender Iden- tity Disorder of Childhood” and “Transsexualism” in adoles- cents and adults.32 DSM–III, at 261–266.
The first widely publicized sex reassignment surgeries in the United States were not performed until 1966,33 and the great majority of physicians surveyed in 1969 thought that an individual who sought sex reassignment surgery was ei- ther “ ‘severely neurotic’ ” or “ ‘psychotic.’ ”34
It defies belief to suggest that the public meaning of dis- crimination because of sex in 1964 encompassed discrimi- nation on the basis of a concept that was essentially un- known to the public at that time.
D 1
The Court’s main excuse for entirely ignoring the social context in which Title VII was enacted is that the meaning of Title VII’s prohibition of discrimination because of sex is
—————— 31 American Psychological Association, 49 Monitor on Psychology, at
32. 32 See Drescher, supra, at 112. 33 Buckley, A Changing of Sex by Surgery Begun at Johns Hopkins,
N. Y. Times, Nov. 21, 1966, p. 1, col. 8; see also J. Meyerowitz, How Sex Changed 218–220 (2002).
34 Drescher, supra, at 112 (quoting Green, Attitudes Toward Transsex- ualism and Sex-Reassignment Procedures, in Transsexualism and Sex Reassignment 241–242 (R. Green & J. Money eds. 1969)).
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clear, and therefore it simply does not matter whether peo- ple in 1964 were “smart enough to realize” what its lan- guage means. Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 357 (Posner, J., concur- ring). According to the Court, an argument that looks to the societal norms of those times represents an impermis- sible attempt to displace the statutory language. Ante, at 25–26.
The Court’s argument rests on a false premise. As al- ready explained at length, the text of Title VII does not pro- hibit discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity. And what the public thought about those issues in 1964 is relevant and important, not because it provides a ground for departing from the statutory text, but because it helps to explain what the text was understood to mean when adopted.
In arguing that we must put out of our minds what we know about the time when Title VII was enacted, the Court relies on Justice Scalia’s opinion for the Court in Oncale v. Sundowner Offshore Services, Inc., 523 U. S. 75 (1998). But Oncale is nothing like these cases, and no one should be taken in by the majority’s effort to enlist Justice Scalia in its updating project.
The Court’s unanimous decision in Oncale was thor- oughly unremarkable. The Court held that a male em- ployee who alleged that he had been sexually harassed at work by other men stated a claim under Title VII. Although the impetus for Title VII’s prohibition of sex discrimination was to protect women, anybody reading its terms would im- mediately appreciate that it applies equally to both sexes, and by the time Oncale reached the Court, our precedent already established that sexual harassment may constitute sex discrimination within the meaning of Title VII. See Meritor Savings Bank, FSB v. Vinson, 477 U. S. 57 (1986). Given these premises, syllogistic reasoning dictated the holding.
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What today’s decision latches onto are Oncale’s com- ments about whether “ ‘male-on-male sexual harassment’ ” was on Congress’s mind when it enacted Title VII. Ante, at 28 (quoting 523 U. S., at 79). The Court in Oncale observed that this specific type of behavior “was assuredly not the principal evil Congress was concerned with when it enacted Title VII,” but it found that immaterial because “statutory prohibitions often go beyond the principal evil to cover rea- sonably comparable evils, and it is ultimately the provisions of our laws rather than the principal concerns of our legis- lators by which we are governed.” 523 U. S., at 79 (empha- sis added).
It takes considerable audacity to read these comments as committing the Court to a position on deep philosophical questions about the meaning of language and their implica- tions for the interpretation of legal rules. These comments are better understood as stating mundane and uncontrover- sial truths. Who would argue that a statute applies only to the “principal evils” and not lesser evils that fall within the plain scope of its terms? Would even the most ardent “pur- posivists” and fans of legislative history contend that congressional intent is restricted to Congress’s “principal concerns”? Properly understood, Oncale does not provide the slight- est support for what the Court has done today. For one thing, it would be a wild understatement to say that dis- crimination because of sexual orientation and transgender status was not the “principal evil” on Congress’s mind in 1964. Whether we like to admit it now or not, in the think- ing of Congress and the public at that time, such discrimi- nation would not have been evil at all.
But the more important difference between these cases and Oncale is that here the interpretation that the Court adopts does not fall within the ordinary meaning of the stat- utory text as it would have been understood in 1964. To
38 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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decide for the defendants in Oncale, it would have been nec- essary to carve out an exception to the statutory text. Here, no such surgery is at issue. Even if we totally disregard the societal norms of 1964, the text of Title VII does not support the Court’s holding. And the reasoning of Oncale does not preclude or counsel against our taking those norms into ac- count. They are relevant, not for the purpose of creating an exception to the terms of the statute, but for the purpose of better appreciating how those terms would have been un- derstood at the time.
2 The Court argues that two other decisions––Phillips v.
Martin Marietta Corp., 400 U. S. 542 (1971) (per curiam), and Los Angeles Dept. of Water and Power v. Manhart, 435 U. S. 702 (1978)––buttress its decision, but those cases merely held that Title VII prohibits employer conduct that plainly constitutes discrimination because of biological sex. In Philips, the employer treated women with young chil- dren less favorably than men with young children. In Man- hart, the employer required women to make larger pension contributions than men. It is hard to see how these hold- ings assist the Court.
The Court extracts three “lessons” from Phillips, Man- hart, and Oncale, but none sheds any light on the question before us. The first lesson is that “it’s irrelevant what an employer might call its discriminatory practice, how others might label it, or what else might motivate it.” Ante, at 14. This lesson is obviously true but proves nothing. As to the label attached to a practice, has anyone ever thought that the application of a law to a person’s conduct depends on how it is labeled? Could a bank robber escape conviction by saying he was engaged in asset enhancement? So if an em- ployer discriminates because of sex, the employer is liable no matter what it calls its conduct, but if the employer’s
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conduct is not sex discrimination, the statute does not ap- ply. Thus, this lesson simply takes us back to the question whether discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity is a form of discrimination because of bio- logical sex. For reasons already discussed, see Part I–A, supra, it is not.
It likewise proves nothing of relevance here to note that an employer cannot escape liability by showing that dis- crimination on a prohibited ground was not its sole motiva- tion. So long as a prohibited ground was a motivating fac- tor, the existence of other motivating factors does not defeat liability.
The Court makes much of the argument that “[i]n Phil- lips, the employer could have accurately spoken of its policy as one based on ‘motherhood.’ ” Ante, at 14; see also ante, at 16. But motherhood, by definition, is a condition that can be experienced only by women, so a policy that distin- guishes between motherhood and parenthood is necessarily a policy that draws a sex-based distinction. There was sex discrimination in Phillips, because women with children were treated disadvantageously compared to men with children.
Lesson number two—“the plaintiff ’s sex need not be the sole or primary cause of the employer’s adverse action,” ante, at 14—is similarly unhelpful. The standard of causa- tion in these cases is whether sex is necessarily a “motivat- ing factor” when an employer discriminates on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity. 42 U. S. C. §2000e– 2(m). But the essential question—whether discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity constitutes sex discrimination—would be the same no matter what cau- sation standard applied. The Court’s extensive discussion of causation standards is so much smoke.
Lesson number three––“an employer cannot escape lia- bility by demonstrating that it treats males and females comparably as groups,” ante, at 15, is also irrelevant. There
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is no dispute that discrimination against an individual em- ployee based on that person’s sex cannot be justified on the ground that the employer’s treatment of the average em- ployee of that sex is at least as favorable as its treatment of the average employee of the opposite sex. Nor does it mat- ter if an employer discriminates against only a subset of men or women, where the same subset of the opposite sex is treated differently, as in Phillips. That is not the issue here. An employer who discriminates equally on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity applies the same criterion to every affected individual regardless of sex. See Part I–A, supra.
III A
Because the opinion of the Court flies a textualist flag, I have taken pains to show that it cannot be defended on tex- tualist grounds. But even if the Court’s textualist argu- ment were stronger, that would not explain today’s deci- sion. Many Justices of this Court, both past and present, have not espoused or practiced a method of statutory inter- pretation that is limited to the analysis of statutory text. Instead, when there is ambiguity in the terms of a statute, they have found it appropriate to look to other evidence of “congressional intent,” including legislative history.
So, why in these cases are congressional intent and the legislative history of Title VII totally ignored? Any assess- ment of congressional intent or legislative history seriously undermines the Court’s interpretation.
B As the Court explained in General Elec. Co. v. Gilbert, 429
U. S. 125, 143 (1976), the legislative history of Title VII’s prohibition of sex discrimination is brief, but it is neverthe- less revealing. The prohibition of sex discrimination was “added to Title VII at the last minute on the floor of the
Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020) 41
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House of Representatives,” Meritor Savings Bank, 477 U. S., at 63, by Representative Howard Smith, the Chair- man of the Rules Committee. See 110 Cong. Rec. 2577 (1964). Representative Smith had been an ardent opponent of the civil rights bill, and it has been suggested that he added the prohibition against discrimination on the basis of “sex” as a poison pill. See, e.g., Ulane v. Eastern Airlines, Inc., 742 F. 2d 1081, 1085 (CA7 1984). On this theory, Rep- resentative Smith thought that prohibiting employment discrimination against women would be unacceptable to Members who might have otherwise voted in favor of the bill and that the addition of this prohibition might bring about the bill’s defeat.35 But if Representative Smith had been looking for a poison pill, prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity would have been far more potent. However, neither Representa- tive Smith nor any other Member said one word about the possibility that the prohibition of sex discrimination might have that meaning. Instead, all the debate concerned dis- crimination on the basis of biological sex.36 See 110 Cong. Rec. 2577–2584.
Representative Smith’s motivations are contested, 883 F. 3d, at 139–140 (Lynch, J., dissenting), but whatever they
—————— 35 See Osterman, Origins of a Myth: Why Courts, Scholars, and the
Public Think Title VII’s Ban on Sex Discrimination Was an Accident, 20 Yale J. L. & Feminism 409, 409–410 (2009).
36 Recent scholarship has linked the adoption of the Smith Amendment to the broader campaign for women’s rights that was underway at the time. E.g., Osterman, supra; Freeman, How Sex Got Into Title VII: Per- sistent Opportunism as a Maker of Public Policy, 9 L. & Ineq. 163 (1991); Barzilay, Parenting Title VII: Rethinking the History of the Sex Discrim- ination Provision, 28 Yale J. L. & Feminism 55 (2016); Gold, A Tale of Two Amendments: The Reasons Congress Added Sex to Title VII and Their Implication for the Issue of Comparable Worth, 19 Duquesne L. Rev. 453 (1981). None of these studies has unearthed evidence that the amendment was understood to apply to discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity.
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were, the meaning of the adoption of the prohibition of sex discrimination is clear. It was no accident. It grew out of “a long history of women’s rights advocacy that had increas- ingly been gaining mainstream recognition and ac- ceptance,” and it marked a landmark achievement in the path toward fully equal rights for women. Id., at 140. “Dis- crimination against gay women and men, by contrast, was not on the table for public debate . . . [i]n those dark, pre- Stonewall days.” Ibid.
For those who regard congressional intent as the touch- stone of statutory interpretation, the message of Title VII’s legislative history cannot be missed.
C Post-enactment events only clarify what was apparent
when Title VII was enacted. As noted, bills to add “sexual orientation” to Title VII’s list of prohibited grounds were in- troduced in every Congress beginning in 1975, see supra, at 2, and two such bills were before Congress in 199137 when it made major changes in Title VII. At that time, the three Courts of Appeals to reach the issue had held that Title VII does not prohibit discrimination because of sexual orienta- tion,38 two other Circuits had endorsed that interpretation in dicta,39 and no Court of Appeals had held otherwise. Sim- ilarly, the three Circuits to address the application of Title VII to transgender persons had all rejected the argument
—————— 37 H. R. 1430, 102d Cong., 1st Sess., §2(d) (as introduced in the House
on Mar. 13, 1991); S. 574, 102d Cong., 1st Sess., §5 (as introduced in the Senate on Mar. 6, 1991).
38 See Williamson v. A. G. Edwards & Sons, Inc., 876 F. 2d 69, 70 (CA8 1989) (per curiam), cert. denied, 493 U. S. 1089 (1990); DeSantis v. Pa- cific Tel. & Tel. Co., 608 F. 2d 327, 329–330 (CA9 1979); Blum v. Gulf Oil Corp., 597 F. 2d 936, 938 (CA5 1979) (per curiam).
39 Ruth v. Children’s Med. Ctr., 1991 WL 151158, *5 (CA6, Aug. 8, 1991) (per curiam); Ulane v. Eastern Airlines, Inc., 742 F. 2d 1081, 1084– 1085 (CA7 1984), cert. denied, 471 U. S. 1017 (1985).
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that it covered discrimination on this basis.40 These were also the positions of the EEOC.41 In enacting substantial changes to Title VII, the 1991 Congress abrogated numer- ous judicial decisions with which it disagreed. If it also dis- agreed with the decisions regarding sexual orientation and transgender discrimination, it could have easily overruled those as well, but it did not do so.42
After 1991, six other Courts of Appeals reached the issue of sexual orientation discrimination, and until 2017, every single Court of Appeals decision understood Title VII’s pro- hibition of “discrimination because of sex” to mean discrim- ination because of biological sex. See, e.g., Higgins v. New Balance Athletic Shoe, Inc., 194 F. 3d 252, 259 (CA1 1999); Simonton v. Runyon, 232 F. 3d 33, 36 (CA2 2000); Bibby v. Philadelphia Coca Cola Bottling Co., 260 F. 3d 257, 261 (CA3 2001), cert. denied, 534 U. S. 1155 (2002); Wrightson v. Pizza Hut of Am., Inc., 99 F. 3d 138, 143 (CA4 1996); Hamm v. Weyauwega Milk Products, Inc., 332 F. 3d 1058, 1062 (CA7 2003); Medina v. Income Support Div., N. M., 413 F. 3d 1131, 1135 (CA10 2005); Ev- ans v. Georgia Regional Hospital, 850 F. 3d 1248, 1255 (CA11), cert. denied, 583 U. S. ___ (2017). Similarly, the other Circuit to formally address whether Title VII applies to claims of discrimination based on transgender status had also rejected the argument, creating unanimous consensus prior to the Sixth Circuit’s decision below. See Etsitty v. Utah Transit Authority, 502 F. 3d 1215, 1220–1221 (CA10 ——————
40 See Ulane, 742 F. 2d, at 1084–1085; Sommers v. Budget Mktg., Inc., 667 F. 2d 748, 750 (CA8 1982) (per curiam); Holloway v. Arthur Andersen & Co., 566 F. 2d 659, 661–663 (CA9 1977).
41 Dillon v. Frank, 1990 WL 1111074, *3–*4 (EEOC, Feb. 14, 1990); LaBate v. USPS, 1987 WL 774785, *2 (EEOC, Feb. 11, 1987).
42 In more recent legislation, when Congress has wanted to reach acts committed because of sexual orientation or gender identity, it has re- ferred to those grounds by name. See, e.g., 18 U. S. C. §249(a)(2)(A) (hate crimes) (enacted 2009); 34 U. S. C. §12291(b)(13)(A) (certain federally funded programs) (enacted 2013).
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2007). The Court observes that “[t]he people are entitled to rely
on the law as written, without fearing that courts might disregard its plain terms,” ante, at 24, but it has no qualms about disregarding over 50 years of uniform judicial inter- pretation of Title VII’s plain text. Rather, the Court makes the jaw-dropping statement that its decision exemplifies “judicial humility.” Ante, at 31. Is it humble to maintain, not only that Congress did not understand the terms it en- acted in 1964, but that all the Circuit Judges on all the pre- 2017 cases could not see what the phrase discrimination “because of sex” really means? If today’s decision is humble, it is sobering to imagine what the Court might do if it de- cided to be bold.
IV What the Court has done today––interpreting discrimi-
nation because of “sex” to encompass discrimination be- cause of sexual orientation or gender identity––is virtually certain to have far-reaching consequences. Over 100 fed- eral statutes prohibit discrimination because of sex. See Appendix C, infra; e.g., 20 U. S. C. §1681(a) (Title IX); 42 U. S. C. §3631 (Fair Housing Act); 15 U. S. C. 1691(a)(1) (Equal Credit Opportunity Act). The briefs in these cases have called to our attention the potential effects that the Court’s reasoning may have under some of these laws, but the Court waves those considerations aside. As to Title VII itself, the Court dismisses questions about “bathrooms, locker rooms, or anything else of the kind.” Ante, at 31. And it declines to say anything about other statutes whose terms mirror Title VII’s.
The Court’s brusque refusal to consider the consequences of its reasoning is irresponsible. If the Court had allowed the legislative process to take its course, Congress would have had the opportunity to consider competing interests and might have found a way of accommodating at least
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some of them. In addition, Congress might have crafted special rules for some of the relevant statutes. But by in- tervening and proclaiming categorically that employment discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender iden- tity is simply a form of discrimination because of sex, the Court has greatly impeded—and perhaps effectively ended—any chance of a bargained legislative resolution. Before issuing today’s radical decision, the Court should have given some thought to where its decision would lead.
As the briefing in these cases has warned, the position that the Court now adopts will threaten freedom of religion, freedom of speech, and personal privacy and safety. No one should think that the Court’s decision represents an unal- loyed victory for individual liberty.
I will briefly note some of the potential consequences of the Court’s decision, but I do not claim to provide a compre- hensive survey or to suggest how any of these issues should necessarily play out under the Court’s reasoning.43 “[B]athrooms, locker rooms, [and other things] of [that] kind.” The Court may wish to avoid this subject, but it is a matter of concern to many people who are reticent about disrobing or using toilet facilities in the presence of individ- uals whom they regard as members of the opposite sex. For some, this may simply be a question of modesty, but for oth- ers, there is more at stake. For women who have been vic- timized by sexual assault or abuse, the experience of seeing an unclothed person with the anatomy of a male in a con- fined and sensitive location such as a bathroom or locker room can cause serious psychological harm.44
Under the Court’s decision, however, transgender per- sons will be able to argue that they are entitled to use a bathroom or locker room that is reserved for persons of the ——————
43 Contrary to the implication in the Court’s opinion, I do not label these potential consequences “undesirable.” Ante, at 31. I mention them only as possible implications of the Court’s reasoning.
44 Brief for Defend My Privacy et al. as Amici Curiae 7–10.
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sex with which they identify, and while the Court does not define what it means by a transgender person, the term may apply to individuals who are “gender fluid,” that is, in- dividuals whose gender identity is mixed or changes over time.45 Thus, a person who has not undertaken any physi- cal transitioning may claim the right to use the bathroom or locker room assigned to the sex with which the individual identifies at that particular time. The Court provides no clue why a transgender person’s claim to such bathroom or locker room access might not succeed.
A similar issue has arisen under Title IX, which prohibits sex discrimination by any elementary or secondary school and any college or university that receives federal financial assistance.46 In 2016, a Department of Justice advisory warned that barring a student from a bathroom assigned to individuals of the gender with which the student identifies constitutes unlawful sex discrimination,47 and some lower court decisions have agreed. See Whitaker v. Kenosha Uni- fied School Dist. No. 1 Bd. of Ed., 858 F. 3d 1034, 1049 (CA7 2017); G. G. v. Gloucester Cty. School Bd., 822 F. 3d 709, 715 (CA4 2016), vacated and remanded, 580 U. S. ___ (2017); Adams v. School Bd. of St. Johns Cty., 318 F. Supp. 3d 1293, 1325 (MD Fla. 2018); cf. Doe v. Boyertown Area
—————— 45 See 1 Sadock, Comprehensive Textbook of Psychiatry, at 2063 (ex-
plaining that “gender is now often regarded as more fluid” and “[t]hus, gender identity may be described as masculine, feminine, or somewhere in between”).
46 Title IX makes it unlawful to discriminate on the basis of sex in ed- ucation: “No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Fed- eral financial assistance.” 20 U. S. C. §1681(a).
47 See Dept. of Justice & Dept. of Education, Dear Colleague Letter on Transgender Students, May 13, 2016 (Dear Colleague Letter), https://www2.ed.gov/about/offices/list/ocr/letters/colleague-201605-title- ix-transgender.pdf.
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School Dist., 897 F. 3d 518, 533 (CA3 2018), cert. denied, 587 U. S. ___ (2019). Women’s sports. Another issue that may come up under both Title VII and Title IX is the right of a transgender in- dividual to participate on a sports team or in an athletic competition previously reserved for members of one biolog- ical sex.48 This issue has already arisen under Title IX, where it threatens to undermine one of that law’s major achievements, giving young women an equal opportunity to participate in sports. The effect of the Court’s reasoning may be to force young women to compete against students who have a very significant biological advantage, including students who have the size and strength of a male but iden- tify as female and students who are taking male hormones in order to transition from female to male. See, e.g., Com- plaint in Soule v. Connecticut Assn. of Schools, No. 3:20–cv– 00201 (D Conn., Apr. 17, 2020) (challenging Connecticut policy allowing transgender students to compete in girls’ high school sports); Complaint in Hecox v. Little, No. 1:20– cv–00184 (D Idaho, Apr. 15, 2020) (challenging state law that bars transgender students from participating in school sports in accordance with gender identity). Students in these latter categories have found success in athletic com- petitions reserved for females.49
—————— 48 A regulation allows single-sex teams, 34 CFR §106.41(b) (2019), but
the statute itself would of course take precedence. 49 “[S]ince 2017, two biological males [in Connecticut] have collectively
won 15 women’s state championship titles (previously held by ten differ- ent Connecticut girls) against biologically female track athletes.” Brief for Independent Women’s Forum et al. as Amici Curiae in No. 18–107, pp. 14–15.
At the college level, a transgendered woman (biological male) switched from competing on the men’s Division II track team to the women’s Divi- sion II track team at Franklin Pierce University in New Hampshire after taking a year of testosterone suppressants. While this student had placed “eighth out of nine male athletes in the 400 meter hurdles the
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The logic of the Court’s decision could even affect profes- sional sports. Under the Court’s holding that Title VII pro- hibits employment discrimination because of transgender status, an athlete who has the physique of a man but iden- tifies as a woman could claim the right to play on a women’s professional sports team. The owners of the team might try to claim that biological sex is a bona fide occupational qual- ification (BFOQ) under 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(e), but the BFOQ exception has been read very narrowly. See Dothard v. Rawlinson, 433 U. S. 321, 334 (1977). Housing. The Court’s decision may lead to Title IX cases against any college that resists assigning students of the opposite biological sex as roommates. A provision of Title IX, 20 U. S. C. §1686, allows schools to maintain “separate living facilities for the different sexes,” but it may be argued that a student’s “sex” is the gender with which the student identifies.50 Similar claims may be brought under the Fair Housing Act. See 42 U. S. C. §3604.
Employment by religious organizations. Briefs filed by a wide range of religious groups––Christian, Jewish, and Muslim––express deep concern that the position now adopted by the Court “will trigger open conflict with faith-
—————— year before, the student won the women’s competition by over a second and a half––a time that had garnered tenth place in the men’s conference meet just three years before.” Id., at 15.
A transgender male—i.e., a biological female who was in the process of transitioning to male and actively taking testosterone injections––won the Texas girls’ state championship in high school wrestling in 2017. Babb, Transgender Issue Hits Mat in Texas, Washington Post, Feb. 26, 2017, p. A1, col. 1.
50 Indeed, the 2016 advisory letter issued by the Department of Justice took the position that under Title IX schools “must allow transgender students to access housing consistent with their gender identity.” Dear Colleague Letter 4.
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based employment practices of numerous churches, syna- gogues, mosques, and other religious institutions.”51 They argue that “[r]eligious organizations need employees who actually live the faith,”52 and that compelling a religious or- ganization to employ individuals whose conduct flouts the tenets of the organization’s faith forces the group to com- municate an objectionable message.
This problem is perhaps most acute when it comes to the employment of teachers. A school’s standards for its faculty “communicate a particular way of life to its students,” and a “violation by the faculty of those precepts” may under- mine the school’s “moral teaching.”53 Thus, if a religious school teaches that sex outside marriage and sex reassign- ment procedures are immoral, the message may be lost if the school employs a teacher who is in a same-sex relation- ship or has undergone or is undergoing sex reassignment. Yet today’s decision may lead to Title VII claims by such teachers and applicants for employment.
At least some teachers and applicants for teaching posi- tions may be blocked from recovering on such claims by the “ministerial exception” recognized in Hosanna-Tabor Evan- gelical Lutheran Church and School v. EEOC, 565 U. S. 171 (2012). Two cases now pending before the Court present the question whether teachers who provide religious in- struction can be considered to be “ministers.”54 But even if teachers with those responsibilities qualify, what about other very visible school employees who may not qualify for
—————— 51 Brief for National Association of Evangelicals et al. as Amici Curiae
3; see also Brief for United States Conference of Catholic Bishops et al. as Amici Curiae in No. 18–107, pp. 8–18.
52 Brief for National Association of Evangelicals et al. as Amici Curiae 7.
53 McConnell, Academic Freedom in Religious Colleges and Universi- ties, 53 Law & Contemp. Prob. 303, 322 (1990).
54 See Our Lady of Guadalupe School v. Morrissey-Berru, No. 19–267; St. James School v. Biel, No. 19–348.
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the ministerial exception? Provisions of Title VII provide exemptions for certain religious organizations and schools “with respect to the employment of individuals of a partic- ular religion to perform work connected with the carrying on” of the “activities” of the organization or school, 42 U. S. C. §2000e–1(a); see also §2000e–2(e)(2), but the scope of these provisions is disputed, and as interpreted by some lower courts, they provide only narrow protection.55 Healthcare. Healthcare benefits may emerge as an in- tense battleground under the Court’s holding. Transgender employees have brought suit under Title VII to challenge employer-provided health insurance plans that do not cover costly sex reassignment surgery.56 Similar claims have been brought under the Affordable Care Act (ACA), which broadly prohibits sex discrimination in the provision of healthcare.57
—————— 55 See, e.g., EEOC v. Kamehameha Schools/Bishop Estate, 990 F. 2d
458, 460 (CA9 1993); EEOC v. Fremont Christian School, 781 F. 2d 1362, 1365–1367 (CA9 1986); Rayburn v. General Conference of Seventh-day Adventists, 772 F. 2d 1164, 1166 (CA4 1985); EEOC v. Mississippi Col- lege, 626 F. 2d 477, 484–486 (CA5 1980); see also Brief for United States Conference of Catholic Bishops et al. as Amici Curiae in No. 18–107, at 30, n. 28 (discussing disputed scope). In addition, 42 U. S. C. §2000e– 2(e)(1) provides that religion may be a BFOQ, and allows religious schools to hire religious employees, but as noted, the BFOQ exception has been read narrowly. See supra, at 48.
56 See, e.g., Amended Complaint in Toomey v. Arizona, No. 4:19–cv– 00035 (D Ariz., Mar. 2, 2020). At least one District Court has already held that a state health insurance policy that does not provide coverage for sex reassignment surgery violates Title VII. Fletcher v. Alaska, ___ F. Supp. 3d ___, ___, 2020 WL 2487060, *5 (D Alaska, Mar. 6, 2020).
57 See, e.g., Complaint in Conforti v. St. Joseph’s Healthcare System, No. 2:17–cv–00050 (D NJ, Jan. 5, 2017) (transgender man claims dis- crimination under the ACA because a Catholic hospital refused to allow a surgeon to perform a hysterectomy). And multiple District Courts have already concluded that the ACA requires health insurance coverage for sex reassignment surgery and treatment. Kadel v. Folwell, ___ F. Supp. 3d ___, ___, 2020 WL 1169271, *12 (MDNC, Mar. 11, 2020) (allowing
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Such claims present difficult religious liberty issues be- cause some employers and healthcare providers have strong religious objections to sex reassignment procedures, and therefore requiring them to pay for or to perform these procedures will have a severe impact on their ability to honor their deeply held religious beliefs. Freedom of speech. The Court’s decision may even affect the way employers address their employees and the way teachers and school officials address students. Under es- tablished English usage, two sets of sex-specific singular personal pronouns are used to refer to someone in the third person (he, him, and his for males; she, her, and hers for females). But several different sets of gender-neutral pro- nouns have now been created and are preferred by some in- dividuals who do not identify as falling into either of the two traditional categories.58 Some jurisdictions, such as
—————— claims of discrimination under ACA, Title IX, and Equal Protection Clause); Tovar v. Essentia Health, 342 F. Supp. 3d 947, 952–954 (D Minn. 2018) (allowing ACA claim).
Section 1557 of the ACA, 42 U. S. C. §18116, provides: “Except as otherwise provided for in this title (or an amendment made
by this title), an individual shall not, on the ground prohibited under title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (42 U. S. C. 2000d et seq.), title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972 (20 U. S. C. 1681 et seq.), the Age Discrimination Act of 1975 (42 U. S. C. 6101 et seq.), or section 794 of title 29, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under, any health program or activity, any part of which is receiving Federal financial assistance, including credits, subsidies, or contracts of insurance, or under any program or activity that is administered by an Executive Agency or any entity established under this title (or amendments). The enforcement mechanisms pro- vided for and available under such title VI, title IX, section 794, or such Age Discrimination Act shall apply for purposes of violations of this sub- section.” (Footnote omitted.)
58 See, e.g., University of Wisconsin Milwaukee Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer Plus (LGBTQ+) Resource Center, Gender Pronouns (2020), https://uwm.edu/lgbtrc/support/gender-pronouns/ (listing six new categories of pronouns: (f )ae, (f )aer, (f )aers; e/ey, em, eir, eirs; per, pers;
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New York City, have ordinances making the failure to use an individual’s preferred pronoun a punishable offense,59 and some colleges have similar rules.60 After today’s deci- sion, plaintiffs may claim that the failure to use their pre- ferred pronoun violates one of the federal laws prohibiting sex discrimination. See Prescott v. Rady Children’s Hospi- tal San Diego, 265 F. Supp. 3d 1090, 1098–1100 (SD Cal. 2017) (hospital staff ’s refusal to use preferred pronoun vio- lates ACA).61
The Court’s decision may also pressure employers to sup- press any statements by employees expressing disapproval of same-sex relationships and sex reassignment proce- dures. Employers are already imposing such restrictions voluntarily, and after today’s decisions employers will fear —————— ve, ver, vis; xe, xem, xyr, xyrs; ze/zie, hir, hirs).
59 See 47 N. Y. C. R. R. §2–06(a) (2020) (stating that a “deliberate re- fusal to use an individual’s self-identified name, pronoun and gendered title” is a violation of N. Y. C. Admin. Code §8–107 “where the refusal is motivated by the individual’s gender”); see also N. Y. C. Admin. Code §§8–107(1), (4), (5) (2020) (making it unlawful to discriminate on the ba- sis of “gender” in employment, housing, and public accommodations); cf. D. C. Mun. Regs., tit. 4, §801.1 (2020) (making it “unlawful . . . to dis- criminate . . . on the basis of . . . actual or perceived gender identity or expression” in “employment, housing, public accommodations, or educa- tional institutions” and further proscribing “engaging in verbal . . . har- assment”).
60 See University of Minn., Equity and Access: Gender Identity, Gender Expression, Names, and Pronouns, Administrative Policy (Dec. 11, 2019), https://policy.umn.edu/operations/genderequity (“University members and units are expected to use the names, gender identities, and pronouns specified to them by other University members, except as le- gally required”); Meriwether v. Trustees of Shawnee State Univ., 2020 WL 704615, *1 (SD Ohio, Feb. 12, 2020) (rejecting First Amendment chal- lenge to university’s nondiscrimination policy brought by evangelical Christian professor who was subjected to disciplinary actions for failing to use student’s preferred pronouns).
61 Cf. Notice of Removal in Vlaming v. West Point School Board, No. 3:19–cv–00773 (ED Va., Oct. 22, 2019) (contending that high school teacher’s firing for failure to use student’s preferred pronouns was based on nondiscrimination policy adopted pursuant to Title IX).
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that allowing employees to express their religious views on these subjects may give rise to Title VII harassment claims. Constitutional claims. Finally, despite the important dif- ferences between the Fourteenth Amendment and Title VII, the Court’s decision may exert a gravitational pull in constitutional cases. Under our precedents, the Equal Pro- tection Clause prohibits sex-based discrimination unless a “heightened” standard of review is met. Sessions v. Mo- rales-Santana, 582 U. S. ___, ___ (2017) (slip op., at 8); United States v. Virginia, 518 U. S. 515, 532–534 (1996). By equating discrimination because of sexual orientation or gender identity with discrimination because of sex, the Court’s decision will be cited as a ground for subjecting all three forms of discrimination to the same exacting standard of review.
Under this logic, today’s decision may have effects that extend well beyond the domain of federal anti- discrimination statutes. This potential is illustrated by pending and recent lower court cases in which transgender individuals have challenged a variety of federal, state, and local laws and policies on constitutional grounds. See, e.g., Complaint in Hecox, No. 1: 20–CV–00184 (state law prohib- iting transgender students from competing in school sports in accordance with their gender identity); Second Amended Complaint in Karnoski v. Trump, No. 2:17–cv–01297 (WD Wash., July 31, 2019) (military’s ban on transgender mem- bers); Kadel v. Folwell, ___ F. Supp. 3d ___, ___–___, 2020 WL 1169271, *10–*11 (MDNC, Mar. 11, 2020) (state health plan’s exclusion of coverage for sex reassignment proce- dures); Complaint in Gore v. Lee, No. 3:19–cv–00328 (MD Tenn., Mar. 3, 2020) (change of gender on birth certificates); Brief for Appellee in Grimm v. Gloucester Cty. School Bd., No. 19–1952 (CA4, Nov. 18, 2019) (transgender student forced to use gender neutral bathrooms at school); Com- plaint in Corbitt v. Taylor, No. 2:18–cv–00091 (MD Ala.,
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July 25, 2018) (change of gender on driver’s licenses); Whit- aker, 858 F. 3d, at 1054 (school policy requiring students to use the bathroom that corresponds to the sex on birth cer- tificate); Keohane v. Florida Dept. of Corrections Secretary, 952 F. 3d 1257, 1262–1265 (CA11 2020) (transgender pris- oner denied hormone therapy and ability to dress and groom as a female); Edmo v. Corizon, Inc., 935 F. 3d 757, 767 (CA9 2019) (transgender prisoner requested sex reas- signment surgery); cf. Glenn v. Brumby, 663 F. 3d 1312, 1320 (CA11 2011) (transgender individual fired for gender non-conformity).
Although the Court does not want to think about the consequences of its decision, we will not be able to avoid those issues for long. The entire Federal Judiciary will be mired for years in disputes about the reach of the Court’s reasoning.
* * * The updating desire to which the Court succumbs no
doubt arises from humane and generous impulses. Today, many Americans know individuals who are gay, lesbian, or transgender and want them to be treated with the dignity, consideration, and fairness that everyone deserves. But the authority of this Court is limited to saying what the law is.
The Court itself recognizes this:
“The place to make new legislation . . . lies in Congress. When it comes to statutory interpretation, our role is limited to applying the law’s demands as faithfully as we can in the cases that come before us.” Ante, at 31.
It is easy to utter such words. If only the Court would live by them.
I respectfully dissent.
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Appendix A to opinion of ALITO, J.
APPENDIXES A
Webster’s New International Dictionary 2296 (2d ed. 1953):
sex (sĕks), n. [F. sexe, fr. L. sexus; prob. orig., division, and akin to L. secare to cut. See SECTION.] 1. One of the two divisions of organisms formed on the distinction of male and female; males or females collectively. 2. The sum of the peculiarities of structure and function that distin- guish a male from a female organism; the character of be- ing male or female, or of pertaining to the distinctive function of the male or female in reproduction. Conjuga- tion, or fertilization (union of germplasm of two individu- als), a process evidently of great but not readily explain- able importance in the perpetuation of most organisms, seems to be the function of differentiation of sex, which occurs in nearly all organisms at least at some stage in their life history. Sex is manifested in the conjugating cells by the larger size, abundant food material, and im- mobility of the female gamete (egg, egg cell, or ovum), and the small size and the locomotive power of the male gam- ete (spermatozoon or spermatozoid), and in the adult or- ganisms often by many structural, physiological, and (in higher forms) psychological characters, aside from the necessary modification of the reproductive apparatus. Cf. HERMAPHRODITE, 1. In botany the term sex is often extended to the distinguishing peculiarities of staminate and pis- tillate flowers, and hence in dioecious plants to the indi- viduals bearing them.
In many animals and plants the body and germ cells have been shown to contain one or more chromosomes of a special kind (called sex chromosomes; idiochromosomes; accessory chromosomes) in addition to the ordinary paired autosomes. These special chromosomes serve to
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determine sex. In the simplest case, the male germ cells are of two types, one with and one without a single extra chromosome (X chromosome, or monosome). The egg cells in this case all possess an X chromosome, and on fertili- zation by the two types of sperm, male and female zygotes result, of respective constitution X, and XX. In many other animals and plants (probably including man) the male organism produces two types of gametes, one pos- sessing an X chromosome, the other a Y chromosome, these being visibly different members of a pair of chromo- somes present in the diploid state. In this case also, the female organism is XX, the eggs X, and the zygotes re- spectively male (XY) and female (XX). In another type of sex determination, as in certain moths and possibly in the fowl, the female produces two kinds of eggs, the male only one kind of sperm. Each type of egg contains one member of a pair of differentiated chromosomes, called respec- tively Z chromosomes and W chromosomes, while all the sperm cells contain a Z chromosome. In fertilization, un- ion of a Z with a W gives rise to a female, while union of two Z chromosomes produces a male. Cf. SECONDARY SEX CHARACTER. 3. a The sphere of behavior dominated by the relations between male and female. b Psychoanalysis. By exten- sion, the whole sphere of behavior related even indirectly to the sexual functions and embracing all affectionate and pleasure-seeking conduct. 4. Phenomena of sexual instincts and their manifesta- tions. 5. Sect;—a confused use. Syn.—SEX, GENDER. SEX refers to physiological distinc- tions; GENDER, to distinctions in grammar. —the sex. The female sex; women, in general. sex, adj. Based on or appealing to sex. sex, v. t. To determine the sex of, as skeletal remains.
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Webster’s Third New International Dictionary 2081 (1966):
1sex \‘seks\ n –ES often attrib [ME, fr. L sexus; prob. akin to L secare to cut–more at SAW] 1: one of the two divisions of organic esp. human beings respectively designated male or female <a member of the opposite ~> 2: the sum of the morphological, physiological, and behavioral pecu- liarities of living beings that subserves biparental repro- duction with its concomitant genetic segregation and re- combination which underlie most evolutionary change, that in its typical dichotomous occurrence is usu. genet- ically controlled and associated with special sex chromo- somes, and that is typically manifested as maleness and femaleness with one or the other of these being present in most higher animals though both may occur in the same individual in many plants and some invertebrates and though no such distinction can be made in many lower forms (as some fungi, protozoans, and possibly bac- teria and viruses) either because males and females are replaced by mating types or because the participants in sexual reproduction are indistinguishable—compare HETEROTHALLIC, HOMOTHALLIC; FERTILIZATION, MEIO- SIS, MENDEL’S LAW; FREEMARTIN, HERMAPHRODITE, INTERSEX 3: the sphere of interpersonal behavior esp. be- tween male and female most directly associated with, leading up to, substituting for, or resulting from genital union <agree that the Christian’s attitude toward ~ should not be considered apart from love, marriage, fam- ily—M. M. Forney> 4: the phenomena of sexual instincts and their manifestations <with his customary combina- tion of philosophy, insight, good will toward the world, and entertaining interest in ~—Allen Drury> <studying and assembling what modern scientists have discovered about ~—Time>; specif: SEXUAL INTERCOURSE <an old law imposing death for ~ outside marriage—William
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Empson> 2sex \“\ vt –ED/–ING/–ES 1: to determine the sex of (an organic
being) <it is difficult to ~ the animals at a distance—E. A. Hooton>—compare AUTOSEXING 2 a: to increase the sex- ual appeal or attraction of—usu. used with up <titles must be ~ed up to attract 56 million customers—Time> b: to arouse the sexual instincts or desires of—usu. used with up <watching you ~ing up that bar kitten—Oakley Hall>
9 Oxford English Dictionary 577–578 (1933):
Sex (seks), sb. Also 6–7 sexe, (6 seex, 7 pl. sexe, 8 poss. sexe’s). [ad. L. sexus (u-stem), whence also F. sexe (12th c.), Sp., Pg. sexo, It. sesso. Latin had also a form secus neut. (in- declinable).] 1. Either of the two divisions of organic beings distin- guished as male and female respectively; the males or the females (of a species, etc., esp. of the human race) viewed collectively.
1382 WYCLIF Gen. vi. 19 Of alle thingis hauynge sowle of ony flehs, two thow shalt brynge
into the ark, that maal sex and femaal lyuen with thee. 1532 MORE Confut. Tindale II. 152, I
had as leue he bare them both a bare cheryte, as wyth the frayle feminyne sexe fall to far in
loue. 1559 ALYMER Harborowe E 4 b, Neither of them debarred the heires female .. as though
it had ben .. vnnatural for that sexe to gouern. 1576 GASCOIGNE Philomene xcviii, I speake
against my sex. a 1586 SIDNEY Arcadia II. (1912) 158 The sexe of womankind of all other is
most bound to have regardfull eie to mens judgements. 1600 NASHE Summer’s Last Will F 3
b, A woman they imagine her to be, Because that sexe keepes nothing close they heare. 1615
CROOKE Body of Man 274 If wee respect the .. conformation of both the Sexes, the Male is
sooner perfected .. in the wombe. 1634 SIR T. HERBERT Trav. 19 Both sexe goe naked. 1667
MILTON P. L. IX, 822 To add what wants In Femal Sex. 1671—Samson 774 It was a weakness
In me, but incident to all our sex. 1679 DRYDEN Troilus & Cr. I. ii, A strange dissembling sex
we women are. 1711 ADDISON Spect. No. 10 ¶ 6 Their Amusements .. are more adapted to the
Sex than to the Species. 1730 SWIFT Let. to Mrs. Whiteway 28 Dec., You have neither the
scrawl nor the spelling of your sex. 1742 GRAY Propertius II. 73 She .. Condemns her fickle
Sexe’s fond Mistake. 1763 G. WILLIAMS in Jesse Selwyn & Contemp. (1843) I. 265 It would
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astonish you to see the mixture of sexes at this place. 1780 BENTHAM Princ. Legisl. VI. §35
The sensibility of the female sex appears .. to be greater than that of the male. 1814 SCOTT
Ld. of Isles VI. iii, Her sex’s dress regain’d. 1836 THIRLWALL Greece xi. II. 51 Solon also made
regulations for the government of the other sex. 1846 Ecclesiologist Feb. 41 The propriety and
necessity of dividing the sexes during the publick offices of the Church. 1848 THACKERAY Van.
Fair xxv, She was by no means so far superior to her sex as to be above jealousy. 1865 DICKENS
Mut. Fr. II. i, It was a school for both sexes. 1886 MABEL COLLINS Prettiest Woman ii, Zadwiga
had not yet given any serious attention to the other sex.
b. collect. followed by plural verb. rare. 1768 GOLDSM. Good. n. Man IV. (Globe) 632/2 Our sex are like poor tradesmen. 1839 MALCOM
Trav. (1840) 40/I Neither sex tattoo any part of their bodies.
c. The fair(er), gentle(r), soft(er), weak(er) sex; the devout sex; the second sex; † the woman sex: the female sex, women. The † better, sterner sex: the male sex, men.
[1583 STUBBES Anat. Abus. E vij b, Ye magnificency & liberalitie of that gentle sex. 1613
PURCHAS Pilgrimage (1614) 38 Strong Sampson and wise Solomon are witnesses, that the
strong men are slaine by this weaker sexe.]
1641 BROME Jovial Crew III. (1652) H 4, I am bound by a strong vow to kisse all of the
woman sex I meet this morning. 1648 J. BEAUMONT Psyche XIV. I, The softer sex, attending
Him And his still-growing woes. 1665 SIR T. HERBERT Trav. (1677) 22 Whiles the better sex
seek prey abroad, the women (therein like themselves) keep home and spin. 1665 BOYLE Oc-
cas. Refl. v. ix. 176 Persons of the fairer Sex. a 1700 EVELYN Diary 12 Nov. an. 1644, The
Pillar .. at which the devout sex are always rubbing their chaplets. 1701 STANHOPE St. Aug.
Medit. I. xxxv. (1704) 82, I may .. not suffer my self to be outdone by the weaker Sex. 1732
[see FAIR a. I b]. 1753 HOGARTH Anal. Beauty x. 65 An elegant degree of plumpness peculiar
to the skin of the softer sex. 1820 BYRON Juan IV. cviii, Benign Ceruleans of the second sex!
Who advertise new poems by your looks. 1838 Murray’s Hand-bk. N. Germ. 430 It is much
frequented by the fair sex. 1894 C. D. TYLER in Geog. Jrnl. III. 479 They are beardless, and
usually wear a shock of unkempt hair, which is somewhat finer in the gentler sex.
¶d. Used occas. with extended notion. The third sex: eu- nuchs. Also sarcastically (see quot. 1873). 1820 BYRON Juan IV. lxxxvi, From all the Pope makes yearly, ‘twould perplex To find three
perfect pipes of the third sex. Ibid. V. xxvi, A black old neutral personage Of the third sex
stept up. [1873 LD. HOUGHTON Monogr. 280 Sydney Smith .. often spoke with much bitterness
of the growing belief in three Sexes of Humanity—Men, Women, and Clergymen.]
e. The sex: the female sex. [F. le sexe.] Now rare.
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1589 PUTTENHAM Eng. Poesie III. xix. (Arb.) 235 As he that had tolde a long tale before
certaine noble women, of a matter somewhat in honour touching the Sex. 1608 D. T[UVILL]
Ess. Pol. & Mor. 101 b, Not yet weighing with himselfe, the weaknesse and imbecillitie of the
sex. 1631 MASSINGER Emperor East I. ii, I am called The Squire of Dames, or Servant of the
Sex. 1697 VANBRUGH Prov. Wife II. ii, He has a strange penchant to grow fond of me, in spite
of his aversion to the sex. 1760-2 GOLDSM. Cit. W. xcix, The men of Asia behave with more
deference to the sex than you seem to imagine. 1792 A. YOUNG Trav. France I. 220 The sex of
Venice are undoubtedly of a distinguished beauty. 1823 BYRON Juan XIII. lxxix, We give the
sex the pas. 1863 R. F. BURTON W. Africa I. 22 Going ‘up stairs’, as the sex says, at 5 a.m. on
the day after arrival, I cast the first glance at Funchal.
f. Without the, in predicative quasi-adj. use=feminine. rare.
a 1700 DRYDEN Cymon & Iph. 368 She hugg’d th’ Offender, and forgave th’ Offence, Sex
to the last!
2. Quality in respect of being male or female. a. With regard to persons or animals.
1526 Pilgr. Perf. (W. de. W. 1531) 282 b, Ye bee, whiche neuer gendreth with ony make of
his kynde, nor yet hath ony distinct sex. 1577 T. KENDALL Flowers of Epigr. 71 b, If by corps
supposd may be her seex, then sure a virgin she. 1616 T. SCOTT Philomythie I. (ed. 2) A 3
Euen as Hares change shape and sex, some say Once euery yeare. 1658 SIR T. BROWNE Hy-
driot. iii. 18 A critical view of bones makes a good distinction of sexes. a 1665 DIGBY Chym.
Secrets (1682) II. 225 Persons of all Ages and Sexes. 1667 MILTON P. L. I. 424 For Spirits
when they please can either Sex assume, or both. 1710-11 SWIFT Jrnl. to Stella 7 Mar., I find
I was mistaken in the sex, ‘tis a boy. 1757 SMOLLETT Reprisal IV. v, As for me, my sex protects
me. 1825 SCOTT Betrothed xiii, I am but a poor and neglected woman, feeble both from sex
and age. 1841 ELPHINSTONE Hist. India I. 349 When persons of different sexes walk together,
the woman always follows the man. 1882 TENSION-WOODS Fish N. S. Wales 116 Oysters are
of distinct sexes.
b. with regard to plants (see FEMALE a. 2, MALE a. 2). 1567 MAPLET Gr. Forest 28 Some seeme to haue both sexes and kindes: as the Oke, the
Lawrell and such others. 1631 WIDDOWES Nat. Philos. (ed. 2) 49 There be sexes of hearbes ..
namely, the Male or Female. 1720 P. BLAIR Bot. Ess. iv. 237 These being very evident Proofs
of a necessity of two Sexes in Plants as well as in Animals. 1790 SMELLIE Philos. Nat. Hist. I.
245 There is not a notion more generally adopted, that that vegetables have the distinction of
sexes. 1848 LINDLEY Introd. Bot. (ed. 4) II. 80 Change of Sex under the influence of external
causes.
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3. The distinction between male and female in general. In recent use often with more explicit notion: The sum of those differences in the structure and function of the repro- ductive organs on the ground of which beings are distin- guished as male and female, and of the other physiological differences consequent on these; the class of phenomena with which these differences are concerned.
Organs of sex: the reproductive organs in sexed animals or plants.
a 1631 DONNE Songs & Sonn., The Printrose Poems 1912 I. 61 Should she Be more then
woman, she would get above All thought of sexe, and think to move My heart to study her,
and not to love. a 1643 CARTWRIGHT Siedge III. vi, My Soul’s As Male as yours; there’s no Sex
in the mind. 1748 MELMOTH Fitzosborne Lett. lxii. (1749) II. 119 There may be a kind of sex
in the very soul. 1751 HARRIS Hermes Wks. (1841) 129 Besides number, another characteris-
tic, visible in substances, is that of sex. 1878 GLADSTONE Prim. Homer 68 Athenè .. has noth-
ing of sex except the gender, nothing of the woman except the form. 1887 K. PEARSON Eth.
Freethought xv. (1888) 429 What is the true type of social (moral) action in matters of sex?
1895 CRACKANTHORPE in 19th Cent. Apr. 607 (art.) Sex in modern literature. Ibid. 614 The
writers and readers who have strenuously refused to allow to sex its place in creative art.
1912 H. G. WELLS Marriage ii. § 6. 72 The young need .. to be told .. all we know of three
fundamental things; the first of which is God, .. and the third Sex.
¶ 4. Used, by confusion, in senses of SECT (q. v. I, 4 b, 7, and cf. I d note). 1575-85 ABP. SANDYS Serm. xx. 358 So are all sexes and sorts of people called vpon. 1583
MELBANCKE Philotimus L iij b, Whether thinkest thou better sporte & more absurd, to see an
Asse play on an harpe contrary to his sex, or heare [etc.]. 1586 J. HOOKER Hist. Irel. 180/2 in
Holinshed, The whole sex of the Oconhours. 1586 T. B. La Primaud. Fr. Acad. I. 359 O de-
testable furie, not to be found in most cruell beasts, which spare the blood of their sexe. a
1704 T BROWN Dial. Dead, Friendship Wks. 1711 IV. 56 We have had enough of these Chris-
tians, and sure there can be no worse among the other Sex of Mankind [i.e. Jews and Turks]?
1707 ATTERBURY Large Vind. Doctr. 47 Much less can I imagine, why a Jewish Sex (whether
of Pharisees or Saducees) should be represented, as [etc.].
5. attrib. and Comb., as sex-distinction, function, etc.; sex- abusing, transforming adjs.; sex-cell, a reproductive cell, with either male or female function; a sperm-cell or an egg- cell. 1642 H. MORE Song of Soul I. III. lxxi, Mad-making waters, sex trans-forming springs.
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1781 COWPER Expost. 415 Sin, that in old time Brought fire from heav’n, the sex-abusing
crime. 1876 HARDY Ethelberta xxxvii, You cannot have celebrity and sex-privilege both. 1887
Jrnl. Educ. No. 210. 29 If this examination craze is to prevail, and the sex-abolitionists are to
have their way. 1889 GEDDES & THOMSON Evol. Sex 91 Very commonly the sex-cells originate
in the ectoderm and ripen there. 1894 H. DRUMMOND Ascent of Man 317 The sex-distinction
slowly gathers definition. 1897 J. HUTCHINSON in Arch. Surg. VIII. 230 Loss of Sex Function.
Sex (seks), v. [f. SEX sb.] trans. To determine the sex of, by anatomical examination; to label as male or female. 1884 GURNEY Diurnal Birds Prey 173 The specimen is not sexed, neither is the sex noted
on the drawing. 1888 A. NEWTON in Zoologist Ser. 111. XII. 101 The .. barbarous phrase of
‘collecting a specimen’ and then of ‘sexing’ it.
Concise Oxford Dictionary of Current English 1164 (5th ed. 1964):
sĕx, n. Being male or female or hermaphrodite (what is its ~?; ~ does not matter; without distinction of age or ~), whence ~’LESS a., ~’lėssNESS n., ~’Y2 a., immoderately con- cerned with ~; males or females collectively (all ranks & both ~es; the fair, gentle, softer, weaker, ~, & joc. the ~, women; the sterner ~, men; is the fairest of her ~); (attrib.) arising from difference, or consciousness, of ~ (~ antago- nism, ~ instinct, ~ urge); ~ appeal, attractiveness arising from difference of ~. [f. L sexus –ūs; partly thr. F]
Random House Dictionary of the English Language 1307 (1966):
sex (seks), n. 1. The fact or character of being either male or female: persons of different sex. 2. either of the two groups of persons exhibiting this character: the stronger sex; the gentle sex. 3. the sum of the structural and func- tional differences by which the male and female are dis- tinguished, or the phenomena or behavior dependent on these differences. 4. the instinct or attraction drawing one sex toward another, or its manifestation in life and
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Appendix B to opinion of ALITO, J.
conduct. 5. coitus. 6. to have sex, Informal. to engage in sexual intercourse. –v.t. 7. to ascertain the sex of, esp. of newly hatched chicks. 8. sex it up, Slang. to neck pas- sionately: They were really sexing it up last night. 9. sex up, Informal. a. to arouse sexually: She certainly knows how to sex up the men. b. to increase the appeal of; to make more interesting, attractive, or exciting: We’ve de- cided to sex up the movie with some battle scenes. [ME < L sex(us), akin to secus, deriv. of secāre to cut, divide; see SECTION]
American Heritage Dictionary 1187 (1969):
sex (sĕks) n. 1. a. The property or quality by which organ- isms are classified according to their reproductive func- tions. b. Either of two divisions, designated male and fe- male, of this classification. 2. Males or females collec- tively. 3. The condition or character of being male or female; the physiological, functional, and psychological differences that distinguish the male and the female. 4. The sexual urge or instinct as it manifests itself in behav- ior. 5. Sexual intercourse. –tr.v. sexed, sexing, sexes. To determine the sex of (young chickens). [Middle Eng- lish, from Old French sexe, from Latin sexus†.]
B
Webster’s Third New International Dictionary 2081 (2002):
1sex \‘seks\ n –ES often attrib [ME, fr. L sexus; prob. akin to L secare to cut—more at SAW] 1: one of the two divi- sions of organic esp. human beings respectively desig- nated male or female <a member of the opposite ~> 2: the sum of the morphological, physiological, and behavioral
ALITO, J., dissenting
64 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix B to opinion of ALITO, J.
peculiarities of living beings that subserves biparental re- production with its concomitant genetic segregation and recombination which underlie most evolutionary change, that in its typical dichotomous occurrence is usu. genet- ically controlled and associated with special sex chromo- somes, and that is typically manifested as maleness and femaleness with one or the other of these being present in most higher animals though both may occur in the same individual in many plants and some invertebrates and though no such distinction can be made in many lower forms (as some fungi, protozoans, and possibly bac- teria and viruses) either because males and females are replaced by mating types or because the participants in sexual reproduction are indistinguishable—compare HETEROTHALLIC, HOMOTHALLIC; FERTILIZATION, MEIOSIS, MENDEL’S LAW; FREEMARTIN, HERMAPHRODITE, INTERSEX 3: the sphere of interpersonal behavior esp. between male and female most directly associated with, leading up to, substituting for, or resulting from genital union <agree that the Christian’s attitude toward ~ should not be con- sidered apart from love, marriage, family—M. M. For- ney> 4: the phenomena of sexual instincts and their man- ifestations <with his customary combination of philosophy, insight, good will toward the world, and en- tertaining interest in ~—Allen Drury> <studying and as- sembling what modern scientists have discovered about ~—Time>; specif: SEXUAL INTERCOURSE <an old law im- posing death for ~ outside marriage—William Empson>
2sex \“\ vt –ED/–ING/–ES 1: to determine the sex of (an organic being) <it is difficult to ~ the animals at a distance—E. A. Hooton>—compare AUTOSEXING 2 a: to increase the sex- ual appeal or attraction of—usu. used with up <titles must be ~ed up to attract 56 million customers—Time> b: to arouse the sexual instincts or desires of—usu. used with up <watching you ~ing up that bar kitten—Oakley Hall>
ALITO, J., dissenting
65 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix B to opinion of ALITO, J.
Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary 1754 (2d ed. 2001):
Sex (seks), n. 1. either the male or female division of a spe- cies, esp. as differentiated with reference to the reproduc- tive functions. 2. the sum of the structural and functional differences by which the male and female are distin- guished, or the phenomena or behavior dependent on these differences. 3. the instinct or attraction drawing one sex toward another, or its manifestation in life and conduct. 4. coitus. 5. genitalia. 6. to have sex, to engage in sexual intercourse. – v.t. 7. to ascertain the sex of, esp. of newly-hatched chicks. 8. sex up, Informal. a. to arouse sexually: The only intent of that show was to sex up the audience. b. to increase the appeal of; to make more in- teresting, attractive, or exciting: We’ve decided to sex up the movie with some battle scenes. [1350–1400; ME < L Sexus, perh. akin to secāre to divide (see SECTION)]
American Heritage Dictionary 1605 (5th ed. 2011):
Sex (seks) n. 1a. Sexual activity, especially sexual inter- course: hasn’t had sex in months. b. The sexual urge or in- stinct as it manifests itself in behavior: motivated by sex. 2a. Either of the two divisions, designated female and male, by which most organisms are classified on the basis of their reproductive organs and functions: How do you determine the sex of a lobster? b. The fact or condition of existing in these two divisions, especially the collection of characteris- tics that distinguish female and male: the evolution of sex in plants; a study that takes sex into account. See Usage Note at gender. 3. Females or males considered as a group: dormitories that house only one sex. 4. One’s identity as ei- ther female or male. 5. The genitals. ⸭ tr.v. sexed, sex-ing, sex-es 1. To determine the sex of (an organism). 2. Slang a. To arouse sexually. Often used with up. b. To increase the
ALITO, J., dissenting
66 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
appeal or attractiveness of. Often used with up [Middle English < Latin sexus.]
C
Statutes Prohibiting Sex Discrimination
2 U. S. C. §658a(2) (Congressional Budget and Fiscal Operations; Federal Mandates)
2 U. S. C. §1311(a)(1) (Congressional Accounta- bility; Extension of Rights and Protections)
2 U. S. C. §1503(2) (Unfunded Mandates Re- form)
3 U. S. C. §411(a)(1) (Presidential Offices; Em- ployment Discrimination)
5 U. S. C. §2301(b)(2) (Merit System Principles)
5 U. S. C. §2302(b)(1) (Prohibited Personnel Practices)
5 U. S. C. §7103(a)(4)(A) (Labor-Management Relations; Definitions)
5 U. S. C. §7116(b)(4) (Labor-Management Re- lations; Unfair Labor Practices)
5 U. S. C. §7201(b) (Antidiscrimination Policy; Minority Recruitment Program)
ALITO, J., dissenting
67 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
5 U. S. C. §7204(b) (Antidiscrimination; Other Prohibitions)
6 U. S. C. §488f(b) (Secure Handling of Ammo- nium Nitrate; Protection From Civil Liability)
7 U. S. C. §2020(c)(1) (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program)
8 U. S. C. §1152(a)(1)(A) (Immigration; Numer- ical Limitations on Individual Foreign States)
8 U. S. C. §1187(c)(6) (Visa Waiver Program for Certain Visitors)
8 U. S. C. §1522(a)(5) (Authorization for Pro- grams for Domestic Resettlement of and Assis- tance to Refugees)
10 U. S. C. §932(b)(4) (Uniform Code of Military Justice; Article 132 Retaliation)
10 U. S. C. §1034(j)(3) (Protected Communica- tions; Prohibition of Retaliatory Personnel Ac- tions)
12 U. S. C. §302 (Directors of Federal Reserve Banks; Number of Members; Classes)
12 U. S. C. §1735f–5(a) (Prohibition Against Discrimination on Account of Sex in Extension of Mortgage Assistance)
ALITO, J., dissenting
68 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
12 U. S. C. §1821(d)(13)(E)(iv) (Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation; Insurance Funds)
12 U. S. C. §1823(d)(3)(D)(iv) (Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation; Corporation Moneys)
12 U. S. C. §2277a–10c(b)(13)(E)(iv) (Farm Credit System Insurance Corporation; Corpora- tion as Conservator or Receiver; Certain Other Powers)
12 U. S. C. §3015(a)(4) (National Consumer Co- operative Bank; Eligibility of Cooperatives)
12 U. S. C. §§3106a(1)(B) and (2)(B) (Foreign Bank Participation in Domestic Markets)
12 U. S. C. §4545(1) (Fair Housing)
12 U. S. C. §5390(a)(9)(E)(v) (Wall Street Re- form and Consumer Protection; Powers and Du- ties of the Corporation)
15 U. S. C. §631(h) (Aid to Small Business)
15 U. S. C. §633(b)(1) (Small Business Admin- istration)
15 U. S. C. §719 (Alaska Natural Gas Transpor- tation; Civil Rights)
15 U. S. C. §775 (Federal Energy Administra- tion; Sex Discrimination; Enforcement; Other Legal Remedies)
ALITO, J., dissenting
69 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
15 U. S. C. §1691(a)(1) (Equal Credit Oppor- tunity Act)
15 U. S. C. §1691d(a) (Equal Credit Oppor- tunity Act)
15 U. S. C. §3151(a) (Full Employment and Bal- anced Growth; Nondiscrimination)
18 U. S. C. §246 (Deprivation of Relief Benefits)
18 U. S. C. §3593(f ) (Special Hearing To Deter- mine Whether a Sentence of Death Is Justified)
20 U. S. C. §1011(a) (Higher Education Re- sources and Student Assistance; Antidiscrimi- nation)
20 U. S. C. §1011f(h)(5)(D) (Disclosures of For- eign Gifts)
20 U. S. C. §1066c(d) (Historically Black College and University Capital Financing; Limitations on Federal Insurance Bonds Issued by Desig- nated Bonding Authority)
20 U. S. C. §1071(a)(2) (Federal Family Educa- tion Loan Program)
20 U. S. C. §1078(c)(2)(F) (Federal Payments To Reduce Student Interest Costs)
20 U. S. C. §1087–1(e) (Federal Family Educa- tion Loan Program; Special Allowances)
ALITO, J., dissenting
70 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
20 U. S. C. §1087–2(e) (Student Loan Market- ing Association)
20 U. S. C. §1087–4 (Discrimination in Second- ary Markets Prohibited)
20 U. S. C. §1087tt(c) (Discretion of Student Fi- nancial Aid Administrators)
20 U. S. C. §1231e(b)(2) (Education Programs; Use of Funds Withheld)
20 U. S. C. §1681 (Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972)
20 U. S. C. §1701(a)(1) (Equal Educational Op- portunities; Congressional Declaration of Pol- icy)
20 U. S. C. §1702(a)(1) (Equal Educational Op- portunities; Congressional Findings)
20 U. S. C. §1703 (Denial of Equal Educational Opportunity Prohibited)
20 U. S. C. §1705 (Assignment on Neighborhood Basis Not a Denial of Equal Educational Oppor- tunity)
20 U. S. C. §1715 (District Lines)
20 U. S. C. §1720 (Equal Educational Opportu- nities; Definitions)
ALITO, J., dissenting
71 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
20 U. S. C. §1756 (Remedies With Respect to School District Lines)
20 U. S. C. §2396 (Career and Technical Educa- tion; Federal Laws Guaranteeing Civil Rights)
20 U. S. C. §3401(2) (Department of Education; Congressional Findings)
20 U. S. C. §7231d(b)(2)(C) (Magnet Schools As- sistance; Applications and Requirements)
20 U. S. C. §7914 (Strengthening and Improve- ment of Elementary and Secondary Schools; Civil Rights)
22 U. S. C. §262p–4n (Foreign Relations and In- tercourse; Equal Employment Opportunities)
22 U. S. C. §2304(a)(1) (Human Rights and Se- curity Assistance)
22 U. S. C. §2314(g) (Furnishing of Defense Ar- ticles or Related Training or Other Defense Ser- vice on Grant Basis)
22 U. S. C. §2426 (Discrimination Against United States Personnel)
22 U. S. C. §2504(a) (Peace Corps Volunteers)
22 U. S. C. §2661a (Foreign Contracts or Ar- rangements; Discrimination)
ALITO, J., dissenting
72 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
22 U. S. C. §2755 (Discrimination Prohibited if Based on Race, Religion, National Origin, or Sex)
22 U. S. C. §3901(b)(2) (Foreign Service; Con- gressional Findings and Objectives)
22 U. S. C. §3905(b)(1) (Foreign Service; Person- nel Actions)
22 U. S. C. §4102(11)(A) (Foreign Service; Defi- nitions)
22 U. S. C. §4115(b)(4) (Foreign Service; Unfair Labor Practices)
22 U. S. C. §6401(a)(3) (International Religious Freedom; Findings; Policy)
22 U. S. C. §8303(c)(2) (Office of Volunteers for Prosperity)
23 U. S. C. §140(a) (Federal-Aid Highways; Nondiscrimination)
23 U. S. C. §324 (Highways; Prohibition of Dis- crimination on the Basis of Sex)
25 U. S. C. §4223(d)(2) (Housing Assistance for Native Hawaiians)
26 U. S. C. §7471(a)(6)(A) (Tax Court; Employ- ees)
ALITO, J., dissenting
73 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
28 U. S. C. §994(d) (Duties of the United States Sentencing Commission)
28 U. S. C. §1862 (Trial by Jury; Discrimination Prohibited)
28 U. S. C. §1867(e) (Trial by Jury; Challenging Compliance With Selection Procedures)
29 U. S. C. §206(d)(1) (Equal Pay Act of 1963)
29 U. S. C. §§2601(a)(6) and (b)(4) (Family and Medical Leave; Findings and Purposes)
29 U. S. C. §2651(a) (Family and Medical Leave; Effect on Other Laws)
29 U. S. C. §3248 (Workforce Development Op- portunities; Nondiscrimination)
30 U. S. C. §1222(c) (Research Funds to Insti- tutes)
31 U. S. C. §732(f ) (Government Accountability Office; Personnel Management System)
31 U. S. C. §6711 (Federal Payments; Prohib- ited Discrimination)
31 U. S. C. §6720(a)(8) (Federal Payments; Def- initions, Application, and Administration)
ALITO, J., dissenting
74 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
34 U. S. C. §10228(c) (Prohibition of Federal Control Over State and Local Criminal Justice Agencies; Prohibition of Discrimination)
34 U. S. C. §11133(a)(16) (Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention; State Plans)
34 U. S. C. §12161(g) (Community Schools Youth Services and Supervision Grant Pro- gram)
34 U. S. C. §12361 (Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement; Civil Rights for Women)
34 U. S. C. §20110(e) (Crime Victims Fund; Ad- ministration Provisions)
34 U. S. C. §50104(a) (Emergency Federal Law Enforcement Assistance)
36 U. S. C. §20204(b) (Air Force Sergeants As- sociation; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §20205(c) (Air Force Sergeants Asso- ciation; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §21003(a)(4) (American GI Forum of the United States; Purposes)
36 U. S. C. §21004(b) (American GI Forum of the United States; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §21005(c) (American GI Forum of the United States; Governing Body)
ALITO, J., dissenting
75 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
36 U. S. C. §21704A (The American Legion)
36 U. S. C. §22703(c) (Amvets; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §22704(d) (Amvets; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §60104(b) (82nd Airborne Division Association, Incorporated; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §60105(c) (82nd Airborne Division Association, Incorporated; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §70104(b) (Fleet Reserve Associa- tion; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §70105(c) (Fleet Reserve Associa- tion; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §140704(b) (Military Order of the World Wars; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §140705(c) (Military Order of the World Wars; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §154704(b) (Non Commissioned Of- ficers Association of the United States of Amer- ica, Incorporated; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §154705(c) (Non Commissioned Of- ficers Association of the United States of Amer- ica, Incorporated; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §190304(b) (Retired Enlisted Associ- ation, Incorporated; Membership)
ALITO, J., dissenting
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Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
36 U. S. C. §190305(c) (Retired Enlisted Associ- ation, Incorporated; Governing Body)
36 U. S. C. §220522(a)(8) and (9) (United States Olympic Committee; Eligibility Requirements)
36 U. S. C. §230504(b) (Vietnam Veterans of America, Inc.; Membership)
36 U. S. C. §230505(c) (Vietnam Veterans of America, Inc.; Governing Body)
40 U. S. C. §122(a) (Federal Property and Ad- ministrative Services; Prohibition on Sex Dis- crimination)
40 U. S. C. §14702 (Appalachian Regional De- velopment; Nondiscrimination)
42 U. S. C. §213(f ) (Military Benefits)
42 U. S. C. §290cc–33(a) (Projects for Assistance in Transition From Homelessness)
42 U. S. C. §290ff–1(e)(2)(C) (Children With Se- rious Emotional Disturbances; Requirements With Respect to Carrying Out Purpose of Grants)
42 U. S. C. §295m (Public Health Service; Pro- hibition Against Discrimination on Basis of Sex)
ALITO, J., dissenting
77 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
42 U. S. C. §296g (Public Health Service; Prohi- bition Against Discrimination by Schools on Ba- sis of Sex)
42 U. S. C. §300w–7(a)(2) (Preventive Health and Health Services Block Grants; Nondiscrim- ination Provisions)
42 U. S. C. §300x–57(a)(2) (Block Grants Re- garding Mental Health and Substance Abuse; Nondiscrimination)
42 U. S. C. §603(a)(5)(I)(iii) (Block Grants to States for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families)
42 U. S. C. §708(a)(2) (Maternal and Child Health Services Block Grant; Nondiscrimina- tion Provisions)
42 U. S. C. §1975a(a) (Duties of Civil Rights Commission)
42 U. S. C. §2000c(b) (Civil Rights; Public Edu- cation; Definitions)
42 U. S. C. §2000c–6(a)(2) (Civil Rights; Public Education; Civil Actions by the Attorney Gen- eral)
42 U. S. C. §2000e–2 (Equal Employment Op- portunities; Unlawful Employment Practices)
ALITO, J., dissenting
78 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
42 U. S. C. §2000e–3(b) (Equal Employment Opportunities; Other Unlawful Employment Practices)
42 U. S. C. §2000e–16(a) (Employment by Fed- eral Government)
42 U. S. C. §2000e–16a(b) (Government Em- ployee Rights Act of 1991)
42 U. S. C. §2000e–16b(a)(1) (Discriminatory Practices Prohibited)
42 U. S. C. §2000h–2 (Intervention by Attorney General; Denial of Equal Protection on Account of Race, Color, Religion, Sex or National Origin)
42 U. S. C. §3123 (Discrimination on Basis of Sex Prohibited in Federally Assisted Programs)
42 U. S. C. §3604 (Fair Housing Act; Discrimi- nation in the Sale or Rental of Housing and Other Prohibited Practices)
42 U. S. C. §3605 (Fair Housing Act; Discrimi- nation in Residential Real Estate-Related Transactions)
42 U. S. C. §3606 (Fair Housing Act; Discrimi- nation in the Provision of Brokerage Services)
42 U. S. C. §3631 (Fair Housing Act; Violations; Penalties)
ALITO, J., dissenting
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Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
42 U. S. C. §4701 (Intergovernmental Personnel Program; Congressional Findings and Declara- tion of Policy)
42 U. S. C. §5057(a)(1) (Domestic Volunteer Services; Nondiscrimination Provisions)
42 U. S. C. §5151(a) (Nondiscrimination in Dis- aster Assistance)
42 U. S. C. §5309(a) (Community Development; Nondiscrimination in Programs and Activities)
42 U. S. C. §5891 (Development of Energy Sources; Sex Discrimination Prohibited)
42 U. S. C. §6709 (Public Works Employment; Sex Discrimination; Prohibition; Enforcement)
42 U. S. C. §6727(a)(1) (Public Works Employ- ment; Nondiscrimination)
42 U. S. C. §6870(a) (Weatherization Assistance for Low-Income Persons)
42 U. S. C. §8625(a) (Low-Income Home Energy Assistance; Nondiscrimination Provisions)
42 U. S. C. §9821 (Community Economic Devel- opment; Nondiscrimination Provisions)
42 U. S. C. §9849 (Head Start Programs; Non- discrimination Provisions)
ALITO, J., dissenting
80 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
42 U. S. C. §9918(c)(1) (Community Services Block Grant Program; Limitations on Use of Funds)
42 U. S. C. §10406(c)(2)(B)(i) (Family Violence Prevention and Services; Formula Grants to States)
42 U. S. C. §11504(b) (Enterprise Zone Develop- ment; Waiver of Modification of Housing and Community Development Rules in Enterprise Zones)
42 U. S. C. §12635(a)(1) (National and Commu- nity Service State Grant Program; Nondiscrim- ination)
42 U. S. C. §12832 (Investment in Affordable Housing; Nondiscrimination)
43 U. S. C. §1747(10) (Loans to States and Po- litical Subdivisions; Discrimination Prohibited)
43 U. S. C. §1863 (Outer Continental Shelf Re- source Management; Unlawful Employment Practices; Regulations)
47 U. S. C. §151 (Federal Communications Commission)
47 U. S. C. §398(b)(1) (Public Broadcasting; Equal Opportunity Employment)
ALITO, J., dissenting
81 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix C to opinion of ALITO, J.
47 U. S. C. §§554(b) and (c) (Cable Communica- tions; Equal Employment Opportunity)
47 U. S. C. §555a(c) (Cable Communications; Limitation of Franchising Authority Liability)
48 U. S. C. §1542(a) (Virgin Islands; Voting Franchise; Discrimination Prohibited)
48 U. S. C. §1708 (Discrimination Prohibited in Rights of Access to, and Benefits From, Con- veyed Lands)
49 U. S. C. §306(b) (Duties of the Secretary of Transportation; Prohibited Discrimination)
49 U. S. C. §5332(b) (Public Transportation; Nondiscrimination)
49 U. S. C. §40127 (Air Commerce and Safety; Prohibitions on Discrimination)
49 U. S. C. §47123(a) (Airport Improvement; Nondiscrimination)
50 U. S. C. §3809(b)(3) (Selective Service Sys- tem)
50 U. S. C. §4842(a)(1)(B) (Anti-Boycott Act of 2018)
ALITO, J., dissenting
82 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
D
ALITO, J., dissenting
83 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
ALITO, J., dissenting
84 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
85 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
ALITO, J., dissenting
86 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
88 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
ALITO, J., dissenting
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90 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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ALITO, J., dissenting
92 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
ALITO, J., dissenting
96 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
98 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
ALITO, J., dissenting
100 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020) 101
Appendix D to opinion of ALITO, J.
ALITO, J., dissenting
102 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
103 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
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ALITO, J., dissenting
104 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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ALITO, J., dissenting
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ALITO, J., dissenting
106 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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_________________
_________________
1 Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020)
KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
Nos. 17–1618, 17–1623 and 18–107
GERALD LYNN BOSTOCK, PETITIONER 17–1618 v.
CLAYTON COUNTY, GEORGIA
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT
ALTITUDE EXPRESS, INC., ET AL., PETITIONERS 17–1623 v. MELISSA ZARDA AND WILLIAM ALLEN MOORE, JR.,
CO-INDEPENDENT EXECUTORS OF THE ESTATE OF DONALD ZARDA
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE SECOND CIRCUIT
R.G. & G.R. HARRIS FUNERAL HOMES, INC., PETITIONER
18–107 v. EQUAL EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITY COMMISSION,
ET AL.
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE SIXTH CIRCUIT
[June 15, 2020]
JUSTICE KAVANAUGH, dissenting. Like many cases in this Court, this case boils down to one
fundamental question: Who decides? Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibits employment discrimination “because of ” an individual’s “race, color, religion, sex, or na- tional origin.” The question here is whether Title VII
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should be expanded to prohibit employment discrimination because of sexual orientation. Under the Constitution’s separation of powers, the responsibility to amend Title VII belongs to Congress and the President in the legislative pro- cess, not to this Court.
The political branches are well aware of this issue. In 2007, the U. S. House of Representatives voted 235 to 184 to prohibit employment discrimination on the basis of sex- ual orientation. In 2013, the U. S. Senate voted 64 to 32 in favor of a similar ban. In 2019, the House again voted 236 to 173 to outlaw employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. Although both the House and Senate have voted at different times to prohibit sexual orientation discrimination, the two Houses have not yet come together with the President to enact a bill into law.
The policy arguments for amending Title VII are very weighty. The Court has previously stated, and I fully agree, that gay and lesbian Americans “cannot be treated as social outcasts or as inferior in dignity and worth.” Masterpiece Cakeshop, Ltd. v. Colorado Civil Rights Comm’n, 584 U. S. ___, ___ (2018) (slip op., at 9).
But we are judges, not Members of Congress. And in Al- exander Hamilton’s words, federal judges exercise “neither Force nor Will, but merely judgment.” The Federalist No. 78, p. 523 (J. Cooke ed. 1961). Under the Constitution’s separation of powers, our role as judges is to interpret and follow the law as written, regardless of whether we like the result. Cf. Texas v. Johnson, 491 U. S. 397, 420–421 (1989) (Kennedy, J., concurring). Our role is not to make or amend the law. As written, Title VII does not prohibit employment discrimination because of sexual orientation.1
—————— 1 Although this opinion does not separately analyze discrimination on
the basis of gender identity, this opinion’s legal analysis of discrimina- tion on the basis of sexual orientation would apply in much the same way to discrimination on the basis of gender identity.
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I Title VII makes it unlawful for employers to discriminate
because of “race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a)(1).2 As enacted in 1964, Title VII did not prohibit other forms of employment discrimination, such as age discrimination, disability discrimination, or sexual orientation discrimination.
Over time, Congress has enacted new employment dis- crimination laws. In 1967, Congress passed and President Johnson signed the Age Discrimination in Employment Act. 81 Stat. 602. In 1973, Congress passed and President Nixon signed the Rehabilitation Act, which in substance prohibited disability discrimination against federal and cer- tain other employees. 87 Stat. 355. In 1990, Congress passed and President George H. W. Bush signed the com- prehensive Americans with Disabilities Act. 104 Stat. 327.
To prohibit age discrimination and disability discrimina- tion, this Court did not unilaterally rewrite or update the
—————— 2 In full, the statute provides: “It shall be an unlawful employment practice for an employer— “(1) to fail or refuse to hire or to discharge any individual, or otherwise
to discriminate against any individual with respect to his compensation, terms, conditions, or privileges of employment, because of such individ- ual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin; or
“(2) to limit, segregate, or classify his employees or applicants for em- ployment in any way which would deprive or tend to deprive any indi- vidual of employment opportunities or otherwise adversely affect his sta- tus as an employee, because of such individual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.” 42 U. S. C. §2000e–2(a) (emphasis added).
As the Court today recognizes, Title VII contains an important exemp- tion for religious organizations. §2000e–1(a); see also §2000e–2(e). The First Amendment also safeguards the employment decisions of religious employers. See Hosanna-Tabor Evangelical Lutheran Church and School v. EEOC, 565 U. S. 171, 188–195 (2012). So too, the Religious Freedom Restoration Act of 1993 exempts employers from federal laws that substantially burden the exercise of religion, subject to limited ex- ceptions. §2000bb–1.
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law. Rather, Congress and the President enacted new leg- islation, as prescribed by the Constitution’s separation of powers.
For several decades, Congress has considered numerous bills to prohibit employment discrimination based on sexual orientation. But as noted above, although Congress has come close, it has not yet shouldered a bill over the legisla- tive finish line.
In the face of the unsuccessful legislative efforts (so far) to prohibit sexual orientation discrimination, judges may not rewrite the law simply because of their own policy views. Judges may not update the law merely because they think that Congress does not have the votes or the fortitude. Judges may not predictively amend the law just because they believe that Congress is likely to do it soon anyway.
If judges could rewrite laws based on their own policy views, or based on their own assessments of likely future legislative action, the critical distinction between legisla- tive authority and judicial authority that undergirds the Constitution’s separation of powers would collapse, thereby threatening the impartial rule of law and individual liberty. As James Madison stated: “Were the power of judging joined with the legislative, the life and liberty of the subject would be exposed to arbitrary controul, for the judge would then be the legislator.” The Federalist No. 47, at 326 (citing Montesquieu). If judges could, for example, rewrite or up- date securities laws or healthcare laws or gun laws or envi- ronmental laws simply based on their own policy views, the Judiciary would become a democratically illegitimate su- per-legislature—unelected, and hijacking the important policy decisions reserved by the Constitution to the people’s elected representatives.
Because judges interpret the law as written, not as they might wish it were written, the first 10 U. S. Courts of Ap- peals to consider whether Title VII prohibits sexual orien- tation discrimination all said no. Some 30 federal judges
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considered the question. All 30 judges said no, based on the text of the statute. 30 out of 30.
But in the last few years, a new theory has emerged. To end-run the bedrock separation-of-powers principle that courts may not unilaterally rewrite statutes, the plaintiffs here (and, recently, two Courts of Appeals) have advanced a novel and creative argument. They contend that discrim- ination “because of sexual orientation” and discrimination “because of sex” are actually not separate categories of dis- crimination after all. Instead, the theory goes, discrimina- tion because of sexual orientation always qualifies as dis- crimination because of sex: When a gay man is fired because he is gay, he is fired because he is attracted to men, even though a similarly situated woman would not be fired just because she is attracted to men. According to this the- ory, it follows that the man has been fired, at least as a lit- eral matter, because of his sex.
Under this literalist approach, sexual orientation dis- crimination automatically qualifies as sex discrimination, and Title VII’s prohibition against sex discrimination there- fore also prohibits sexual orientation discrimination—and actually has done so since 1964, unbeknownst to everyone. Surprisingly, the Court today buys into this approach. Ante, at 9–12.
For the sake of argument, I will assume that firing some- one because of their sexual orientation may, as a very literal matter, entail making a distinction based on sex. But to prevail in this case with their literalist approach, the plain- tiffs must also establish one of two other points. The plain- tiffs must establish that courts, when interpreting a stat- ute, adhere to literal meaning rather than ordinary meaning. Or alternatively, the plaintiffs must establish that the ordinary meaning of “discriminate because of sex”—not just the literal meaning—encompasses sexual orientation discrimination. The plaintiffs fall short on both counts.
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First, courts must follow ordinary meaning, not literal meaning. And courts must adhere to the ordinary meaning of phrases, not just the meaning of the words in a phrase.
There is no serious debate about the foundational inter- pretive principle that courts adhere to ordinary meaning, not literal meaning, when interpreting statutes. As Justice Scalia explained, “the good textualist is not a literalist.” A. Scalia, A Matter of Interpretation 24 (1997). Or as Profes- sor Eskridge stated: The “prime directive in statutory inter- pretation is to apply the meaning that a reasonable reader would derive from the text of the law,” so that “for hard cases as well as easy ones, the ordinary meaning (or the ‘everyday meaning’ or the ‘commonsense’ reading) of the relevant statutory text is the anchor for statutory interpre- tation.” W. Eskridge, Interpreting Law 33, 34–35 (2016) (footnote omitted). Or as Professor Manning put it, proper statutory interpretation asks “how a reasonable person, conversant with the relevant social and linguistic conven- tions, would read the text in context. This approach recog- nizes that the literal or dictionary definitions of words will often fail to account for settled nuances or background con- ventions that qualify the literal meaning of language and, in particular, of legal language.” Manning, The Absurdity Doctrine, 116 Harv. L. Rev. 2387, 2392–2393 (2003). Or as Professor Nelson wrote: No “mainstream judge is interested solely in the literal definitions of a statute’s words.” Nelson, What Is Textualism?, 91 Va. L. Rev. 347, 376 (2005). The ordinary meaning that counts is the ordinary public mean- ing at the time of enactment—although in this case, that temporal principle matters little because the ordinary meaning of “discriminate because of sex” was the same in 1964 as it is now.
Judges adhere to ordinary meaning for two main reasons: rule of law and democratic accountability. A society gov- erned by the rule of law must have laws that are known and understandable to the citizenry. And judicial adherence to
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ordinary meaning facilitates the democratic accountability of America’s elected representatives for the laws they enact. Citizens and legislators must be able to ascertain the law by reading the words of the statute. Both the rule of law and democratic accountability badly suffer when a court adopts a hidden or obscure interpretation of the law, and not its ordinary meaning.
Consider a simple example of how ordinary meaning dif- fers from literal meaning. A statutory ban on “vehicles in the park” would literally encompass a baby stroller. But no good judge would interpret the statute that way because the word “vehicle,” in its ordinary meaning, does not encompass baby strollers.
The ordinary meaning principle is longstanding and well settled. Time and again, this Court has rejected literalism in favor of ordinary meaning. Take a few examples:
The Court recognized that beans may be seeds “in the language of botany or natural history,” but concluded that beans are not seeds “in commerce” or “in common parlance.” Robertson v. Salomon, 130 U. S. 412, 414 (1889).
The Court explained that tomatoes are literally “the fruit of a vine,” but “in the common language of the people,” tomatoes are vegetables. Nix v. Hedden, 149 U. S. 304, 307 (1893).
The Court stated that the statutory term “vehicle” does not cover an aircraft: “No doubt etymologically it is possible to use the word to signify a conveyance work- ing on land, water or air . . . . But in everyday speech ‘vehicle’ calls up the picture of a thing moving on land.” McBoyle v. United States, 283 U. S. 25, 26 (1931).
The Court pointed out that “this Court’s interpretation of the three-judge-court statutes has frequently devi- ated from the path of literalism.” Gonzalez v. Auto- matic Employees Credit Union, 419 U. S. 90, 96 (1974).
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The Court refused a reading of “mineral deposits” that would include water, even if “water is a ‘mineral,’ in the broadest sense of that word,” because it would bring about a “major . . . alteration in established legal relationships based on nothing more than an overly lit- eral reading of a statute, without any regard for its context or history.” Andrus v. Charlestone Stone Prod- ucts Co., 436 U. S. 604, 610, 616 (1978).
The Court declined to interpret “facilitating” a drug distribution crime in a way that would cover purchas- ing drugs, because the “literal sweep of ‘facilitate’ sits uncomfortably with common usage.” Abuelhawa v. United States, 556 U. S. 816, 820 (2009).
The Court rebuffed a literal reading of “personnel rules” that would encompass any rules that personnel must follow (as opposed to human resources rules about personnel), and stated that no one “using ordi- nary language would describe” personnel rules “in this manner.” Milner v. Department of Navy, 562 U. S. 562, 578 (2011).
The Court explained that, when construing statutory phrases such as “arising from,” it avoids “uncritical lit- eralism leading to results that no sensible person could have intended.” Jennings v. Rodriguez, 583 U. S. ___, ___–___ (2018) (plurality opinion) (slip op., at 9–10) (in- ternal quotation marks omitted).
Those cases exemplify a deeply rooted principle: When there is a divide between the literal meaning and the ordi- nary meaning, courts must follow the ordinary meaning.
Next is a critical point of emphasis in this case. The dif- ference between literal and ordinary meaning becomes es- pecially important when—as in this case—judges consider phrases in statutes. (Recall that the shorthand version of the phrase at issue here is “discriminate because of sex.”)3
—————— 3 The full phrasing of the statute is provided above in footnote 2. This
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Courts must heed the ordinary meaning of the phrase as a whole, not just the meaning of the words in the phrase. That is because a phrase may have a more precise or con- fined meaning than the literal meaning of the individual words in the phrase. Examples abound. An “American flag” could literally encompass a flag made in America, but in common parlance it denotes the Stars and Stripes. A “three-pointer” could literally include a field goal in football, but in common parlance, it is a shot from behind the arc in basketball. A “cold war” could literally mean any winter- time war, but in common parlance it signifies a conflict short of open warfare. A “washing machine” could literally refer to any machine used for washing any item, but in eve- ryday speech it means a machine for washing clothes.
This Court has often emphasized the importance of stick- ing to the ordinary meaning of a phrase, rather than the meaning of words in the phrase. In FCC v. AT&T Inc., 562 U. S. 397 (2011), for example, the Court explained:
“AT&T’s argument treats the term ‘personal privacy’ as simply the sum of its two words: the privacy of a per- son. . . . But two words together may assume a more particular meaning than those words in isolation. We understand a golden cup to be a cup made of or resem- bling gold. A golden boy, on the other hand, is one who is charming, lucky, and talented. A golden opportunity is one not to be missed. ‘Personal’ in the phrase ‘per- sonal privacy’ conveys more than just ‘of a person.’ It suggests a type of privacy evocative of human con- cerns—not the sort usually associated with an entity like, say, AT&T.” Id., at 406.
—————— opinion uses “discriminate because of sex” as shorthand for “discriminate . . . because of . . . sex.” Also, the plaintiffs do not dispute that the ordi- nary meaning of the statutory phrase “discriminate” because of sex is the same as the statutory phrase “to fail or refuse to hire or to discharge any individual” because of sex.
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Exactly right and exactly on point in this case. Justice Scalia explained the extraordinary importance of
hewing to the ordinary meaning of a phrase: “Adhering to the fair meaning of the text (the textualist’s touchstone) does not limit one to the hyperliteral meaning of each word in the text. In the words of Learned Hand: ‘a sterile liter- alism . . . loses sight of the forest for the trees.’ The full body of a text contains implications that can alter the literal meaning of individual words.” A. Scalia & B. Garner, Read- ing Law 356 (2012) (footnote omitted). Put another way, “the meaning of a sentence may be more than that of the separate words, as a melody is more than the notes.” Helvering v. Gregory, 69 F. 2d 809, 810–811 (CA2 1934) (L. Hand, J.). Judges must take care to follow ordinary mean- ing “when two words combine to produce a meaning that is not the mechanical composition of the two words sepa- rately.” Eskridge, Interpreting Law, at 62. Dictionaries are not “always useful for determining the ordinary meaning of word clusters (like ‘driving a vehicle’) or phrases and clauses or entire sentences.” Id., at 44. And we must rec- ognize that a phrase can cover a “dramatically smaller cat- egory than either component term.” Id., at 62.
If the usual evidence indicates that a statutory phrase bears an ordinary meaning different from the literal strung-together definitions of the individual words in the phrase, we may not ignore or gloss over that discrepancy. “Legislation cannot sensibly be interpreted by stringing to- gether dictionary synonyms of each word and proclaiming that, if the right example of the meaning of each is selected, the ‘plain meaning’ of the statute leads to a particular re- sult. No theory of interpretation, including textualism it- self, is premised on such an approach.” 883 F. 3d 100, 144, n. 7 (CA2 2018) (Lynch, J., dissenting).4
—————— 4 Another longstanding canon of statutory interpretation—the absurd-
ity canon—similarly reflects the law’s focus on ordinary meaning rather
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In other words, this Court’s precedents and longstanding principles of statutory interpretation teach a clear lesson: Do not simply split statutory phrases into their component words, look up each in a dictionary, and then mechanically put them together again, as the majority opinion today mis- takenly does. See ante, at 5–9. To reiterate Justice Scalia’s caution, that approach misses the forest for the trees.
A literalist approach to interpreting phrases disrespects ordinary meaning and deprives the citizenry of fair notice of what the law is. It destabilizes the rule of law and thwarts democratic accountability. For phrases as well as terms, the “linchpin of statutory interpretation is ordinary meaning, for that is going to be most accessible to the citi- zenry desirous of following the law and to the legislators and their staffs drafting the legal terms of the plans launched by statutes and to the administrators and judges implementing the statutory plan.” Eskridge, Interpreting Law, at 81; see Scalia, A Matter of Interpretation, at 17.
Bottom line: Statutory Interpretation 101 instructs courts to follow ordinary meaning, not literal meaning, and to adhere to the ordinary meaning of phrases, not just the meaning of the words in a phrase.
Second, in light of the bedrock principle that we must ad- here to the ordinary meaning of a phrase, the question in this case boils down to the ordinary meaning of the phrase “discriminate because of sex.” Does the ordinary meaning of that phrase encompass discrimination because of sexual orientation? The answer is plainly no.
—————— than literal meaning. That canon tells courts to avoid construing a stat- ute in a way that would lead to absurd consequences. The absurdity canon, properly understood, is “an implementation of (rather than . . . an exception to) the ordinary meaning rule.” W. Eskridge, Interpreting Law 72 (2016). “What the rule of absurdity seeks to do is what all rules of interpretation seek to do: make sense of the text.” A. Scalia & B. Garner, Reading Law 235 (2012).
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On occasion, it can be difficult for judges to assess ordi- nary meaning. Not here. Both common parlance and com- mon legal usage treat sex discrimination and sexual orien- tation discrimination as two distinct categories of discrimination—back in 1964 and still today.
As to common parlance, few in 1964 (or today) would de- scribe a firing because of sexual orientation as a firing be- cause of sex. As commonly understood, sexual orientation discrimination is distinct from, and not a form of, sex dis- crimination. The majority opinion acknowledges the com- mon understanding, noting that the plaintiffs here proba- bly did not tell their friends that they were fired because of their sex. Ante, at 16. That observation is clearly correct. In common parlance, Bostock and Zarda were fired because they were gay, not because they were men.
Contrary to the majority opinion’s approach today, this Court has repeatedly emphasized that common parlance matters in assessing the ordinary meaning of a statute, be- cause courts heed how “most people” “would have under- stood” the text of a statute when enacted. New Prime Inc. v. Oliveira, 586 U. S. ___, ___–___ (2019) (slip op., at 6–7); see Henson v. Santander Consumer USA Inc., 582 U. S. ___, ___ (2017) (slip op., at 4) (using a conversation between friends to demonstrate ordinary meaning); see also Wiscon- sin Central Ltd. v. United States, 585 U. S. ___, ___–___ (2018) (slip op., at 2–3) (similar); AT&T, 562 U. S., at 403– 404 (similar).
Consider the employer who has four employees but must fire two of them for financial reasons. Suppose the four em- ployees are a straight man, a straight woman, a gay man, and a lesbian. The employer with animosity against women (animosity based on sex) will fire the two women. The em- ployer with animosity against gays (animosity based on sex- ual orientation) will fire the gay man and the lesbian. Those are two distinct harms caused by two distinct biases that have two different outcomes. To treat one as a form of
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the other—as the majority opinion does—misapprehends common language, human psychology, and real life. See Hively v. Ivy Tech Community College of Ind., 853 F. 3d 339, 363 (CA7 2017) (Sykes, J., dissenting).
It also rewrites history. Seneca Falls was not Stonewall. The women’s rights movement was not (and is not) the gay rights movement, although many people obviously support or participate in both. So to think that sexual orientation discrimination is just a form of sex discrimination is not just a mistake of language and psychology, but also a mistake of history and sociology.
Importantly, an overwhelming body of federal law re- flects and reinforces the ordinary meaning and demon- strates that sexual orientation discrimination is distinct from, and not a form of, sex discrimination. Since enacting Title VII in 1964, Congress has never treated sexual orien- tation discrimination the same as, or as a form of, sex dis- crimination. Instead, Congress has consistently treated sex discrimination and sexual orientation discrimination as le- gally distinct categories of discrimination.
Many federal statutes prohibit sex discrimination, and many federal statutes also prohibit sexual orientation dis- crimination. But those sexual orientation statutes ex- pressly prohibit sexual orientation discrimination in addi- tion to expressly prohibiting sex discrimination. Every single one. To this day, Congress has never defined sex dis- crimination to encompass sexual orientation discrimina- tion. Instead, when Congress wants to prohibit sexual ori- entation discrimination in addition to sex discrimination, Congress explicitly refers to sexual orientation discrimina- tion.5
—————— 5 See 18 U. S. C. §249(a)(2)(A) (criminalizing violence because of “gen-
der, sexual orientation”); 20 U. S. C. §1092(f )(1)(F)(ii) (requiring funding recipients to collect statistics on crimes motivated by the victim’s “gen- der, . . . sexual orientation”); 34 U. S. C. §12291(b)(13)(A) (prohibiting discrimination on the basis of “sex, . . . sexual orientation”); §30501(1)
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That longstanding and widespread congressional prac- tice matters. When interpreting statutes, as the Court has often said, we “usually presume differences in language” convey “differences in meaning.” Wisconsin Central, 585 U. S., at ___ (slip op., at 4) (internal quotation marks omit- ted). When Congress chooses distinct phrases to accom- plish distinct purposes, and does so over and over again for decades, we may not lightly toss aside all of Congress’s care- ful handiwork. As Justice Scalia explained for the Court, “it is not our function” to “treat alike subjects that different Congresses have chosen to treat differently.” West Virginia Univ. Hospitals, Inc. v. Casey, 499 U. S. 83, 101 (1991); see id., at 92.
And the Court has likewise stressed that we may not read “a specific concept into general words when precise lan- guage in other statutes reveals that Congress knew how to identify that concept.” Eskridge, Interpreting Law, at 415; see University of Tex. Southwestern Medical Center v. Nas- sar, 570 U. S. 338, 357 (2013); Arlington Central School Dist. Bd. of Ed. v. Murphy, 548 U. S. 291, 297–298 (2006); Jama v. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, 543 U. S. 335, 341–342 (2005); Custis v. United States, 511 U. S. 485, 491–493 (1994); West Virginia Univ. Hospitals, 499 U. S., at 99.
—————— (identifying violence motivated by “gender, sexual orientation” as na- tional problem); §30503(a)(1)(C) (authorizing Attorney General to assist state, local, and tribal investigations of crimes motivated by the victim’s “gender, sexual orientation”); §§41305(b)(1), (3) (requiring Attorney Gen- eral to acquire data on crimes motivated by “gender . . . , sexual orienta- tion,” but disclaiming any cause of action including one “based on dis- crimination due to sexual orientation”); 42 U. S. C. §294e–1(b)(2) (conditioning funding on institution’s inclusion of persons of “different genders and sexual orientations”); see also United States Sentencing Commission, Guidelines Manual §3A1.1(a) (Nov. 2018) (authorizing in- creased offense level if the crime was motivated by the victim’s “gender . . . or sexual orientation”); 2E Guide to Judiciary Policy §320 (2019) (pro- hibiting judicial discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation”).
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So it is here. As demonstrated by all of the statutes cov- ering sexual orientation discrimination, Congress knows how to prohibit sexual orientation discrimination. So courts should not read that specific concept into the general words “discriminate because of sex.” We cannot close our eyes to the indisputable fact that Congress—for several dec- ades in a large number of statutes—has identified sex dis- crimination and sexual orientation discrimination as two distinct categories.
Where possible, we also strive to interpret statutes so as not to create undue surplusage. It is not uncommon to find some scattered redundancies in statutes. But reading sex discrimination to encompass sexual orientation discrimina- tion would cast aside as surplusage the numerous refer- ences to sexual orientation discrimination sprinkled throughout the U. S. Code in laws enacted over the last 25 years.
In short, an extensive body of federal law both reflects and reinforces the widespread understanding that sexual orientation discrimination is distinct from, and not a form of, sex discrimination.
The story is the same with bills proposed in Congress. Since the 1970s, Members of Congress have introduced many bills to prohibit sexual orientation discrimination in the workplace. Until very recently, all of those bills would have expressly established sexual orientation as a sepa- rately proscribed category of discrimination. The bills did not define sex discrimination to encompass sexual orienta- tion discrimination.6
—————— 6 See, e.g., H. R. 14752, 93d Cong., 2d Sess., §§6, 11 (1974) (amending
Title VII “by adding after the word ‘sex’ ” the words “ ‘sexual orienta- tion,’ ” defined as “choice of sexual partner according to gender”); H. R. 451, 95th Cong., 1st Sess., §§6, 11 (1977) (“adding after the word ‘sex,’ . . . ‘affectional or sexual preference,’ ” defined as “having or manifesting an emotional or physical attachment to another consenting person or persons of either gender, or having or manifesting a preference for such
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The proposed bills are telling not because they are rele- vant to congressional intent regarding Title VII. See Cen- tral Bank of Denver, N. A. v. First Interstate Bank of Den- ver, N. A., 511 U. S. 164, 186–188 (1994). Rather, the proposed bills are telling because they, like the enacted laws, further demonstrate the widespread usage of the Eng- lish language in the United States: Sexual orientation dis- crimination is distinct from, and not a form of, sex discrim- ination.
Presidential Executive Orders reflect that same common understanding. In 1967, President Johnson signed an Ex- ecutive Order prohibiting sex discrimination in federal em- ployment. In 1969, President Nixon issued a new order that did the same. Exec. Order No. 11375, 3 CFR 684 (1966– 1970 Comp.); Exec. Order No. 11478, id., at 803. In 1998, President Clinton charted a new path and signed an Exec- utive Order prohibiting sexual orientation discrimination in federal employment. Exec. Order No. 13087, 3 CFR 191 (1999). The Nixon and Clinton Executive Orders remain in effect today.
—————— attachment”); S. 1708, 97th Cong., 1st Sess., §§1, 2 (1981) (“inserting af- ter ‘sex’ . . . ‘sexual orientation,’ ” defined as “ ‘homosexuality, heterosex- uality, and bisexuality’ ”); H. R. 230, 99th Cong., 1st Sess., §§4, 8 (1985) (“inserting after ‘sex,’ . . . ‘affectional or sexual orientation,’ ” defined as “homosexuality, heterosexuality, and bisexuality”); S. 47, 101st Cong., 1st Sess., §§5, 9 (1989) (“inserting after ‘sex,’ . . . ‘affectional or sexual orientation,’ ” defined as “homosexuality, heterosexuality, and bisexual- ity”); H. R. 431, 103d Cong., 1st Sess., §2 (1993) (prohibiting discrimina- tion “on account of . . . sexual orientation” without definition); H. R. 1858, 105th Cong., 1st Sess., §§3, 4 (1997) (prohibiting discrimination “on the basis of sexual orientation,” defined as “homosexuality, bisexuality, or heterosexuality”); H. R. 2692, 107th Cong., 1st Sess., §§3, 4 (2001) (pro- hibiting discrimination “because of . . . sexual orientation,” defined as “homosexuality, bisexuality, or heterosexuality”); H. R. 2015, 110th Cong., 1st Sess., §§3, 4 (2007) (prohibiting discrimination “because of . . . sexual orientation,” defined as “homosexuality, heterosexuality, or bisex- uality”); S. 811, 112th Cong., 1st Sess., §§3, 4 (2011) (same).
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Like the relevant federal statutes, the 1998 Clinton Ex- ecutive Order expressly added sexual orientation as a new, separately prohibited form of discrimination. As Judge Lynch cogently spelled out, “the Clinton Administration did not argue that the prohibition of sex discrimination in” the prior 1969 Executive Order “already banned, or henceforth would be deemed to ban, sexual orientation discrimina- tion.” 883 F. 3d, at 152, n. 22 (dissenting opinion). In short, President Clinton’s 1998 Executive Order indicates that the Executive Branch, like Congress, has long understood sex- ual orientation discrimination to be distinct from, and not a form of, sex discrimination.
Federal regulations likewise reflect that same under- standing. The Office of Personnel Management is the fed- eral agency that administers and enforces personnel rules across the Federal Government. OPM has issued regula- tions that “govern . . . the employment practices of the Fed- eral Government generally, and of individual agencies.” 5 CFR §§300.101, 300.102 (2019). Like the federal statutes and the Presidential Executive Orders, those OPM regula- tions separately prohibit sex discrimination and sexual ori- entation discrimination.
The States have proceeded in the same fashion. A major- ity of States prohibit sexual orientation discrimination in
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employment, either by legislation applying to most work- ers,7 an executive order applying to public employees,8 or
—————— 7 See Cal. Govt. Code Ann. §12940(a) (West 2020 Cum. Supp.) (prohib-
iting discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Colo. Rev. Stat. §24–34–402(1)(a) (2019) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); Conn. Gen. Stat. §46a–81c (2017) (pro- hibiting discrimination because of “sexual orientation”); Del. Code Ann., Tit. 19, §711 (2018 Cum. Supp.) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex (including pregnancy), sexual orientation,” etc.); D. C. Code §2– 1402.11(a)(1) (2019 Cum. Supp.) (prohibiting discrimination based on “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Haw. Rev. Stat. §378–2(a)(1)(A) (2018 Cum. Supp.) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex[,] . . . sexual ori- entation,” etc.); Ill. Comp. Stat., ch. 775, §§5/1–103(Q), 5/2–102(A) (West 2018) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Iowa Code §216.6(1)(a) (2018) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); Me. Rev. Stat. Ann., Tit. 5, §4572(1)(A) (2013) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); Md. State Govt. Code Ann. §20–606(a)(1)(i) (Supp. 2019) (prohibit- ing discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Mass. Gen. Laws, ch. 151B, §4 (2018) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Minn. Stat. §363A.08(2) (2018) (pro- hibiting discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Nev. Rev. Stat. §613.330(1) (2017) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); N. H. Rev. Stat. Ann. §354–A:7(I) (2018 Cum. Supp.) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex,” “sexual orien- tation,” etc.); N. J. Stat. Ann. §10:5–12(a) (West Supp. 2019) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sexual orientation, . . . sex,” etc.); N. M. Stat. Ann. §28–1–7(A) (Supp. 2019) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); N. Y. Exec. Law Ann. §296(1)(a) (West Supp. 2020) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sexual orientation, . . . sex,” etc.); Ore. Rev. Stat. §659A.030(1) (2019) (prohibiting discrimi- nation because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); R. I. Gen. Laws §28–5– 7(1) (Supp. 2019) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual ori- entation,” etc.); Utah Code §34A–5–106(1) (2019) (prohibiting discrimi- nation because of “sex; . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Vt. Stat. Ann., Tit. 21, §495(a)(1) (2019 Cum. Supp.) (prohibiting discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); Wash. Rev. Code §49.60.180 (2008) (pro- hibiting discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.).
8 See, e.g., Alaska Admin. Order No. 195 (2002) (prohibiting public-em- ployment discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Ariz. Exec. Order No. 2003–22 (2003) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sexual orientation”); Cal. Exec. Order No. B–
Cite as: 590 U. S. ____ (2020) 19
KAVANAUGH, J., dissenting
both. Almost every state statute or executive order pro- scribing sexual orientation discrimination expressly pro- hibits sexual orientation discrimination separately from the State’s ban on sex discrimination. —————— 54–79 (1979) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sexual preference”); Colo. Exec. Order (Dec. 10, 1990) (prohibiting pub- lic-employment discrimination because of “gender, sexual orientation,” etc.); Del. Exec. Order No. 8 (2009) (prohibiting public-employment dis- crimination because of “gender, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Ind. Gover- nor’s Pol’y Statement (2018) (prohibiting public-employment discrimina- tion because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Kan. Exec. Order No. 19–02 (2019) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “gender, sexual orientation,” etc.); Ky. Exec. Order No. 2008–473 (2008) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex, . . . sex- ual orientation,” etc.); Mass. Exec. Order No. 526 (2011) (prohibiting pub- lic-employment discrimination because of “gender, . . . sexual orienta- tion,” etc.); Minn. Exec. Order No. 86–14 (1986) (prohibiting public- employment discrimination because of “sexual orientation”); Mo. Exec. Order No. 10–24 (2010) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Mont. Exec. Order No. 04– 2016 (2016) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); N. H. Exec. Order No. 2016–04 (2016) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex, sexual orientation,” etc.); N. J. Exec. Order No. 39 (1991) (prohibiting public- employment discrimination because of “sexual orientation”); N. C. Exec. Order No. 24 (2017) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination be- cause of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Ohio Exec. Order No. 2019– 05D (2019) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “gender, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Ore. Exec. Order No. 19–08 (2019) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sexual orien- tation”); Pa. Exec. Order No. 2016–04 (2016) (prohibiting public-employ- ment discrimination because of “gender, sexual orientation,” etc.); R. I. Exec. Order No. 93–1 (1993) (prohibiting public-employment discrimina- tion because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Va. Exec. Order No. 1 (2018) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orientation,” etc.); Wis. Exec. Order No. 1 (2019) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex, . . . sexual orienta- tion,” etc.); cf. Wis. Stat. §§111.36(1)(d)(1), 111.321 (2016) (prohibiting employment discrimination because of sex, defined as including discrim- ination because of “sexual orientation”); Mich. Exec. Directive No. 2019– 9 (2019) (prohibiting public-employment discrimination because of “sex,” defined as including “sexual orientation”).
20 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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That common usage in the States underscores that sex- ual orientation discrimination is commonly understood as a legal concept distinct from sex discrimination. And it is the common understanding in this Court as well. Since 1971, the Court has employed rigorous or heightened constitutional scrutiny of laws that classify on the basis of sex. See United States v. Virginia, 518 U. S. 515, 531–533 (1996); J. E. B. v. Alabama ex rel. T. B., 511 U. S. 127, 136– 137 (1994); Craig v. Boren, 429 U. S. 190, 197–199 (1976); Frontiero v. Richardson, 411 U. S. 677, 682–684 (1973) (plu- rality opinion); Reed v. Reed, 404 U. S. 71, 75–77 (1971). Over the last several decades, the Court has also decided many cases involving sexual orientation. But in those cases, the Court never suggested that sexual orientation discrimination is just a form of sex discrimination. All of the Court’s cases from Bowers to Romer to Lawrence to Windsor to Obergefell would have been far easier to analyze and decide if sexual orientation discrimination were just a form of sex discrimination and therefore received the same heightened scrutiny as sex discrimination under the Equal Protection Clause. See Bowers v. Hardwick, 478 U. S. 186 (1986); Romer v. Evans, 517 U. S. 620 (1996); Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U. S. 558 (2003); United States v. Windsor, 570 U. S. 744 (2013); Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U. S. 644 (2015). Did the Court in all of those sexual orientation cases just miss that obvious answer—and overlook the fact that sex- ual orientation discrimination is actually a form of sex dis- crimination? That seems implausible. Nineteen Justices have participated in those cases. Not a single Justice stated or even hinted that sexual orientation discrimination was just a form of sex discrimination and therefore entitled to the same heightened scrutiny under the Equal Protection Clause. The opinions in those five cases contain no trace of such reasoning. That is presumably because everyone on this Court, too, has long understood that sexual orientation
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discrimination is distinct from, and not a form of, sex dis- crimination. In sum, all of the usual indicators of ordinary meaning— common parlance, common usage by Congress, the practice in the Executive Branch, the laws in the States, and the decisions of this Court—overwhelmingly establish that sex- ual orientation discrimination is distinct from, and not a form of, sex discrimination. The usage has been consistent across decades, in both the federal and state contexts. Judge Sykes summarized the law and language this way: “To a fluent speaker of the English language—then and now—. . . discrimination ‘because of sex’ is not reasonably understood to include discrimination based on sexual orien- tation, a different immutable characteristic. Classifying people by sexual orientation is different than classifying them by sex. The two traits are categorically distinct and widely recognized as such. There is no ambiguity or vague- ness here.” Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 363 (dissenting opinion). To tie it all together, the plaintiffs have only two routes to succeed here. Either they can say that literal meaning overrides ordinary meaning when the two conflict. Or they can say that the ordinary meaning of the phrase “discrimi- nate because of sex” encompasses sexual orientation dis- crimination. But the first flouts long-settled principles of statutory interpretation. And the second contradicts the widespread ordinary use of the English language in Amer- ica.
II Until the last few years, every U. S. Court of Appeals to address this question concluded that Title VII does not pro- hibit discrimination because of sexual orientation. As noted above, in the first 10 Courts of Appeals to consider the is- sue, all 30 federal judges agreed that Title VII does not pro- hibit sexual orientation discrimination. 30 out of 30
22 BOSTOCK v. CLAYTON COUNTY
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judges.9 The unanimity of those 30 federal judges shows that the question as a matter of law, as compared to as a matter of policy, was not deemed close. Those 30 judges realized a seemingly obvious point: Title VII is not a general grant of authority for judges to fashion an evolving common law of equal treatment in the workplace. Rather, Title VII identi- fies certain specific categories of prohibited discrimination. And under the separation of powers, Congress—not the courts—possesses the authority to amend or update the law, as Congress has done with age discrimination and dis- ability discrimination, for example. So what changed from the situation only a few years ago when 30 out of 30 federal judges had agreed on this ques- tion? Not the text of Title VII. The law has not changed. Rather, the judges’ decisions have evolved. To be sure, the majority opinion today does not openly profess that it is judicially updating or amending Title VII. Cf. Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 357 (Posner, J., concurring). But the majority opinion achieves the same outcome by seizing on literal meaning and overlooking the ordinary meaning of the phrase “discriminate because of sex.” Although the ma- jority opinion acknowledges that the meaning of a phrase and the meaning of a phrase’s individual words could differ, it dismisses phrasal meaning for purposes of this case. The majority opinion repeatedly seizes on the meaning of the
—————— 9
See Higgins v. New Balance Athletic Shoe, Inc., 194 F. 3d 252, 258– 259 (CA1 1999); Simonton v. Runyon, 232 F. 3d 33, 36 (CA2 2000); Bibby v. Philadelphia Coca Cola Bottling Co., 260 F. 3d 257, 261 (CA3 2001); Wrightson v. Pizza Hut of America, Inc., 99 F. 3d 138, 143 (CA4 1996); Blum v. Gulf Oil Corp., 597 F. 2d 936, 938 (CA5 1979) (per curiam); Ruth v. Children’s Medical Center, 1991 WL 151158, *5 (CA6, Aug. 8, 1991) (per curiam); Ulane v. Eastern Airlines, Inc., 742 F. 2d 1081, 1084–1085 (CA7 1984); Williamson v. A. G. Edwards & Sons, Inc., 876 F. 2d 69, 70 (CA8 1989) (per curiam); DeSantis v. Pacific Tel. & Tel. Co., 608 F. 2d 327, 329–330 (CA9 1979); Medina v. Income Support Div., N. M., 413 F. 3d 1131, 1135 (CA10 2005).
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statute’s individual terms, mechanically puts them back to- gether, and generates an interpretation of the phrase “dis- criminate because of sex” that is literal. See ante, at 5–9, 17, 24–26. But to reiterate, that approach to statutory in- terpretation is fundamentally flawed. Bedrock principles of statutory interpretation dictate that we look to ordinary meaning, not literal meaning, and that we likewise adhere to the ordinary meaning of phrases, not just the meaning of words in a phrase. And the ordinary meaning of the phrase “discriminate because of sex” does not encompass sexual orientation discrimination. The majority opinion deflects that critique by saying that courts should base their interpretation of statutes on the text as written, not on the legislators’ subjective intentions. Ante, at 20, 23–30. Of course that is true. No one disagrees. It is “the provisions of our laws rather than the principal concerns of our legislators by which we are governed.” On- cale v. Sundowner Offshore Services, Inc., 523 U. S. 75, 79 (1998). But in my respectful view, the majority opinion makes a fundamental mistake by confusing ordinary meaning with subjective intentions. To briefly explain: In the early years after Title VII was enacted, some may have wondered whether Title VII’s prohibition on sex discrimination pro- tected male employees. After all, covering male employees may not have been the intent of some who voted for the stat- ute. Nonetheless, discrimination on the basis of sex against women and discrimination on the basis of sex against men are both understood as discrimination because of sex (back in 1964 and now) and are therefore encompassed within Ti- tle VII. Cf. id., at 78–79; see Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Co. v. EEOC, 462 U. S. 669, 682–685 (1983). So too, regardless of what the intentions of the drafters might have been, the ordinary meaning of the law demonstrates that harassing an employee because of her sex is discrimi- nating against the employee because of her sex with respect
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to the “terms, conditions, or privileges of employment,” as this Court rightly concluded. Meritor Savings Bank, FSB v. Vinson, 477 U. S. 57, 64 (1986) (internal quotation marks omitted).10 By contrast, this case involves sexual orientation discrim- ination, which has long and widely been understood as dis- tinct from, and not a form of, sex discrimination. Until now, federal law has always reflected that common usage and recognized that distinction between sex discrimination and sexual orientation discrimination. To fire one employee be- cause she is a woman and another employee because he is gay implicates two distinct societal concerns, reveals two distinct biases, imposes two distinct harms, and falls within two distinct statutory prohibitions.
—————— 10
An amicus brief supporting the plaintiffs suggests that the plaintiffs’ interpretive approach is supported by the interpretive approach em- ployed by the Court in its landmark decision in Brown v. Board of Edu- cation, 347 U. S. 483 (1954). See Brief for Anti-Discrimination Scholars as Amici Curiae 4. That suggestion is incorrect. Brown is a correct de- cision as a matter of original public meaning. There were two analytical components of Brown. One issue was the meaning of “equal protection.” The Court determined that black Americans—like all Americans—have an individual equal protection right against state discrimination on the basis of race. (That point is also directly made in Bolling v. Sharpe, 347 U. S. 497, 499–500 (1954).) Separate but equal is not equal. The other issue was whether that racial nondiscrimination principle applied to public schools, even though public schools did not exist in any compara- ble form in 1868. The answer was yes. The Court applied the equal protection principle to public schools in the same way that the Court ap- plies, for example, the First Amendment to the Internet and the Fourth Amendment to cars.
This case raises the same kind of inquiry as the first question in Brown. There, the question was what equal protection meant. Here, the question is what “discriminate because of sex” means. If this case raised the question whether the sex discrimination principle in Title VII applied to some category of employers unknown in 1964, such as to social media companies, it might be a case in Brown’s second category, akin to the question whether the racial nondiscrimination principle applied to public schools. But that is not this case.
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To be sure, as Judge Lynch appropriately recognized, it is “understandable” that those seeking legal protection for gay people “search for innovative arguments to classify workplace bias against gays as a form of discrimination that is already prohibited by federal law. But the argu- ments advanced by the majority ignore the evident mean- ing of the language of Title VII, the social realities that dis- tinguish between the kinds of biases that the statute sought to exclude from the workplace from those it did not, and the distinctive nature of anti-gay prejudice.” 883 F. 3d, at 162 (dissenting opinion). The majority opinion insists that it is not rewriting or up- dating Title VII, but instead is just humbly reading the text of the statute as written. But that assertion is tough to ac- cept. Most everyone familiar with the use of the English language in America understands that the ordinary mean- ing of sexual orientation discrimination is distinct from the ordinary meaning of sex discrimination. Federal law dis- tinguishes the two. State law distinguishes the two. This Court’s cases distinguish the two. Statistics on discrimina- tion distinguish the two. History distinguishes the two. Psychology distinguishes the two. Sociology distinguishes the two. Human resources departments all over America distinguish the two. Sports leagues distinguish the two. Political groups distinguish the two. Advocacy groups dis- tinguish the two. Common parlance distinguishes the two. Common sense distinguishes the two. As a result, many Americans will not buy the novel inter- pretation unearthed and advanced by the Court today. Many will no doubt believe that the Court has unilaterally rewritten American vocabulary and American law—a “stat- utory amendment courtesy of unelected judges.” Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 360 (Sykes, J., dissenting). Some will surmise that the Court succumbed to “the natural desire that be- guiles judges along with other human beings into imposing their own views of goodness, truth, and justice upon others.”
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Furman v. Georgia, 408 U. S. 238, 467 (1972) (Rehnquist, J., dissenting). I have the greatest, and unyielding, respect for my col- leagues and for their good faith. But when this Court usurps the role of Congress, as it does today, the public un- derstandably becomes confused about who the policymak- ers really are in our system of separated powers, and inev- itably becomes cynical about the oft-repeated aspiration that judges base their decisions on law rather than on per- sonal preference. The best way for judges to demonstrate that we are deciding cases based on the ordinary meaning of the law is to walk the walk, even in the hard cases when we might prefer a different policy outcome.
* * * In judicially rewriting Title VII, the Court today cashiers an ongoing legislative process, at a time when a new law to prohibit sexual orientation discrimination was probably close at hand. After all, even back in 2007—a veritable life- time ago in American attitudes about sexual orientation— the House voted 235 to 184 to prohibit sexual orientation discrimination in employment. H. R. 3685, 110th Cong., 1st Sess. In 2013, the Senate overwhelmingly approved a sim- ilar bill, 64 to 32. S. 815, 113th Cong., 1st Sess. In 2019, the House voted 236 to 173 to amend Title VII to prohibit employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orienta- tion. H. R. 5, 116th Cong., 1st Sess. It was therefore easy to envision a day, likely just in the next few years, when the House and Senate took historic votes on a bill that would prohibit employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. It was easy to picture a massive and celebra- tory Presidential signing ceremony in the East Room or on the South Lawn. It is true that meaningful legislative action takes time— often too much time, especially in the unwieldy morass on
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Capitol Hill. But the Constitution does not put the Legis- lative Branch in the “position of a television quiz show con- testant so that when a given period of time has elapsed and a problem remains unsolved by them, the federal judiciary may press a buzzer and take its turn at fashioning a solu- tion.” Rehnquist, The Notion of a Living Constitution, 54 Texas L. Rev. 693, 700 (1976). The proper role of the Judi- ciary in statutory interpretation cases is “to apply, not amend, the work of the People’s representatives,” even when the judges might think that “Congress should reenter the field and alter the judgments it made in the past.” Hen- son, 582 U. S., at ___–___ (slip op., at 10–11). Instead of a hard-earned victory won through the demo- cratic process, today’s victory is brought about by judicial dictate—judges latching on to a novel form of living literal- ism to rewrite ordinary meaning and remake American law. Under the Constitution and laws of the United States, this Court is the wrong body to change American law in that way. The Court’s ruling “comes at a great cost to repre- sentative self-government.” Hively, 853 F. 3d, at 360 (Sykes, J., dissenting). And the implications of this Court’s usurpation of the legislative process will likely reverberate in unpredictable ways for years to come. Notwithstanding my concern about the Court’s trans- gression of the Constitution’s separation of powers, it is ap- propriate to acknowledge the important victory achieved to- day by gay and lesbian Americans. Millions of gay and lesbian Americans have worked hard for many decades to achieve equal treatment in fact and in law. They have ex- hibited extraordinary vision, tenacity, and grit—battling of- ten steep odds in the legislative and judicial arenas, not to mention in their daily lives. They have advanced powerful policy arguments and can take pride in today’s result. Un- der the Constitution’s separation of powers, however, I be- lieve that it was Congress’s role, not this Court’s, to amend Title VII. I therefore must respectfully dissent from the
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Court’s judgment.
German Legal Philosophy and theory in the 19th and 20th Centuries by Alexander Somek.pdf
On a General Theoty of Interpretation by George Wright.pdf
Citation: 32 Am. J. Juris. 191 1987
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ON A GENERAL THEORY OF INTERPRETATION: THE BETTI-GADAMER DISPUTE IN
LEGAL HERMENEUTICS
GEORGE WRIGHT*
INTRODUCTION
SCHOLARS IN ITALY AND ELSEWHERE have long recognized the work of Emilio Betti (1890-1968) as among the most successful in describing and orienting the insights and impulses associated with the study of hermeneutics, the modern theory of interpretation.' A jurist by pro- fession, older brother of the more famous Ugo, Betti brought to the study of interpretation a thorough grounding in classical studies as well as a deep commitment to the particular responsibility of legal practi- tioners in shaping the contours of social life through legal instrumen- talities. While his interests as a legal scholar ranged widely, from Caesar's relations with the Roman Senate to the intricacies of Roman law to questions of international law,' it is the peculiar strength of his approach to have framed the specific concerns of legal interpreta- tion within the larger problematic of interpretation in general. Herein lies the great promise of his work for legal researchers in this country, who are seeking only now to bring the method and insights of hermeneutics to bear on the development of their discipline.,
* I would like to thank Professor Hubert Dreyfus, of the University of Califor- nia at Berkeley, for many helpful comments on an earlier draft of this article. I would also like to thank my friend Jack A. Hiller, of the Valparaiso University School of Law, under whom I first read Heidegger. I have followed the convention of using forms of the masculine pronoun when referring indifferently to men and women.
1. See for example the article of Niels Thulstrup, "An Observation Concerning Past and Present Hermeneutics," 22 Orbis Litterarum (1967), pp. 24-44.
2. For a list of Betti's publications and a brief biography, see Chi'V Dizionario biografico degli italiani d'oggi 78 (7th ed. 1961); also Vittorio Scialoja, "Scritti di Emilio Betti," 9 Bulletino dell'Istituto di diritto romano (1967), p. 309. Betti was honored in 1962 with a number of commemorative volumes, containing many articles relating to the present theme. See Studi in onore di Emilio Betti, voll. I-IV (1962); of particular interest are the articles by David Daube, Gerhard Funke, Alfred Heuss, Gunther Kandler, Theodor Litt, Gaetano Righi and Fritz Wagner. See also Giuliano Crif6, "Onoranze a Emilio Betti," 28 Studia et Documenta Historiae et Juris (1962), p. 520.
3. A number of recent events signal rising interest in legal hermeneutics, in par- ticular the symposium held in 1984 by the editors of the Southern California Law Review. The papers given then have since appeared in that publication, vol. 58, 1985, numbers I and 2.
192 THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF JURISPRUDENCE (1987)
Because, in every aspect of their professional activity, lawyers work with words, their understanding and use of language, their interpretive technique, is a constituent, even defining, aspect of how they pursue their craft and how they understand their responsibilities and interests. Betti's work in hermeneutics, along with two other recent approaches, represents a critical response to one highly influential view of language, which we may term interpretive positivism, an attitude signaled among jurists by adherence to the adage "nec in lege, nec in iure," "if not in law, neither in right." Seeking to guarantee the autonomy of law and of legally constituted officials as its interpreters, legal positivists have characteristically stressed both the pedigree of a given legal pro- nouncement, that it has been issued by one in authority to do so, and the peculiarity of the processes by which adequate cognition and ap- plication of the pronouncement are made, that the official "thinks like a lawyer" in using precedent and analogy.'
This interpretive stance is the methodological outcome of the view that law is a matter of rules, issued by one in authority, to be given effect only so far as the internal consistency of the system of rules permits. Though recent decades -have seen attempts to import and legitimate criteria for decision-making which lacked the required pedigree, e.g., principles of political philosophy, social goals and needs, political behavior, etc., their proponents have had only partial success and have at all times faced stiff opposition, both in theory and in prac- tice. At times, these attempts have failed because they only tentatively broke with the culture and tradition of positivism which they criticized.5
4. See infra, footnote 86. 5. A recent article by H. L. A. Hart on the rights thesis as developed by Ronald
Dworkin is an indication of the residual strength both of legal positivism and of its most clear-sighted proponent; see H. L. A. Hart, "Between Utility and Right," 79 Columbia University Law Review (1979), p. 828. The terms of this debate have not moved beyond the point at which knowledge of Thomas Hobbes' philosophy is rele- vant for the light its sheds on liberal social thought. For many, the metaphor of the social contract remains a compelling image of political association, both in its descrip- tion of a-social man and in its prescription of a social remedy. Although reasons of history and language argue against the truth of this metaphor, if it is not to be aban- doned, and it seems that it is not, then we must understand it better, its origin in specific historical contexts, the characteristic lines of its development, its insufficien- cies and distortions. Further, interest in Hobbes is likely to recur. The critique of Marxism, carried on by Anglo-American scholars, must issue in a rejection of Locke, the labor theory of value and the language of individual rights. Indeed, Professor. Hart's article points out the failure of rights theorists to give more than a psychology of rights, when what is needed is a philosophy of rights. Hobbes remains both the single greatest obstacle to the metaphysics required for such a philosophic grounding of rights and also the most likely resort in its absence, I hope soon to bring out a book-length treatment of Hobbes in his connections with Protestantism and medieval nominalism.
GEORGE WRIGHT 193
Betti sought to locate himself within the humanist tradition of jurisprudence in relating law and legal thought both to its social origins and to its continuing social functions and responsibilities. 6 Following the teaching of Giambattista Vico (1668-1774),' Betti emphasized that law, along with philosophy, history, economics,' art, and literature, is a specifically human achievement, differing in essence from the phenomena of nature and requiring appropriate interpretive techniques for adequate understanding. He used the term scienze morali to describe their function as the moral, or human, sciences, the sciences of the spirit, rather than of nature, so called in imitation of the German term Geisteswissenschaften.
6. Several books and articles on humanist jurisprudence by Donald R. Kelley have yielded important results, in particular his Foundations of Modern Historical Scholarship: Language, Law and History in the French Renaissance (1970). The work of Karl-Otto Apel is also very valuable for the humanist perspective in general, especially his Die Idee der Sprache in der Tradition des Humanismus von Dante bis Vico (1963).
7. The literature on Giambattista Vico is too enormous to canvass here, but. Benedetto Croce's monograph, though criticized, remains seminal. See Benedetto Croce, The Philosophy of Giambattista Vico (translated by R. G. Collingwood 1913). Karl L6with's chapter on Vico in Meaning in History, pp. 115-36 (Eng. trans. 1949), is helpful. Gustavo Costa's essays in Cultura and the Giornale critico dellafilosofia italiana are especially valuable for those who know Italian, as is the volume Omaggio a Vico, which appeared in 1968. In the chapter I have cited, L6with says of Vico's master- piece The New.Science: [It] appeared in its first edition in 1725 and in its complete form in 1730 and was again revised in 1744, four years before Montesquieu's L'Esprit des lois, ten years before Voltaire's Essay, a hundred years before Schelling's Philosophy of Mythology and Religion, and almost two centuries before it was rediscovered and recognized as the most original advance toward a philosophy of history. It is the fruit of a lifelong search into the depth of historical humanity. It anticipates not only fun- damental ideas of Herder and Hegel, Dilthey and Spengler, but also the more par- ticular discoveries of Roman history by Niebuhr and Mommsen, the theory of Homer by Wolf, the interpretation of mythology by Bachofen, the reconstruction of ancient life through etymology by Grimm, the historical understanding of laws by Savigny, of the ancient city and of feudalism by Fustel de Coulanges, and of the class struggles by Marx and Sorel; at 115. No discussion of law and history can omit consideration of Vico and his theory of mythopoiesis. I have used the revised translation of the third edition-of the New Science, brought out by Thomas Goddard Bergin and Max Harold Fisch in 1968, as well as the three-volume Italian edition, published in paper- back by Giulio Einaudi in 1976, edited by Fausto Nicolini, with a bibliography cur- rent to around 1956.
8. Betti's inclusion of economics among the moral sciences may surprise the American reader. Few researchers aspire so patently to achieve the scientific ideals of classical Newtonian physics as do American economists, with their statistics, models and hermetic language. But not all practitioners of the dismal science, and certainly not its best research, may be so described; the. names of Galbraith, Hirschman and Cipolla, to cite some modern authors, may be given as important counter-examples.
9. We owe the term Geisteswissenschaften to the German translator of John Stuart Mill's Logic, where, in a supplement to that work, Mill outlines the possibilities of applying inductive logic to the human sciences. Mill sets out to secure the truth of the human sciences by showing that the inductive method, basic to experimental science,
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Although the human sciences pursue varying cognitive goals and have different terrains, they are united, according to Betti, in having a common interest and a common method, the interpretation of one sub- jectivity by another on the basis of the objectivity present in an exter- nal object. For in the object of interpretation is traced the history of a thought or feeling, some evidence of the vital experience of a fellow human being. This is the interpreter attempts to re-construct out of his own experience and understanding, not arbitrarily or capriciously but consistently with the autonomy and inner coherence resident in the object to be interpreted and in accord with his own interpretive technique, his "dogmatic." "Two things are thus held in opposition: one, the subjectivity that is inseparable from the spontaneity of understanding; the second, the objectivity, or otherness, so to speak, of the sense which interpretation seeks to elicit from the object. From this necessary tension flows the whole dialectic of the interpretive pro- cess. Upon it, one may construct a general theory of interpretation, which, in allowing critical reflection upon that process, can provide an account of its ends and methods. This theory is hermeneutics."' °
Betti follows Vico in emphasizing the spiritual connection of historical artifacts, like law and the sense of right, with their producers and in- terpreters as the basis of knowledge in the human sciences. For the expression of human creativity in intelligible and characteristic form was Vico's evident truth, which he asserted in the face of the critical philosophy of the great French thinker and mathematician Ren6 Descartes (1596-1650), for whom no thesis could be valid unless proven by a precise demonstration from original, underived independent prin- ciples. In seeking mathematical clarity, Descartes had hoped to sur- mount the traditions in which he had been raised in order to lay a new, unshakable foundation for philosophy and thereby avoid its beset- ting confusions and contradictions.
Descartes' re-direction of philosophic/scientific inquiry took the deductive closure of mathematical knowledge as its criterion of truth,
is alone valid also in the human sciences. For human science too, according to Mill, is concerned to establish similarities, regularities and conformities to a law which would make it possible to predict individual processes and phenomena. Such an understand- ing of 'science' makes historical understanding quite impossible, and against it one must insist upon the fact that historical research does not endeavor to grasp the con- crete phenomenon as an instance *of a general rule. See infra, footnote II, and Hans- Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (Eng. trans. 1975), p. 6. This work of Gadamer is fundamental for any discussion of interpretation in law that seeks to move beyond the craft techniques of given lawyers.
10. See infra, pp. 78-9.
GEORGE WRIGHT
united with systematic doubt as the means of arriving at statements whose universality, clarity, and self-evidence were indubitable, as in the famous cogito ergo sum." But, as Grassi notes, "If the problem of philosophy is identical with that of rational knowledge, if this knowledge in its turn consists of tracing back our assertions to a "first truth," then emotive elements and with them the influence of images, of fantasy, of rhetoric play no role whatsoever in this rational pro- cess. They even appear as elements which interfere with the rational process."II
The adoption of Descartes' cognitive paradigm foreclosed recourse to affective knowledge, gained in particular situations by the evidence of the senses, through demeanor, image, metaphor, gesture, impas- sioned speech, rhythm, etc.'" The changeable fortunes and passions of men, with their modulations of the particular, the contingent, the exemplary, the affective, the seeming-true and the heuristic, could no
11'. On Descartes, see Croce, The Philosophy of Giambattista Vico (1913), pp. 1-20. Eighteenth-century figures like Voltaire, Locke, and Hume came to admire history as a source of the most probable knowledge and most universal moral certainties. Possessed of a skeptical distrust of absolute certainty, they appealed to experience in the search for truth and value against the esprit de systume of the seventeenth- century philosophers, with their passion for mathematical and abstract truth. The Enlightenment ideal was that the historian, as a proper philosophe, should recognize his craft's probabilistic character, adopt a secular theory of motivation, chronology and causation, and aspire to a view of the human record that transcended his own nationality and interests; see Thomas J. Schlereth, The Cosmopolitan Ideal in Enlighten- ment Thought: Its Form and Function in the Ideas of Franklin, Hume, Voltaire, 1694-1790 (1977), pp. 64-65. The author of the Penstes diverses, Pierre Bayle, whose free thought was a spur to Vico's genius, proclaimed that the historian "ought to be attentive only to the interests of truth, to which he ought to sacrifice resentment of injuries, memory of favors received, even love of country. He should forget that he belongs to any country, that he has been raised in any particular faith, that he owes his fortune to this or that person, that these are his parents or those are his friends;" quoted in Roland Stromberg, An Intellectual History of Modern Europe (1966), pp. 96-97. Hume was not displeased to be abused by the violent of both parties. Thus the historical interest of these figures was related to their empirical interest in the facts of nature, for history was to serve as the empirical store house of a universal "science of morals," the great project of enlightened moral thought, pursued by all the major Enlightenment historians, Hume, Montesquieu, Gibbon, Raynal, and Robert- son, as well as enlightened philosophers. On the failure of the Enlightenment'project, see Alasdair Maclntyre's highly influential study, After Virtue (1981).
12. Ernesto Grassi, Rhetoric as Philosophy: The Humanist Tradition (1980), p. 37. 13. Use of the word paradigm recognizes a debt to Thomas S. Kuhn's The Struc-
ture of Scientific Revolutions (2d ed., enlarged 1970). Part of the story he tells there concerns a type of historiology in the natural sciences, namely, the construction of a historical narrative of problems moving inexorably toward solution. Legal researchers are familiar with similar histories, organized in terms of "tort law," "contract law," "property law," etc., all working themselves clear as means of facilitating specific Proupings of relationships and exchanges. This way of thinking about legal history
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longer be the basis of knowledge, which since Aristotle had been taken to be the grasp of a conformity. Rhetoric and history both, insofar as they undertook the study of the probable rather than the necessary, were degraded and lost their former philosophic importance. Whatever clever rules and maxims they might contain for beautiful speech and action, the best, if not the only method to convince and act correctly remained submission to the severity of logical proof, which might lead to truth.'
As students of English letters are well aware, Descartes' hostility to rhetoric and metaphoric expression found a parallel in England. Indeed, it was a conversation partner of Descartes, Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679), who first brought a new, flat style of philosophic writing to literary perfection in English; his Leviathan of 1651 emulates Milton's prose in defining and carrying out a consistent program of verbal ex- pression, the one florid and conceited, the other spare and unadorned." It was Hobbes who professedly eschewed the use of metaphor as an expository tool,' 6 although his figures of the bird in its own errors
is revealing for what it implies about those who devised it, but its adequacy as a con- struct for all periods and situations, even our own, is not an uninterpreted primitive. Indeed, the "history of problems" is a form of historiography that distorts more than it clarifies; see Gadamer, Truth and Method, pp. 305-41. On the division of law into various branches, cf. Martin Heidegger, Being and Time H362-3. (1 have used and slightly modified the translation of Being and Time by John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson of 1962 and have followed the convention of citing to the pagination of the later German editions, signified by an "H".) Herbert Butterfield, in his The Whig Interpretation of History (1965), describes "the tendency in many historians to write on the side of Protestants and Whigs, to praise revolutions provided they have been successful, to emphasize certain principles of progress in the past and to produce a story which is the ratification if not the glorification of the present. This whig version of the course of history is associated with certain methods of historical organization and inference-certain fallacies to which all history is liable, unless it be historical research. The examination of these raises problems concerning the relations between historical research and what is known as general history; concerning the nature of a historical transition and of what might be called the historical process; and also concerning the limits of history as a study, and particularly the attempts of the whig writers to gain from it a finality that it cannot give;" at v-vi.
14. Ernesto Grassi, Rhetoric as Philosophy: The Humanist Tradition (1980), pp. 71-72.
15. Basil Willey's The Seventeenth Century Background (1942), pp. 93-118, is useful for a consideration of Hobbes' literary connections, but caution must be urged as to his interpretation of Hobbes' political philosophy. Giorgio Sorgi's article, "La prob- lematica lettura di Thomas Hobbes," 57 Rivista internazionale difilosofia del diritto (1980), p. 325, provides an excellent bibliography of some recent work on Hobbes written in English, French, German and Italian.
16. See Leviathan 101ff. of C. B. Macpherson's edition of 1968. See also Ted Cohen, "Metaphor and the Cultivation of Intimacy," On Metaphor (1979), pp. 1-10; originally published in volume 5, issue I of Critical Inquiry, (1978).
GEORGE WRIGHT
belimed," the scarecrow of Aristotelian thought,'" even the great con- ceit of Leviathan itself,' 9 are the single most memorable features of his great book. And it was Hobbes who so sharply criticized the moral reasoning of ancient and medieval thinkers by denying the existence of a summum bonum, or highest good, shared by all men as the goal of their moral action.
20
Hobbes has a claim on the attention of modern lawyers. Like him, many recent Anglo-American philosophers and jurists have shown unrelenting hostility to the use of rhetoric and metaphor in discursive argument and have similarly tended to reject metaphysics, the theory of values and ethics as devoid of philosophic content and expressive merely of sentiment." Despite what contemporaries thought of him, despite his disputes with Matthew Hale, the great legal scholar and Lord Chief Justice," Hobbes' influence today is surely greater than Hale's or Coke's or Seldon's, for, in him, there first appeared the view
17. Leviathan, p. 105. 18. Leviathan, p. 691. 19. On Leviathan as metaphor, see Carl Schmitt, Der Leviathan in der Staatslehre
des Th. Hobbes (1938), and Michael Oakeshott's "Introduction" to his edition of Leviathan of 1962.
20. Hobbes discusses the summum bonum in this way: [T]he felicity of this life consisteth not in the repose of a mind satisfied. For there is no such finis ultimus (utmost aim) nor summum bonum (greatest good), as is spoken of in the books of the old moral philosophers. Nor can a man any more live whose desires are at an end than he whose senses and imaginations are at a stand; Leviathan, p. 160. In addi- tion to Hobbes' usual criticism of Aristotle, there is a clear reference here to the scholastic tradition of moral philosophy, especially the thought of St. Thomas Aquinas, and Hobbes elsewhere confesses his inability to understand Thomas' important idea of the nunc stans, the eternally present, as a description of the divine life. Though some have seen in this Hobbes' desire to eradicate religious ideas from political philosophy, it is rather an inclination to thematize another set of ideas, deriving not from the categories of rest, self-sufficiency and satisfaction, but from those of mo- tion, action and change. Hobbes is not alone in pursuing this conviction as to God's nature; see Michael J. Buckley, S.J., Motion and Motion's God: Thematic Variations in Aristotle, Cicero, Newton and Hegel (1971). Despite stylistic considerations, I have given numerous quotations in the text and footnotes so that the reader's efforts in interpreting the passages will lead him back to the texts themselves and he may become an interlocutor in a conversation about modern thought that is deep and meaningful.
21. The work of Alfred Jules Ayer may be cited in this connection, especially his Language, Truth and Logic (2d ed. undated), with the unfortunate blast at Heidegger, pp. 43-4. On this strain in Anglo-American thought, see Maclntyre, After Virtue (1981). In contrast to Professor Ayer, Heidegger detaches the question of personal existence from the empiricist scheme, so that continuity of experience is not projected as a prob- lem but is taken as given phenomenologically. The Christian socialist theologian Paul Tillich has written on personality in "The Idea and the Ideal of Personality," The Protestant Era (1957), pp. 115-135.
22. On this dispute, see Richard Curtis, "Hobbes and Hale: Sovereignty and the Common Law" (1985; unpublished mansucript, deposited in the Boalt Hall Library).
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that the institution of rules by one in authority is of the essence of justice, as if only to prescribe the occasion and manner of making and following commands is to meet the criteria of their fairness:
To the care of the sovereign belongs the making of good laws. But what is a good law? By a good law, I mean not a just law, for no law can be unjust. The law is made by the sovereign power, and all that is done by such power is warranted and owned by every one of the people; and that which every man will have so, no man can say is unjust. It is in the laws of a commonwealth as in the laws of gaming: whatsoever the gamesters all agree on is injustice to none of them. A good law is that which is needful for the good of the people and withal perspicuous."
This extreme concentration of questions of justice upon the figure of the sovereign was a function of Hobbes' desire to render the possibilities of political action amenable to rigorous description and prediction. For he believed he could count out all the possible com- binations of political life, reckon up the passions of men and thereby gain mastery over life's vicissitudes, as the philosophers had failed to do. In Hobbes' sovereign were concentrated all the powers he thought sufficient to assure any political association enduring peace and stability. Thus, while this political project was conceived and carried out from within Hobbes' understanding of his own quite particular historical circumstances, its end result was to be non-historical and exact in the same way in which geometry lacks history and indeterminacy. It was to be a mechanical science of society, the terms of which are familiar to us today from modern social science, having changed little since Hobbes described them in De Cive and Leviathan."
But Hobbes had less success than some modern thinkers in suggesting that laws and justice were related like rules for gaming, and he soon ran afoul of the religious and political beliefs of many of his contem- poraries, chief among whom was the Bishop of Derry, John Bramhall. Hobbes and Bramhall conducted an extended war of words over the freedom of the will," Bramhall asserting it upon moral, religious and
23. Leviathan, p. 388. 24. See De Cive Epistola dedicatoria, pp. 73-84, in the admirable critical edition
of the late Howard Warrender (1983), and Leviathan, chapter 26; cf. Jerry Weinberger, "Hobbes's Doctrine of Method," 69 American Political Science Review (1975), pp. 1336-53. My own interest in Hobbes stems from Roberto Mangabeira Unger's treat- ment of liberal thought in his seminal work Knowledge and Politics (1975).
25. This logomachy caught the attention of the poet T. S. Eliot, who championed Bramhall, hailing him as a giant battling a pygmy! See Eliot, Selected Essays (3d ed. 1951), pp. 355, 359.
GEORGE WRIGHT
political grounds, Hobbes similarly denying it. Indeed, Hobbes' response to the bishop recalls the resoluteness of Luther before the Diet: "What use soever be made of truth, yet truth is truth; and now the question is not what is fit to be preached, but what is true."'"
Apart from its moral repugnance and religious offense, Bramhall also saw in Hobbes' determinism a political disadvantage. "State policy," he remarked, "which is wholly involved in matter and cir- cumstances of time and place and persons is not at all like arithmetic and geometry, which are altogether abstracted from matter, but much more like tennis play. . . . There is no room for liberty in arithmetic and geometry."" Bramhall, in arguing for indeterminacy in politics, failed to come to grips with the central point in Hobbes'. analysis, namely, that politics seems random because we cannot yet calculate the variables accurately enough. But according to Hobbes, the study of human nature is in principle no different from that of meteorology, imperfect only because our knowledge has been rudimentary but capable in theory of mathematical exactness. The bishops's failure to under- stand the necessity with which his own actions occurred showed mere- ly a lack of knowledge:
A wooden top that is lashed by the boys, and runs about sometimes to one wall, sometimes to another, sometimes spinning, sometimes hitting men on the shins, if it were sensible of its owm motion, would think it proceeded from its own will, unless it felt what lashed it. And is a man any wiser, when he runs to one place for a benefice, to another for a bargain, and troubles the world with writing errors and requiring answers, because he thinks he doth it without other cause than his own will, and seeth not what are the lashings that cause his will?2 '
Bramhall, who was a quite conventional figure, vigorous, newly rich, and a defender of the church's interest in Ireland, earned Hobbes' en- mity in part for views which Hobbes had encountered before and during the Civil Wars, when many Englishmen claimed a right of private in- terpretation of law in its relation to Scripture:
26. Quoted in Leopold Damrosch, "Hobbes as Reformation Theologian: Implica- tions of the Free-Will Controversy," 40 Journal of the History of Ideas (1979), pp. 339-52, 344. On Luther's statement before the emperor, see James MacKinnon, Luther and the Reformation, vol. 2 (1962), p. 302.
27. Quoted in John Bowle, Hobbes and His Critics (1951), p. 120; see also Samuel Mintz, The Hunting of Leviathan (1962).
28. Hobbes, The Questions Concerning Liberty, Necessity, and Chance, 5 English Works, p. 55.
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[My Lord of Derry] further says that "just laws are the ordinances of right reason;" which is an error that hath cost many thousands of men their lives. Was there ever a King, that made a law which in right reason had been better unmade? And shall those laws therefore not be obeyed? Shall we rather rebel? I think not, though I am not so great a divine as he.?9
Hobbes thus joined Descartes in denigrating rhetoric and the claims of traditional moral and political philosophy. In launching his thorough- going attack on the doctrine of right reason and its cognate virtue, prudence, the sagacious and particularized application of rules through a faculty of judgment containing an internal rule of decorum,3" Hobbes sought to sever the link of rhetoric and prudence, the distinguishing feature of the Aristotelian rhetorical tradition and its long sequel in Roman, medieval, and Humanist jurisprudence. In this way, he pur- posed to obviate reliance on the conscience, on right reason and prudence and on the use of the passions to bring about civic virtue in favor of a geometry of politics and law.'
All these transgressions against the tradition found their vindicator in a solitary, Neapolitan professor of rhetoric. Vico objected to enlightened science for its failure adequately to grasp the nature of contingent human affairs, for "from the probable, there arises natural common sense, which is the norm of all practical intelligence (pruden- tial) and hence also of eloquence. For orators have more difficulty with a true state of affairs which does not seem probable than with a false one making a plausible impression."" Common sense, knowledge of the way things are in fact among men and the rights of truth itself thus militated against Cartesian science.
Vico accordingly sought to found a new science of historical investiga- tion, whose truth might be prior to and superior to that of mathematical- ly constructed Cartesian science and its critical principle of systematic doubt. Vico discovered his fundamentum inconcussum, the unshaken cornerstone of his science, in the imagination, the human capacity to order things spontaneously in classes by a speculative grasp of a situa- tion under the force of strong emotion. Rather than study later, "enlightened" forms of rationality, Vico considered the witness of
29. Quoted in Leopold Damrosch, "Hobbes as Reformation Theologian: Implica- tions of the Free-Will Controversy," 40 Journal of the History of Ideas (1979), p. 344.
30. See Marjorie O'Rourke Boyle, Rhetoric and Reform: Erasmus' Civil Dispute with Luther (1983), and Victoria Kahn, Rhetoric, Prudence, and Scepticism in the Renaissance, "Hobbes: A Rhetoric of Logic" (1985), pp. 152-81.
31. Ibid. 32. Quoted in Grassi, Rhetoric as Philosophy: The humanist tradition, 'Rhetoric
and Philosophy," (1980), pp. 18-34.
GEORGE WRIGHT
primitive artifacts, in which the original traces of spontaneous creative productivity, mythopoiesis, were more readily seen:
But in the night of thick darkness enveloping the earliest antiquity, so remote from ourselves, there shines the eternal and never failing light of a truth beyond all doubt: that the world of civil society has certainly been made by men, and that its principles are therefore to be found within the modifications of our own human mind."
His epistemological principle derived from the creative activity relating the maker to his product. Vico extended his idea of creativity even to the relation of a reader to his masterpiece, The New Science:
Our Science therefore comes to describe at the same time an ideal eternal history traversed in time by the history of every nation in its rise, development, maturity, decline and fall. Indeed we make bold to affirm that he who meditates this Science narrates to himself this ideal eternal history so far as he makes it for himself by that. proof "it had, has and will have to be." For the first indubitable principle posited above is that this world of nations has certainly been made by men, and its guise must therefore be found within the modifications of our own human mind. And history. cannot be more certain than when he who creates the things also narrates them." ,
Vico wondered that philosophers should have given their attention to a world they did not create and therefore could not know:
Whoever reflects on this cannot but marvel that the philosophers should have bent all their energies to the study of the world of nature, which, since God made it, He alone knows; [and] that they should have neglected the study of the world of nations, or civil world, which, since men had made it, men could come to know. Now, as geometry, when it constructs the world of quantity out of its elements, or contemplates that world, is creating it for itself, just so does our Science [create for itself the world of nations], but with a reality greater by just so much as the institutions having to do with human affairs are more real than points, lines, surfaces and figures are. 3
The primacy accorded mathematical proofs by Descartes and Hobbes is thus discounted by Vico on the basis of their createdness. We demonstrate mathematics because we create their truth. If we could demonstrate the physical world, we would be creating it.",
33. New Science, § 33!. 34. New Science, § 349. 35. New Science, § 331. 36. See Croce, The Philosophy of Giambattista Vico (1913), pp. 7-9. Croce goes
on to give this summary of an early. stage in Vico's development: The Platonism, agnosticism or mysticism of Vico is in the fullest sense of the word original, because
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Vico re-appropriated the language of mathematics in this way as-yet other institution, among those of law, art, philosophy, etc., all pro- ducts and witnesses to human creativity.
Apel has called Vico the culminating point of the humanist tradi- tion, that long line of literary scholars and thinkers who have acted as the residual legatees of classical civilization." But he is also the presumptive forebear, often dimly recognized,38 of succeeding genera-
it forms the accompaniment of doctrines not only not inferior to the average of con- temporary thought, but greatly in advance of it.
The first of these doctrines is the theory of knowledge as the conversion of the true with the created, Vico's substitute for the otiose criterion of the clear and distinct perception. Though this criterion represents for Vico an ideal unattainable to man, it yet does not bring with it an exact definition of the condition and character of knowledge, the identity of thought and being, without which knowledge is inconceivable.
The second is the revelation of the nature of mathematics as unique among the forms of human knowledge in origin, rigorous because arbitrary, wonderful but unfit to rule over and transform the rest of our knowledge.
Finally, the third doctrine is the vindication of the world of intuition, empirical knowledge, probability, and authority, all those forms of experience which intellec- tualism ignored or denied.
In these points Vico the agnostic, the Platonist, the mystic, was neither agnostic nor mystic nor Platonist. He achieved a threefold advance upon Descartes, and upon all these three heads criticized him conclusively; pp. 18-9.
37. Despite current hostility to humanism, its importance cannot be doubted, so long as it is seen that classical civilization retains its priority in Western thought. It is possible for a lawyer to sue in tort and not know of the existence of Thomas Hobbes, as I have seen, but, unless ignorance is prized, it is hardly desirable that this should be so. How much less desirable it is not to know of Heraclitus and Parmenides, whose fundamental thinking framed the whole development of Greek thought, from Plato on, and therefore of all subsequent thought in the West. The legacy of the classical past and the continuing normativity of its literature, art and thought was raised as a problem during the seventeenth-century debate known as the querelle des anciens et des modernes, when writers in the court of the Sun King self-confidently set out to rival the excellences of the past in introducing a new classical period of literature. While the debate began as a literary quarrel, its outcome led to the historical awareness that ultimately limited the exemplary status of the classical world. Many modern authors, chief among whom was Leo Strauss, the outstanding political philosopher, have deplored the effects of historical awareness on our present capacities to discern such elementary distinctions as that between right and wrong. Strauss' impressive teaching and scholarly work were aimed at establishing the theoretical standpoint from which the classical authors could be understood in their clear rightness as exemplars and models. In his attempt to raise a naive historicism above its meager and stultifying historical condi- tions, primarily through study of the classics, he is surely right, though more must be said. See Gadamer, "Hermeneutics and Historicism," Truth and Method, pp. 460-91, esp. 482 ff., and Gadamer, "Gadamer on Strauss: An Interview," 12 Interpretation (1984), p. 1.
38. For a description of Vico's links to later figures, see Thomas Bergin's and Max Fisch's "Introduction" to their translation of Vico's Autobiography (Eng. trans. 1944).
GEORGE WRIGHT
tions of scholars, especially in the disciplines of history, law and, theology, who developed similar ideas. 9
Betti claims a share in that patrimony, as will appear from the essay here translated, and, having given this brief consideration of the ideal background of his thought, we may now increase our understanding of his approach by contrasting it with two others, both very powerful- ly developed and similarly opposed to interpretive positivism, one, the school of the new rhetoric, represented by the Belgian Chaim Perelman, and the other, the hermeneutic movement of Martin Heidegger, Rudolf Bultmann, and Hans-Georg Gadamer.
The background of hostility we have traced in Hobbes and especial- ly Descartes provides an important stimulus to Professor Perelman's work. For his philosophic activity is characterized by a profound and constant desire to undo the history of ideas by winning back moral reasoning and moral suasion to the field of philosophy itself. The chief error he reprehends in modern thinkers is to have imported a concept of proof into the field of human conduct that is unduly restrictive."' For, while it is a matter neither of logical necessity nor empirical obser- vation, moral reasoning nonetheless characteristically involves a pro- cess of argumentation and evaluation as the means of proposing and justifying a given course of action, to oneself as well as to others. Rather than reject such argumentation as mere pseudo-propositions in the style of some modern philosophers, Perelman has sought to expand the no- tion of proof to include it within a theory of reasoned persuasion."
39. See Erich Auerbach, "Vico's Contribution to Literary Criticism," Studia Philologica et Litteraria in Honorem L. Spitzer edd. A. G. Hatcher et K. L. Selig (1958), pp. 31-37.
40. Chaim Perelman and L. Obrechts-Tyteca, The New Rhetoric. A Treatise on Argumentation (Eng. trans. by John Wilkinson and Purcell Weaver 1969, 1971), p. 4.
41. Chaim Perelman, "De la preuve en philosophie," Rhtorique'et Philosophie (1952), p. 122. H. L. A. Hart ends his "Introduction" to Perelman's The Idea of Justice and the Problems of Argument in this way: [Professor Perelman] has illuminating criticisms to make both of the Cartesian theory of knowledge resting on the criterion of self-evidence and of empiricist theories which conceive knowledge as a structure at the base of which is an indubitable experience of sense-given data. Both of these, in M. Perelman's view, share a common error, and have generated misconceptions of the role of language and methodology of the sciences, and a misleading contrast between knowledge and opinion. In this part of his work M. Perelman has reached, by an independent route, conclusions similar to those of contemporary English philosophers who have also been critical of both the rationalsim and empiricism of the past. Many English readers therefore will certainly be now disposed to agree with M. Perelman's dictum that "reasoning is infinitely more varied than anything to be found in the manual of iogic or of scientific methodology," but they cannot fail to be instructed by the range of novel and important considerations which M. Perelman urges in its support; p. xi.
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While moral action may not be based on reasons that compel com- pliance through evident necessity, it does proceed with reference to norms and values which may make one course of action more justifiable and desirable than some other.
Perelman thus seeks to extend the notion of proof precisely in order to present as rational all those dialectical and rhetorical arguments, employed in defense of any possible thesis or position. 2 Action may then be justified consistently on the basis of a logic not of the true but of the preferable, a logic of moral decision in which adherence is sought not through a simple submission to evidence or logical necessity but through the dialectic of judgment itself, the process of arriving at a decision freely taken. The "new rhetoric" is thus a logic of those reasonings, or conventions, which move us to action and justify our conduct without determining it;' 3 it allows us liberty of decision without rendering our choices absurd or irrational. The possibility of justifica- tion of action on the basis of this logic becomes for Perelman the prin- ciple through which morality may enter again into the domain of philosophy."
Both Betti and Perelman reject the mechanical world-picture and its ideal of science and logic as a means of understanding human behavior. But Betti does not share the project of enlarging the notion of proof, and indeed it may introduce a dichotomy between species of reasoning that for him would be illicit. For, in distinguishing argumentative proof from formal proof, Perelman has sought to vin- dicate freedom of action as if the choice to attempt to speak rationally and correctly were not itself an exercise of freedom, as if there could be any model of rationality external to the sphere of liberty. Proposi- tions are said to hold necessarily only if they accord with rubrics operative Within a freely chosen set of principles and procedures. If the store from which such principles are chosen were limited, then the premise and direction of Perelman's work might be justified. But such does not seem to be the case. Perhaps only within the "artificial in- telligence" community do researchers hope to articulate a complete formalization of the mental processes involved in thought and action,'"
42. Perelman, "Libert6 et raisonnement," op. cit., p. 47. 43. Perelman and Obrechts-Tyteca, op. cit., pp. 2-3. It is quite possible that the
tendency of Professor Perelman's work is to project a logic of conventions or of customs, whose eventual outcome would be the absorption, of traditional logic into itself. See Maria Grazia de Cristofaro Sandrini, "Logica e morale nel pensiero filosofico di Perelman," 24 Rivista critica di storia della filosofia (1969), p. 439, footnote 23.
44. Sandrini, art. cit., p. 446. 45. See Hubert Dreyfus, What Computers Can't Do: The Limits of Artificial In-
telligence (rev. ed. 1979).
GEORGE WRIGHT
and, in the light of the work of Wittgenstein on the one hand and Godel on the other, this effort is doubtful in the extreme. The con- trast Perelman draws between formal and argumentative proof thus seems to pass over the requirements of liberty and responsibility generally recognized by workers in all sciences, exact as well as human.
While Betti resists efforts to interpret human behavior within the categories offered by the mechanical world-picture," ' he does not seek to attenuate the rigor of one branch of knowledge to accommodate what is essential in another. Rather, he retains the requisites of knowledge as common to both the natural and moral sciences while distinguishing them on the basis of their differing objects and inter- pretive procedures. In the essay which follows, he sets out to specify the object of the human sciences with rigor and to show how the category of spirit is both fundamental in the human sciences and unknown in the natural sciences.
It is over the question of interpretation itself that Betti's disagree- ment with Gadamer and Heidegger may be said to arise. His differences with Gadamer became explicit over the years of his theoretical activ- ity, and, as he mentions in the present essay, they concern the key relation of interpretation and understanding."'
For Betti, understanding follows upon interpretation; it is the possi- ble outcome of a process which operates upon the representative forms it takes as its objects in strict conformity with general hermeneutic canons. These representative forms are marks of human personality; they signal the spontaneity of human experience, i.e., spirit, concretized in enduring manifestations. According to Betti, the objectivity of these forms and of our approach to them guarantees our capacity to know the human spirit that gave them utterance. He thus joins a long line of thinkers for whom the objectivity of interpretive criteria and method assures the correctness of understanding as the interpretative outcome. While historical and normative inquiry may require the use of inter- pretive canons different from those used in studying nature, the out- comes in both research fields need not differ as to their certainty and correctness. Knowledge is taken here primarily on the model of intui- tion, the sheer beholding of what is present, of what is given immediately to one's gaze. In contrast to the natural sciences, what is beheld in
46. Betti's opposition to mechanical metaphors in legal thought is demonstrated in his treatment of conflict of law problems in international law; see infra, pp. 98-101. See Martin Heidegger's essays "The Question Concerning Technology" and "The Age of the World Picture" in the volume The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays (Eng. trans. 1977), pp. 3-35, 115-54.
47. See infra, p. 76, footnote 4.
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the moral sciences is language, present in speech, in conduct, and in texts, as the object of interpretation; for Betti, it is through the objec- tive forms of language that one subject encounters a second.
Implicit in interpretation, according to Betti, is the possibility of deter- mining both what the experience was that has been given enduring form and the success with which the representation of that experience has been made. The interpreter may distinguish the work of spontaneous creation from that of reflexive elaboration and can gauge the adequacy with which the given concrete form reflects the antecedent experience." A key interpretive category for Betti is thus the state of mind of the creator of the representative form to be interpreted, and a central in- quiry is how well the creator has expressed his thought in the object he has produced.
These interpretive possibilities may seem appropriate to works of art, but not to law. And the element of subjectivity, that is, the con- sideration of the state of mind of a given author, may bear peculiarly the mark of the artistic and of aesthetic consciousness. But such a response would obscure both the nature of the material upon which the lawyer exerts himself, namely, words, and some of his most com- mon, well recognized interpretive problems. In dealing with legislative enactments, legal researchers are familiar with the question of legislative intent, which is so important in determining whether or to what extent case law has been superseded or merely codified by statute. Contract law, on one view, rests on a subjective "meeting of the minds." Giv- ing words their appropriate sense, according to their archaic, current or technical meaning, is an important part of legal interpretation, em- bodied for instance in the "common meaning rule." And the concern to find appropriate cases to illustrate a given legal precept, exclusive of particularities of time and place, bespeaks the practitioner's ability to weigh factors in a given case history and reach a conclusion as to the origin and purview of a legal rule. In all these instances, the ques- tions of intent and success in expression figure centrally, and it would be a mistake to dismiss them as peripheral to law. It is much more likely that abilities in these areas are integral to the lawyer's craft, which is nothing if not a linguistic technique, a characteristic way of working with words and their possible truth."9
48. See infra, p. 86. 49. This linguistic technique, the "dogmatic" of the lawyer, is of course historically
variable. The aspirations for clarity, precision, persuasive power, etc., of one group of lawyers differ from those of another. See infra, p. 85.
GEORGE WRIGHT
According to Betti, changed circumstances require changes in law.. But to change law, to adapt it, however important this is to one seek- ing to apply a norm, is hardly the concern of the historian. Thus it is a key feature of Betti's analysis that, after an adequate account of a rule or principle has been given, the task of the legal historian is said to diverge from that of the contemporary practitioner, who must take the further step of bringing a present exigency within the scope of the given legal directive, so that a norm for action may be given. This he does on the basis of his perception of the social circumstances in which he himself participates with others:
Confronted with the very same law, a contemporary jurist with nor- mative interests differs in outlook and goals from a later jurist with historical interests. The desire to derive maxims of conduct from a law in force is different from the desire to gain a historical under- standing of it. So also, the orientation of their investigations is dif- ferent. To contemporaries, the relevant norms present themselves as vital relations among interests in conflict. For them, a summary sketch may suffice to represent the complete outline of a legal in- stitution. But this is not sufficient for the jurist-historian. He lacks the immediate intuition of life they presuppose. He must complete the gaps he finds in past law with material drawn from other historical sources. In compensation, there stretches before him the ulterior course of the historical development, viewed from the van- tage point of his library. From here, he encompasses things which the jurists of the time could neither see nor presage." °
Implicit here are the assumptions that contemporaries share an im- mediacy of understanding of their times that enables them to find common ground upon which to reach accord and that it is on the basis of this spiritual community, given to coevals, or, in the case of the historian, reconstituted by painstaking research, that interpretation pro- ceeds. The key is that to understand means primarily for people to understand something about one another; in this we see the centrality of Betti's idea of spirit, which refers here to the dynamic-creative nature of man's personal and communal life and is only secondarily a religious term. Understanding is agreement or harmony with another person or set of persons. These assumptions and the interpretive tasks they prescribe are not in the least peculiar to Betti; indeed, they underlie a good deal of current American legal thought, evidenced for instance by the interest in arbitration as a means of dispute settlement.
Gadamer denies both that a divergence in goal and orientation necessarily occurs between the historian and the practitioner and that
50. See infra, p. 88.
208 THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF JURISPRUDENCE (1987)
any extra step is either needed or indeed taken by the practitioner as legal researcher; in the language of traditional hermeneutics, this is to deny that understanding (subtilitas intelligendi), interpretation (sub- tilitas explicandi), and application (subtilitas applicand) are separable moments of the interpretative process." With Heidegger, Gadamer postulates a prior understanding as the basis of interpretation and locates the work of the interpreter within the circle of this fore-understanding of his text. Implicit in the task the interpreter sets himself, understand- ing is not for Gadamer the outcome of interpretation as for Betti; rather both processes are concomitant, insofar as they can be distinguished at all.
Traditional hermeneutics had taken as its paradigmatic instance of understanding the circularity of wholes and parts: the part, a chapter of a novel, for instance, cannot be known apart from its place in the whole novel, but the novel can be known only from its chapters, that is, from its parts. We understand on this view only when the circles of whole and parts are co-extensive, when the parts are wholly con- tained within our knowledge of the whole and vice versa; to know is to grasp a meaning as self-contained, as it is in itself, as sheer objec- tive presence, the foundation of Betti's approach. The traditional view of interpretation thus postulated the unity of the work to be inter- preted, just as lawyers postulate the unity of a code or the body of common law."
51. See Truth and Method, p. 274; see also Niels Thulstrup, "An Observation concerning Past and Present Hermeneutics," 22 Orbis Litterarum (1967), pp. 24-44, 35.
52. This expectation of unity in the given text stems from the fact that traditional hermeneutics developed along two paths, one, theological hermeneutics, from the reformers' defense of their own understanding of the canon of Scripture against the attack of the Tridentine theologians; and the other, literary critical hermeneutics, as a tool of the humanist claim to revive the body of classical literature. Traditional hermeneutics claimed to reveal the original meaning of texts of both traditions, the Bible and humanistic literature, by specialized techniques, such as form criticism and source criticism. The nature of -humanist culture restricted the number of its effective, participants, so that hermeneutics gained its importance for a broad audience largely within the Protestant churches, as an aid to the. proclamation of the Word through preaching. Here, univocation remained the defining commitment in Protestantism's attempt to know the one true meaning of Scripture, in conscious opposition to the interpretative techniques accepted in medieval Roman Catholic tradition. Thus, for example, the Lutheran explicator, Flacius, says: It was no little obstacle to the clarity of Scripture and to the truth and purity of Christian doctrine, that practically all the writers and fathers in their interpretations and explications of sacred writings treated them as if they were a miscellaneous collection of sentiments, and not as an artistic unity conforming to correct principles of composition. In sacred scripture, as in works of literature, the true'meaning depends on the context, on the purpose of the work as a whole, and on the organic relations which unite the parts as members are united
GEORGE WRIGHT
Gadamer departs from the traditional paradigm by thematizing a circularity not within the parts and whole of the work to be interpreted but within it and the approach of its interpreter. The hermeneutic prob- lem lies in the fact that the premises of interpretation are always already given in some attitude of the interpreter to the object to be interpreted. In this sense, application is always part of the interpretative task, not merely for the practitioner but for the historian as well, for under- standing always involves the application of the meaning elicited by in- terpretation. All reading involves application, so that a person reading a text, be he judge, historian, or literary critic, is himself part of the meaning he apprehends, just as historical research is itself always historical."I
In Truth and Method, Gadamer has argued that because the same interpretive problem precedes and grounds all historical research, the legal historian's approach to a law is indistinguishable from that of the practitioner:
The very universality of the hermeneutic problem precedes every kind of interest in history, because it is concerned with what is always fundamental to the historical question. And what is historical research without the historical question? .... [A]pplication is an element of understanding itself. If, in this connection, I put the legal historian and the practicing lawyer on the same level, I do not deny that the former has exclusively a "contemplative," and the other a practical, task. Yet application is involved in the activities of both. How could the legal meaning of a law be different for either? It is true that, for example, the judge has the practical task of passing judgment, and many considerations of legal politics may enter in, which the legal historian (with the same law before him) does not consider. But does that make their legal understanding of the law any different? The judge's decision, which has a practical effect on life, aims at being a correct and never arbitrary application of the law; hence it must rely on a "correct" interpretation, which necessar- ily includes the mediation between history and the present in the act of understanding itself."
With Gadamer, we may reason that, as a present concern, the given
in one body; quoted in Norman 0. Brown's classic, Love's Body (1966), p. 194. A decisive step in the development of biblical hermeneutics was taken in the eighteenth century when interpretation focused on an individual book of the Bible as the relevant whole, rather than on the canon of books received from the early church; on this development, whose importance can scarcely be overestimated, see the impressive work of Henning Graf Reventlow, The Authority of the Bible and the Rise of the Modern World (Eng. trans. 1985).
53. Truth and Method, p. 292. 54. Truth and Method, p. xx.
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law can be either as it was when first pronounced or it can be dif- ferent. If it has continued unchanged over the years, then, in research- ing its original formulation, the historian learns all there is to know about the law, which is as much as the contemporary practitioner needs to know. If it has changed, to know what it is at present is to know it in the history of its changes, agiin the same task required of the practitioner. Both researchers must determine whether the lawy they are studying has changed or remained the same as they find it now. No further step is needed since to know the law is necessarily to know it in the continuity of its history, which is to know it in its present currency; whenever a law is known, it is known as it effectively is, whether it is in force or not. Unless the practitioner means to legislate or is somehow deflected from the proper course of legal cognition, no adaptation to present circumstances, as a discreet step of applica- tion in the process of interpretation, is required. That a researcher's interest in a law is solely historical does not free him from the necessity of both discarding inappropriate pre-conceptions from the present and understanding the law in ways that make sense in the present:
Must [the legal historian] not then do exactly the same as the judge does, i.e., distinguish between the original meaning of the text of the law and the legal meaning which he automatically accepts now in the present? The hermeneutical situation of both the historian and the jurist seems to me to be the same in that when faced with any text, we have an immediate expectation of meaning. There can be no such thing as a direct approach to the historical object that would objectively reveal its historical value. The historian has to undertake the same task of reflection as the jurist."
Nor is the identity of task between practitioner and historian at all unique to legal researchers; rather, it is an integral part of the work of all students in the sciences of the spirit:
[Tihere is always contained in historical understanding the idea that the tradition reaching us speaks into the present and must be understood in this mediation-indeed, as this mediation. Legal hermeneutics is, then, in reality no special case but is, on the con- trary, fitted to restore the full scope of the hermeneutical problem and so to retrieve the former unity of hermeneutics, in which the jurist and theologian meet the student of the humanities.
6
55. Truth and Method, p. 292. 56. Truth and Method, p. 293. See also Professor Gadamer's article, "On the
Scope and Function of Hermeneutical Reflection," 8 Continuum (1970), pp. 77-95, and the collection of articles, Reason in the Age of Science (Eng. trans. and introduc- tion by Frederick G. Lawrence 1982). The meeting Gadamer envisions between students
GEORGE WRIGHT
Gadamer agrees with Betti then that, in every case, legal analysis, normative or historical, proceeds on the basis of a present understand- ing and interest, but he disputes Betti's claim that the practitioner, as opposed to the historian, must self-consciously move the law whose history he has learned into intimate contact with present concerns upon the basis of the knowledge of a spiritual communion he shares with his contemporaries. If this second step is necessary, then perhaps some error in legal cognition has occurred. For Gadamer, the fact that a law has remained in force and is to be enforced in no way changes the character of the task set for the legal researcher, either as historian or practitioner; in either role, he seeks historical understanding of a law in an appropriate way, i.e., as a law.
Understanding this specific difference dividing the two thinkers allows us to deepen our sense of the underlying problems. For the root issue in their disagreement is Betti's desire to retain the objectivity of the object of interpretation in the face of Martin Heidegger's powerful rethinking of the ground and relation of subject and object. And Gadamer's specific theme, the circularity of interpreter and the object of his interpretation, rests on Heidegger's description of human ex- istence in general as being in the world. Indeed the circularity of inter- preter and text is a special case of a broader problematic, the character of human existence, or Dasein, in Heidegger's term, as the ground of intuition and intention.
We shall pursue our consideration of the Betti-Gadamer dispute first in its connections with the paradigm of knowledge as perspective-less beholding. Then we shall turn to Heidegger's and Gadamer's criticism of Vico's theory of mythopoiesis, the production of the conditions of social life. We shall reveal that, despite his intentions, Vico carried out and deepened the ideal of knowledge adumbrated by Descartes and Hobbes.
of law and of the humanities has not yet occurred in American law schools, where the spirit of empty and misinformed vocationalism reigns. Students, fearful for their grade point averages and transcripts, hesitate to take courses in legal thought and history for reasons justified in conscience by no law professor. Professors, desirous of satisfying student demands, formulate policies aimed at effectuating student choices whose shortsightedness and puerility they refuse to educate. The results of this tendency to make legal education transparent to some imagined job market are bad in all cases, enervation of the mind and shrinkage of the status interests of the profession. Although educators in law schools are not accustomed to look there for guidance and insight, divinity schools, whose object is the training of the very practical men and women of the clergy of churches and synagogues, have been able to retain a very large and lively sphere of learning and scholarly competence, as well as the ideal of service and professional dedication. See infra, footnote 90.
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Against Descartes and, by implication, the metaphysical tradition, Heidegger teaches that human existence is always already situated under- standingly in the world, in the manifold of its concerns. Dasein is in the world as such; the world is not purchased in some movement from innocence to experience or discovered through clearer perception or revealed by an act of faith. Dasein is being in the world and is so understandingly, in a way that is constitutive of its being.
For Descartes it is quite different. Descartes describes the basic on- tological characteristic of the world as the extension in space of substance as res extensa. Extension in length, breadth, and thickness thus makes up the real being of that corporeal substance (res corporea) which we call the world. All other attributes of the corporeal thing, its color, weight, and hardness, can be taken away from it, and it can still re- main what it is. Indeed, these attributes are taken as modes of that extension whose fundamental characteristic is that it perdures, remains what it is through changes. Distinguishing extension from its attributes and equating extension with the substance of the corporeal thing, Descartes emphasizes that substance as such, that is, the being of an entity as substance, is in and for itself inaccessible, in that its meaning is self-evident."
Heidegger objects to this account of substance. He notes that Descartes plays upon an equivocation between the being of an entity as substance, or substantiality, and the entity itself, as a substance. Because substantiality cannot be perceived, the possibility of a pure problematic of being is renounced in principle. And in this way an understanding of substance is developed from the standpoint of par- ticular entities rather than of being itself; indeed, an understanding of being is systematically excluded in that it is held to be self-evident:
Thus the ontological grounds for defining the "world" as res extensa have been made plain: they lie in the idea of substantiality, which not only remains unclarified in the meaning of its being, but gets passed off as something incapable of clarification, and gets represented indirectly by way of whatever substantial property belongs most pre-eminently to the particular substance. Moreover, in this way of defining "substance" through some substantial entity,
57. Being and Time, H89-102. The literature on Heidegger is too vast to survey, but Thomas Sheehan's collection of articles in Heidegger The Man and the Thinker (1981), would be a good place to start, especially Jacques Taminiaux's piece and Father Richardson's essay, discussing the Kehre, as well as Michael Murray's Heidegger and Modern Philosophy: Critical Essays (1978), in particular Richard Rorty's essay. L6with's "Heidegger: Problem and Background of Existentialism," Nature, History, and Ex- istentialism (Eng. trans. by Arnold Levison 1966), pp. 30-50, is quite helpful.
GEORGE WRIGHT
lies the reason why the term "substance" is used in two ways. What is here intended is substantiality; and it gets understood in terms of a characteristic of substance-a characteristic which is itself an entity."
Mathematics is peculiarly suited for this concept of substance as that which remains through changes:
Mathematical knowledge is regarded by Descartes as the one man- ner of apprehending entities which can give assurance that their be- ing has been securely grasped. If anything measures up in its own kind of being to the being that is accessible in mathematical knowledge, then it is in the authentic sense. Such entities are those which always are what they are. Accordingly, that which can be shown to have the character of something that constantly remains (as remanens capax mutationum), makes up the real being of those entities of the world which get experienced. That which enduringly remains, really is. This is the sort of thing which mathematics knows. That which is accessible in an entity through mathematics, makes up its being. Thus the being of the "world" is, as it were, dictated to it in terms of a definite idea of being which lies veiled in the concept of substantiality, and in terms of the idea of a knowledge by which such entities are cognized.s9
Descartes thus prescribes for the world its real being, rather than letting the entities within the world present the kind of being they manifest. And he does so on the basis of an uncritically accepted under- standing of substance as that which is constantly present at hand, merely there, perduring through change. Mathematics is thus not the origin but a complement of the idea of substantiality that dominates his thought. In this, Descartes is a faithful representative of the tradition in that this relation of mathematics and substance was present at the beginning of metaphysics in Plato."
58. Being and Time, H94. 59. Being and Time, H95-6. 60. The terms presence at hand and present at hand substitute in Being and Time
for what traditional philosophy knows as existentia. They signal Heidegger's desire to distinguish Dasein (existence, or ek-sistence) from other entities not of Dasein's special character as the being whose being is at issue; see Being and Time, § 9. It is Heidegger's belief that a shift occurs in Plato from an understanding of truth as the unconcealedness of being to the correctness of assertions about beings and that this shift is the hallmark of metaphysical thinking, the "thing-ontology," the ontology of the present at hand, which controls even Descartes' and Kant's thought; see infra, footnote 61. With it, the question of method, as the means of assuring such correct- ness, assumes an overriding and disproportionate importance. Michael Dummett, in a recent talk at Berkeley, has pointed out that statements can be undeniably true even though no method can be devised to certify their truth. Thus, for example, it is quite true that a certain number of people occupied a given room at a given time even
214 THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF JURISPRUDENCE (1987)
Heidegger faults not only Descartes' understanding of the world as res extensa but also his robbing human sensory experience of all relatedness to being:
The idea of being as permanent presence at hand not only gives Descartes a motive for identifying entities within the world with world in general, and for providing so extreme a definition of their being; it also keeps him from bringing Dasein's way of behaving into view in a manner which is ontologically appropriate. But thus the road is completely blocked to seeing the founded character of all sensory and intellective awareness, and to understanding these as possibilities of being in the world. On the contrary he takes the being of "Dasein" (to whose basic constitution being in the world belongs) in. the very same way as he takes the being of the res extensa-namely, as substance.
6'
In response to the metaphysical tradition of substance taken over by Descartes, Heidegger sets out to show how Dasein is disclosive of both of the world and of being itself.
Dasein encounters things that surround it primarily as things which serve this or that purpose, and not as pure things or the objects of mathematical study. For Dasein, the world is not constituted primor- dially as a grid of Cartesian coordinates, whose truth surpasses any other. Rather the world is a field of areas of repulsion and attraction, paths of access, zones of activity and repose, a give and take of atten- tion, grounded beforehand in mood and attunement. Human interest thus orders experiences into places and regions, specific concretions of greater or lesser complexity, requiring more or less resort to explicit reasoning of the sort Hobbes envisioned, the weighing and counting out of possibilities that is typical not of the master of a field but of a tyro, at least for the m6st part. For, as Dreyfus says, "In our own perceptual world, we are all master players. Objects are already located and recognized in a general way in terms of the characteristics of the
determined. On the relation of presence at hand to the Platonic and Aristotelian no- tions of (idea), (energeia), and (ousia), see Werner Marx, Heidegger and the Tradition (translated by Theodore Kisiel and Murray Green 1971). In general, I have not glossed Heidegger's special vocabulary as it appears in the quotations.
61. Being and Time, H98. Heidegger later gives this summary: Descartes has nar- rowed down the question of the world to that of things of nature [Naturdinglichkeit] as those entities within the world which are proximally accessible. He has confirmed the opinion that to know an entity in what is supposedly the most rigorous ontical manner is our only possible access to the primary being of the entity which such knowledge reveals. But at the same time we must have the insight to see that in princi- ple the 'roundings-out' of the thing-ontology also operate on the same dogmatic basis as that which Descartes has adopted; at H100.
GEORGE WRIGHT
field they are in before we zero in on them and concern ourselves with their details. It is only because our interests are not objects in our ex- perience that they can play this fundamental role of organizing our experience into meaningful patterns or regions. ' 62 Human existence is thus always already in a world, with entities it understands primor- dially, out of its concern for itself:
In dealing with what is environmentally ready to hand by interpreting it circumspectively, we "see" it as a table, a door, a carriage, or a bridge; but what we have thus interpreted need not necessarily be also taken apart by making an assertion which definitely characterizes it. Any mere pre-predicative seeing of the ready to hand is, in itself, something which already understands and interprets. But does not the absence of such an "as" make up the mereness of any pure perception of something? Wherever we see with this kind of sight, we already do so understandingly and interpretative- ly. In the mere encountering of something, it is understood in terms of a totality of involvements; and such seeing hides in itself the ex- plicitness of the assignment-relations ... which belong to that total- ity .
3
If what we encounter in the world is always already understood from within a totality of involvements, is mere "seeing" equal to mere percep- tion, prior to our assignment of meaning, so that what I see is sense data, only later given the meaning "door" or "house"?
This would be a misunderstanding of the specific way in which in- terpretation functions as disclosure. In interpreting, we do not, so to speak, throw a "signification" over some naked thing which is present at hand, we do not stick a value on it; but when something within the world is encountered as such, the thing in question already has an environment which is disclosed in our understanding of the
62. Dreyfus, What Computers Can't Do: The Limits of Artificial Intelligence (rev. ed. 1979), p. 274.
63. Being and Time, H149 (emphasis added). For the "readiness to hand" of equip- ment and our "circumspective" manner of dealing with it, see Being and Time, H69. A common assertion is that lawyers have no particular cognitive standpoint; on this view, law resembles a Cartesian science. Betti says that the training a lawyer receives. gives him his legal (in)sight; on this view, law is a learned discipline. For Gadamer, as for Heidegger, technique vanishes when most itself. Law for them would seem to be a habitual attitude or mood into which one enters; with Gadamer, we might call it a prejudice. Each of these possibilities, law as science, as discipline or as prejudice, is rife with implications for legal education and practice, and perhaps the only view that is inconsistent with the development of insight into interpretation in law is that one which prevents an examination of its methods, their historical origins and develop- ment. On the question of method in law, see Wolfgang Fikentscher's most impressive five-volume work, Methoden des Recht (1975-77).
215 •
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world, and this involvement is one which gets laid out by interpreta- tion.6"
Interpretation is thus the working out of a prior understanding:
The projecting of the understanding has its own possibility-that of developing itself. This development of the understanding we call "interpretation." In it the understanding appropriate understandingly that which is understood by it. In interpretation, understanding does not become something different. It becomes itself. Such interpreta- tion is grounded existentially in understanding; the latter does not arise from the former. Nor is interpretation the acquiring of inform- ation about what is understood; it is rather the working out of possibilities projected in understanding."'
Interpretation makes clear that all understanding is primarily artic- ulated according to the structure of "something as something."
That which is disclosed in understanding-that which is understood-is already accessible in such a way that its "as which" can be made to stand out explicitly. The "as" makes up the struc- ture of the explicitness of something that is understood. It constitutes the interpretation.'
6
Because interpretation always operates in a field of interest, what is interpreted, insofar as it constitutes some aspect of that field, is taken up from within that interest and the expectations it structures:
The ready to hand is always understood in terms of a totality of involvements. This totality need not be grasped explicitly by a thematic interpretation. Even if it has undergone such an interpreta- tion, it recedes into an understanding that does not stand out from the background. And this is the very mode in which it is the essen- tial foundation for everyday circumspective interpretation. In every case, this interpretation is grounded in something we have in advance-in a fore-having. As the appropriation of understanding, the interpretation operates in being towards a totality of involvements which is already understood-a being which understands. When something is understood but is still veiled, it becomes unveiled by an act of appropriation, and this is always done under the guidance of a point of view, which fixes that with regard to which what is understood is to be interpreted. In every case, interpretation is grounded in something we see in advance-in a fore-sight. This fore- sight "takes the first cue" out of what has been taken into our fore- having, and it does so with a view to a definite way in which this
64. Being and Time, H150. 65. Being and Time, H148. 66. Being and Time, H149.
GEORGE WRIGHT
can be interpreted. Anything understood which is held in our fore- having and towards which we set our sights foresightedly, becomes conceptualizable through interpretation. In such an interpretation, the wya in which the entity we are interpreting is to be conceived can be drawn from the entity itself, or the interpretation can force the entity into concepts to which it is opposed in its manner of be- ing. In either case, the interpretation has already decided for a definite way of conceiving it, either with finality or with reserva- tions; it is grounded in something we grasp in advance-in a fore-conception.
An interpretation is thus never a presuppositionless apprehending of something presented to us, and it is a derivative form of interpreta- tion that sees things "free" of the structure of interpretation, that is, apart from that as which they are given primordially to us. To see things is inevitably to see them as something; the "as-structure" is given primordially to Dasein as an aspect of its manner of being. Interpreta- tion as discourse, as the articulation of intelligibility, represents the possibility of speech, of vocalization, of speech acts. As such, it precedes all predicative and thematic expression and is co-eval with understand- ing and with states of mind as constitutive elements of Dasein. 61 All that is seen is given in a context structured by the interest we project as entities whose essence it is to project, in the anticipations and ex- pectations we bring to bear prior to conscious elaboration of specific contents, prior even to explicit reasoning and assertion. Our point of view fixes beforehand, prior to analysis, calculation, and assertion, that in regard to which interpretation proceeds.
In insisting on the priority of understanding over assertion and judg- ment, Heidegger has sought to give an account of our dealing with things that is more phenomenologically accurate than the Cartesian paradigm of sheer beholding. He realized that an entity is most what it is for us not when viewed apart from the perspective of human con- cerns but precisely from within those concerns, when it disappears as objective presence and is wholly taken up in our concernful dealings
67. Ibid. 68. On the as-structure, see Rodolphe Gasch6, "Quasi-Metaphoricity and the Ques-
tion of Being," Hermeneutics and Deconstruction edd. Hugh J. Silverman and Don lhde (1985), pp. 166-90, Gasch6's discussion treats Heidegger's consideration of the analogy of being, the doctrine of Plato and Aristotle, whose importance Heidegger came to realize through Brentano's work. On Heidegger's treatment of the question of Dasein's relation to truth and the possibility of falsification, which so angered Ayer, see Being and Time, §§ 44 and p. 62, and Gasch6, art. cit., pp. 173-5; but cf. Gadamer, "Plato and Heidegger," The Question of Being: East-West Perspectives, ed. Mervyn Sprung (1978), pp. 45-53, 52-3. On metaphor, see infra, footnote 87.
218 THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF JURISPRUDENCE (1987)
with it. For example, my pen is most what it is, a writing implement, when, in writing, I have forgotten it in the desire to copy down a thought. My understanding of it as a pen is there, as I write, as some- thing I grasp from within my understanding of it as a pen and of myself as one who writes and thinks. But its objective marks, its color, size, and shape, and my observation of them disappear, retreat back into my primordial understanding of the pen, as it fulfills its purpose in the context of my concern for my own possibilities.
Heidegger's insight as to items of equipment like a pen pertains equally to tools in general, including methods and methodologies. Indeed, it is Heidegger's view that the philosophic tradition itself, beginning with the Socrates of the Platonic dialogues, has aspired to a thinking that would be a species of calculation, a method for revealing things as objects open to contemplation and manipulation. This is especially clear in Hobbes, who says, "When a man reasons; he does nothing else but conceive a sum total from. addition of parcels, for REASON... is nothing but reckoning." 69 The ultimate outcome of calculating thought is technology, according to Heidegger, and a diminished understand- ing of our essence as human beings and our capacity for orderly behavior without recourse to rules. For, to the extent that philosophy has ac- cepted this determination as a method of securing correctness, as it has since Plato, it has thought away from its origin as openness to being in the logos.
Even human concerns stand revealed in Socratic dialogue so as to hold them in contemplation and bring them under control. Again Dreyfus: "Socrates was dedicated to trying to make his and other peo- ple's commitments explicit so that they could be compared, evaluated and justified. But it is a fundamental and strange characteristic of our lives that insofar as we turn our most personal concerns into objects, which we can study and choose, they no longer have a grip on us. They no longer organize a field of significant possibilities in terms of
69. Leviathan, pp. 110-11; Hobbes states: These operations [of addition and sub- traction) are not incident to numbers only, but to all manner of things that can be added together and taken one out of another. For as arithmetricians teach to add and subtract in numbers, so the geometricians teach the same in lines, figures (solid and superficial), angles, proportions, times, degrees of swiftness, force, power and
.the like; the logicians teach the same in consequences of words, adding together two names to make an affirmation and two affirmations to make a syllogism, and many syllogisms to make a demonstration, and from the sum, or conclusion of a syllogism, they subtract one proposition to find the other. Writers of politics add together pac- tions [i.e., contracts] to find men's duties; and lawyers, laws and facts to find what is right and wrong in the actions of private men; p. 110.
GEORGE WRIGHT
which we act but become just one more possibility we can choose or reject. Philosophers thus finally arrived at the nihilism of Nietzsche and Sartre in which personal concerns are thought of as a table of values which are arbitrarily chosen and can be equally arbitrarily aban- doned or transvalued. According to Nietzsche, 'The great man is nec- essarily a sceptic. . . . Freedom from any kind of conviction is part of the strength of his will'."'"
Heidegger's attempt to ask the question of being in a more original way than that opened in metaphysics pertains in the highest measure to that entity for which to be at all is an evident and constant concern, that is, to man. Man can surpass and transcend every being and ask about being as such, as he does in philosophy, because he is the only being which, in being, shows that it is concerned with being. Man is thus open for its possible comprehension. Man has the privilege of being in such a way that he is both thrust upon himself as a self and yet also owns his own being. Human existence is thus not a fixed and steady quality, such as beheld in traditional philosophy;" it is a con- stant, unremitting possibility. Far from exhausting itself in calculation and analysis, our understanding is open necessarily to the most trivial and most fundamental questioning of ourselves, of our situation in the world and of being.
Consistently with Heidegger's project of asking the question of be- ing, human understanding is taken up in Being and Time existentially, as a theme grasped from within the cocnerns in which we find ourselves, in connection With our comportment towards beings and being. In this comportment, which is distinct from the mere objectivity of inert things, are disclosed both what we are and how we are in any given instant. The existential analytic Heidegger conducts reveals that the essenceof human being is possibility. "[P]ossibility ... is th emost primordial and ultimate positive way in which Dasein is characterized ontolog- ically."" Dasein is determined by its comportment to those possibilities which are its own because it is in every case what it can be." Precisely
70. Dreyfus, What Computers Can't Do: The Limits of Artificial Intelligence (rev. ed. 1979), p. 275.
71. Cf. Being and Time, H98 and § 31. On the concept of "founding," see Being and Time, § 13 and H207ff.
72. Being and Time, H251. We may follow Professors Dreyfus and Rabinow in defining an analytic as the attempt to discover the a priori conditions that make possi- ble any analysis, with its concern with discoverable algorithms of formation (rules) and atomic elements (facts), operative within any given discipline; see Dreyfus and Rabinow, Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics (1982), p. 56.
73. Both Heidegger and Gadamer recognize an echo in their thought of Hegel's dictum, what is real is rational and what is rational is real. Many factors should prompt
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from within that concern in which Dasein finds itself, Dasein is itself as concern and in the way it can be.
Dasein's primordial comportment toward its own possibilities is thus never a mere given; rather, it always has the character of something open, something provisional, something incomplete. One way to say this is that Dasein, as the entity that remembers and anticipates, pro- jects itself as a self into a world of concerns it understands but does not at first know and does not plan:
[Als thrown, Dasein is thrown into the kind of being which we call "projecting." Projecting has nothing to do with comporting oneself towards a plan that has been thought out, and in accordance with which Dasein arranges its being. On the contrary, any Dasein has, as Dasein, already projected itself; and as long as it is, it is project- ing. As long as it is, Dasein has understood itself and always will understand itself from possibilities. 4
Just because Dasein is always. thrown, it never precedes itself and thus never comes to a primordial understanding of itself except as the possibilities in which it finds itself:
Furthermore, the character of understanding as projection is such that the understanding does not grasp thematically that upon which it projects-that is to say, possibilities. Grasping it in such a man- ner would take away from what is projected its very character as a possibility, and would reduce it to the given contents which we have in mind; whereas projection, in throwing, throws before itself
American scholars to forgo the usual knee-jerk reaction with which this dictum is uncomprehendingly met, that is, the usual condemnations of "rationalism," "Prus- sian iron laws," "dogmatism" and other self-congratulatory relativist shibboleths; see for example Reinhold Niebuhr's "Introduction" to the volume On Religion (1957), p. xiii-x. Note.what Edward A. Purcell, Jr., says in The Crisis of Democratic Theory: Scientific Naturalism and the Problem of Value (1973): By identifying ideology with abstract, a priori rationalism and comprehensive, authoritarian systems of thought, the relativist theory blinded itself to the fact that the theory itself-pragmatic, em- piricist, pluralistic-had in fact become an ideology. The general assumptions of political debate in America-unreflective, easily manipulable, and biased toward corporate power-also represented an ideology. Given the ideological blindness of the first, it was no surprise that it became a sophisticated version of the second.
The broad desire of many intellectuals to defend naturalism had led them to link it with the existing institutions of American society, while belief in the scientific nature of their theory obscured its partisan function. The relativist theory, with its prescriptive- descriptive ambiguity, provided the logical passageway that allowed the normative con- cept of America to Walk in and take over most of academic social and political thought. It also helped explain why so many scholars-themselves intelligent, honest, humane and democratic-could accept an ideology that in fact served to justify a quite im- perfect status quo; p. 272.
74. Being and Time, H 145.
GEORGE WRIGHT
the possibility as possibility, and lets it be as such. As projecting, understanding is. the kind of being of Dasein in which it is its possibilities as possibilities."
In projecting, Dasein projects its possibilities as possibilities, not as mere availabilities or as quantifiable units, severed from the manifold of its concern. It does not create them or invent them but lets them be as they are, possibilities.
How does this analysis of understanding as projection affect the her- meneutic question raised in Betti's exchange with Gadamer over inter- pretation in law? Heidegger notes that traditional philosophy has gen- erally taken the sense of sight, vision, as its paradigm for knowledge, whether it considered the nature of ideas or of physical things. Intui- tion, in the sense of "clear-sightedness," has served as the model of all knowledge, Heidegger says; to know a thing is to see it clearly and distinctly. In Being and Time, Heidegger uses "sight" generally to denote any way of access to beings and being:
"Seeing" does not mean just perceiving with the bodily eyes, but neither does it mean pure nonsensory awareness of something pre- sent at hand in its presence at hand. In giving existential significance to "sight," we have merely drawn upon the peculiar feature of see- ing, that it lets entities which are accessible to it be encountered unconcealedly in themselves. Of course, every "sense" does this with- in that domain of discovery which is genuinely its own. But from the beginning onwards the tradition of philosophy has been oriented primarily towards "seeing" as a way of access to entities and to being. To keep the connection with the tradition, we may formalize "sight" and "seeing" enough to obtain therewith a universal term for characterizing any access to entities or to being, as access in general.6
Heidegger then develops the notion of sight (Sicht) to include a number of modes of comportment toward beings: circumspection (Urn- sicht), that sight with which Dasein, in its dealings with techniques and tools and equipment, holds the totality of its tasks in view; and considerateness (Rucksicht) and forebearance (Nachsicht), those modes of seeing which serve a similar function in Dasein's solicitous dealings with others. He then grounds all these ways of comporting ourselves toward things and other people in the understanding, as he has described it, that is, as projection:
75. Being and Time, H145. 76. Being and Time, H147.
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By showing how all sight is grounded primarily in understanding, we have deprived pure intuition of its priority, which corresponds noetically to the priority of the present at hand in traditional ontol- ogy. "Intuition" and "thinking" are both derivatives of understand- ing, and already rather remote ones. Even the phenomenological "intuition of essences" is grounded in existential understanding. We can decide about this kind of seeing only if we have obtained ex- plicit conceptions of being and of the structure of being, such as only phenomena in the phenomenological sense can become."
Intuition, the sheer and steady perception of some self-contained meaning, is deprived of its priority. That long tradition of thinkers for whom the ideal of knowledge has been sight, intuition, from Aquinas, to Descartes, Leibniz, Kant, to Hegel and to Betti, is called into question in the project traced in Being and Time. Knowledge, as the sheer beholding of what is present, of what is merely there on hand present to one's gaze, is rejected as noetic paradigm in favor of an attitude in which absence is constitutive, as when my pen is absent though most itself as my writing implement. Primordially, as an item of equipment, my pen is not there characteristically in a self-contained objectivity. It is drawn beyond itself in my use into the manifold of my concerns by which it is essentially determined. It is elsewhere, with- drawn into itself, inconspicuous, in favor of the work for which it is now employed. Drawn back into itself, drawn forth beyond itself- modes of absence, which serve to determine the being characteric of techniques and tools. 8 In this way, the ontology of sheer objective presence, which grounds Betti's hermeneutic and guarantees the cor- rectness of its results, seems to be dissolved into the play of absence and presence.
This is not to say that one interpretation is as good as any other." All interpretation must comport with the manner of being shown by the entity to be interpreted and may either be forced, as Heidegger
77. Being and Time, H 147. Funk and Wagnall's New Standard Dictionary (1950), gives this definition of intuition: 2. an immediate knowledge, or envisagement of an object, truth, or principle, whether of a physical, rational, artistic or ethical nature; a conception derived by analogy from the act and result of clear and concentrated vision; p. 1287. The "intuition of essences" was an interpretive possibility opened up in the work of Heidegger's teacher, Edmund Husserl.
78. 1 have found John Sallis' article, "Into the Clearing," in Sheehan's collection of essays, Heidegger The Man and the Thinker (1981), pp. 107-16, quite helpful in this connection.
79. Nothing would be farther from Heidegger's or Gadamer's (or Betti's) inten- tion than that we take their thought as warrant for arbitrary, prejudicial, "free" in- terpretation. The one thing Gadamer does not give in Truth and Method is a defense of prejudicial interpretation.
GEORGE WRIGHT
has said, or accurate.8 0 But the noetic priority of rectilinear, calculative, assertoric thought, the piecemeal counting out, that moves Hobbes- like by discreet steps, is discounted in Heidegger's thought and with it the claim of the exact sciences to give a knowledge more truthful than that of the human sciences:
Any interpretation which is to contribute to understanding must already have understood what is to be interpreted. This is a fact that has always been remarked, even if only in the area of the derivative ways of understanding and interpretation, such as philological interpretation. The latter belongs within the range of scientific knowledge. Such knowledge demands the rigor of a demonstration to provide grounds for it. In a scientific proof, we may not presuppose what it is our task to provide grounds for. But if interpretation must in any case already operate in that which is understood, and if it must draw its nurture from this, how is to bring any scientific results to maturity without moving in a circle, especially if, moreover, the understanding which is presupposed still operates within our common information about man and the world? Yet according to the most elementary rules of logic, this circle is a circulus vitiosus. If that be so, however, the business of historiological interpretation is excluded a priori from the domain of rigorous knowledge. Insofar as the fact of this circle in under- standing is not-eliminated, historiology must then be resigned to less rigorous possibilities of knowing. Historiology is permitted to com- pensate for this defect to some extent through the "spiritual significance" of its "objects." But even in the opinion of the historian himself, it would admittedly be more ideal if the circle could be avoided and if there remained the hope of creating some time a historiology which would be as independent of the standpoint of the observer as our knowledge of nature is supposed to be.
But if we see this circle as a vicious one and look out for ways of avoiding it, even if we just "sense" it as in an inevitable imperfec- tion, then the act of understanding has been misunderstood from the ground up. . . . What is decisive is not to get out of the circle but to come into it in the right way. This circle of understanding is not an orbit in which any random kind of knowledge may move; it is the expression of the existential fore-structure of Dasein itself. It is not to be reduced to the level of a vicious circle, or even of a circle that is merely tolerated. In the circle is hidden a positive possibility of the most primordial kind of knowing. To be sure, we genuinely take hold of this possibility only when, in our interpreta- tion, we have understood that our first, last and constant task is never to allow our fore-havng, fore-sight, and fore-conception to be presented to us by fancies and popular conceptions, but rather
80. See supra, pp. 26-7, footnote 67.
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to make the scientific theme secure by working out these fore- structures in terms of the things themselves. Because understanding, in accordance with its existential meaning, is Dasein's own poten- tiality for being, the ontological presuppositions of historiological knowledge transcend in principle the rigor held in the most exact sciences. Mathematics is not more rigorous than historiology, by narrower, because the existential foundations relevant for it lie within a narrower range."
What is decisive is not to get out of the circle but to come into it in the right way. Dasein is circular in essence, according to Heidegger, because its essence, as understanding which interprets, is always an issue for itself:
The "circle" is understanding belongs to the structure of meaning, and the latter phenomenon is rooted in the existential constitution of Dasein-that is, in the understanding which interprets. An entity for which, as being in the world, its being is itself an issue, has, ontologically, a circular structure."2
Thought proceeds in a circle because it is of the essence of human being. What is essential limits and binds; it also grounds and makes possible. Dasein is the entity for which being is an issue. This manner of being makes possible the possibility of no longer being:8
Death is a possibility of being which Dasein itself has to take over in each case. With death, Dasein stands before itself in its ownmost potentiality for being. This is a possibility in which the issue is nothing less that Dasein's being in the world. Its death is the possibil- ity of no longer being able to be there. If Dasein stands before itself
81. Being and Time, H152-3. 82. Being and Time, HI53. 83. Theodor Adorno, in his The Jargon of Authenticity, gained a polemical ad-
vantage over Heidegger by failing to make the distinction Heidegger draws between death and "demise," which is the cessation of life that men undergo in common with other forms of plants and animals. Death is a constant possibility for human existence along; it is the horizon within which Dasein alone has meaning. This is hardly a new idea. Indeed, death has been a central philosophic and theological category for cen- turies; Plato says that to philosophize is like practicing to die. It is thus hardly the preserve of Hegel and Heidegger, as Karl Popper makes it out in what he now describes as his contribution to the war effort, The Open Society and Its Enemies. Cf. Kierkegaard's statement, in Concluding Unscientific Postscript (Eng. trans. 1941): To have been young, and then to grow older, and finally to die is a very mediocre form of human existence; this merit belongs to every animal. But the unification of the different stages of life in simultaneity is the task set for human beings; at 311. It must be stressed that, in emphasizing the centrality of death and guilt in human ex- istence, the Heidegger of Being and Time sought in no way to invalidate or refute the Christian symbols of eternal life and sin, as though this were possible; see Being and Time, HI80 and H496, footnote ii.
GEORGE WRIGHT
as this possibility, it has been fully assigned to its ownmost poten- tiality for being. When it stands before itself in this way, all its rela- tions to any other Dasein have been undone. This ownmost non- relational possibility is at the same time the uttermost one.
As potentiality for being, Dasein cannot outstrip the possibility for death. Death is the possibility of the absolute impossibility of Da- sein. Thus death reveals itself as that possibility which is one's ownmost, which is nonrelational, and which is not to be outstripped....
Dasein does not proximally and for the most part have any explicit or even any theoretical knowledge of the fact that it has been delivered over to its death, and that death belongs to being in the world. Thrownness into death reveals itself to Dasein in a more primordial and impressive manner in that state of mind which we have called anxiety. . . . This anxiety is not an accidental or ran- dom mood of "weakness" in some individual; but, as a basic state of mind of Dasein, it amounts to the disclosedness of the fact that Dasein exists as thrown being towards its end."4
Dasein is finite in essence; human being is grounded in its finitude. If an interpretation of human existence is to comport with the manner of being human, then finitude, the understanding Dasein has through anxiety of the possibility of no longer being, must figure as a constit- uent element not only in the interpretive outcome but throughout the interpretive process. It is for its failure to take account of finitude that Gadamer, following Heidegger, disputes Vico's theory of mythopoiesis, the production of myth as the ground of interpretation and understanding. Thisis the second of the broader problems underly- ing the Betti-Gadamer dispute.
We may recal that both Descartes and Vico theorized some aspect of the alternation of subject and object: in Descartes, it was their separa- tion; in Vico, it was the mode of considering their reunion. Vico reacted to Cartesian doubt and the certainty of mathematical knowledge of nature by stressing the epistemological primacy of the man-made historical world: man makes the civil world and can therefore know it. Implicit then in Vico's response to Descartes is the confidence that history can be transcended absolutely, that, if researchers rid themselves of enlightened prejudices, the true data of historical being can be re- vealed. Also, because of his belief in the sublimity and superior wisdom of the primaeval age of myth, the primitive and the unreflective ac- quired in Vico a priority of truth over the perfection of reflective in-
84. Being and Time, H250.
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sight and clarity of expression that his Enlightenment opponents emulated.
Like Vico, Gadamer and Heidegger offer a critique of Descartes' aspiration for a mathematical knowledge from without, a knowledge independent of the perspective of the observer. But unlike Vico, they do not aspire to the ideal eternal verity of a science of the civil world, the world of nations. For implicit in Vico's project they find the same unhistorical substratum uncritically accepted by Descartes, namely, the idea of unlimited extension, in Vico's case, into the past.8" In this, they see an attitude that is merely the mirror image of the errors of the Enlightenment:
[T]he presupposition of a mysterious darkness in which there was a mythical collective consciousness that preceded all thought is just as dogmatic and abstract as that of a state of perfection achieved by a total enlightenment or that of absolute knowledge. Primaeval wisdom is only the counter-image of "primaeval stupidity.""
6
85. Truth and Method, pp. 196, 200, 203-4, 245, 336, 406. 86. Truth and Method, p. 243. Note how David Donaldson reflects the romantic
view of metaphor and of the role of its interpreter: Metaphor is the dreamworld of language, and, like all dreamwork, its interpretation reflects as much on the inter- preter as on the originator. The interpretation of dreams requires collaboration be- tween a dreamer and a waker, even if they be the same person; and the act of inter- pretation is itself a work of the imagination. So too understanding is as much a creative endeavor as making a metaphor, and as little guided by rules; David Donaldson, "What Metaphors Mean," On Metaphor (1979), pp. 29-46, originally published in volume 5, issue 1 of Critical Inquiry, (1978)). Compare Gadamer on metaphor: Just as speech implies the use of pre-established words which have their universal meaning, there is at the same time a constant process of concept formation by means of which the life of a language develops.
The logical schema of induction and abstraction is very misleading here, as in linguistic consciousness there is no explicit reflection on what is common to different things, nor does the use of words in their universal meaning regard what they designate as a case that is subsumed under a universal. The universality of the genus and the classificatory formation of concepts are far removed from the linguistic consciousness. Even disregarding all formal similarities that have nothing to do with the generic con- cept, if a person transfers an expression from one thing to the other, he has in mind something that is common to both of them, but this need not be in any sense generic universality. He is following, rather, his widening experience, which see similarities, whether of the appearance of the object, or of its significance for us. It is the genius of linguistic consciousness to be able to give expression to these similarities. This is its fundamental metaphorical nature, and it is important to see that it is the prejudice of a theory of logic that is alien to language if the metaphorical use of a word is regarded as not its real sense; Truth and Method (footnote omitted), pp. 388-89. While I have chosen to highlight Betti's and Gadamer's differences, it is also quite clear that there are profound similarities in approach and understanding, and Gadamer is quite clear that his own work does not "disprove" Betti's. See Truth and Method, "Hermeneutics and Historicism," pp. 460-91.
GEORGE WRIGHT
The root of this alternation between Vico and his enlightened op- ponents is their shared assumption that progress in knowledge can be achieved if a method is followed that frees the researcher from prejud- ice, fromt he fore-conceptions that cloud vision. In Descartes, this is the method of systematic doubt; in Vico, it is historical recapitulation, whereby the original act of creative production is repeated imagina- tively by the researcher, as when a reader recapitulates the thought of an author. But, according to Heidegger and Gadamer, prejudice, as a fore-structure of projective understanding, is constitutive of Da- sein. All understanding for them involves prejudice insofar as it con- sists of a fore-conception. This insight indeed gives the problem of hermeneutics its thrust. For by its light:
it appears that historicism, despite its critique of rationalism and of natural law philosophy, is based on the modern enlightenment and unknowingly shares its prejudices.. And there is one prejudice of the enlightenment that is essential to it: the fundamental prejudice of the enlightenment is the prejudice against prejudice itself, which deprives tradition of its power."7
The results of this prejudice against prejudice may be seen in its corrosive effects upon the authority of tradition. In the passage which follows, Gadamer discusses the authority of the Bible, the chief docu- ment against which enlightened thinkers focused their critical attacks:
It is the general tendency of the enlightenment not to accept any authority and to decide everything before the judgment seat of reason. Thus the written tradition of scripture, like any other historical document, cannot claim any absolute validity, but the poss- ible truth of the tradition depends on the creditibility that is assigned to it by reason. It is not tradition, but reason that constitutes the ultimate source of all authority. What is written down is not necessarily true. We have superior knowledge: This is the maxim with which the modern enlightenment approaches tradition and which ultimately leads it to undertake historical research. It makes the tradi- tion as much an object of criticism as do the natural sciences the evidence of the senses. This does not necessarily mean that the 'pre- judice against prejudice' was everywhere taken to the extreme con- sequences of free thinking and atheism, as in England and France. On the contrary, the German enlightenment recognized the "true prejudices" of the Christian religion. Since the human intellect was too weak to manage without prejudices it is at least fortunate to .have been educated with true prejudices.'"
87. Truth and Method, pp. 239-40. 88. Truth and Method, pp. 241-2.
228 THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF JURISPRUDENCE (1987)
Despite the romantic rejection of the Enlightenment for its failure adequately to deal with the data of human life, romanticism itself ends in enlightenment, for it gives birth to historical science and draws everything, even the thought of one's contemporaries, into the orbit of historicism.
The basic discrediting of all prejudices, which unites the experimental emphasis of the new natural sciences with the enlightenment, becomes in the historical enlightenment, universal and radical.
This is the point at which the attempt to arrive at an historical hermeneutics has to start its critique. The overcoming of all prejud- ices, this global demand of the enlightenment, will prove itself a prejudice, the removal of which opens the way to an appropriate understanding of our finitude, which dominates not only our human- ity, but also our historical consciousness.' 9
Any true interpretation comports with the entity to be interpreted. Dasein, whose essence is understanding which interprets, is finite, both in being and in understanding. It is thus a falsification if interpreta- tion proceeds on the hypothesis of unlimited, absolute knowledge, and yields an account of human existence as some unlimited entity, not subject to the constraints of its manner of being. Historical in essence, human existence is subject to the understanding that is possible in any given time, even though clarity as to what that understanding is can- not be achieved; rather, we can know it in the same way my pen is known, as an alternation of presence and absence, giving itself and withdrawing at the same time. As human existence is limited, so is human understanding limited. It is thus a falsification to claim that the future is wholly open to our projects, or that the past is wholly open to our historical understanding, so that history is wholly subject to our control. In fact, Gadamer says, history does not belong to us, but we belong to it, to the traditions that shape us and predispose our understanding and even make understanding possible:
Does the fact that one is set within various traditions mean really and primarily that one is subject to prejudices and limited in one's freedom? Is not rather all human existence, even the freest, limited and qualified in various ways? If this is true, then the idea of an absolute reason is impossible for historical humanity. Reason exists for us only in concrete, historical terms, i.e., it is not its own master, but remains constantly dependent on the given circumstances in which it operates."0
89. Truth and Method, p. 244. 90. Truth and Method, p. 245. Professor Robert W. Gordon's article, "Historicism
in Legal Scholarship," 90 Yale Law Journal (1981), p. 1017, contains a number of
GEORGE WRIGHT
Historical being is itself historical, subject to the constraints of the temporal horizon within which it is situated. The possibility of historical knowledge thus bears within itself the disproof of our ability to realize that undoubted clarity, that irrefutable creative grasp of subject and object that is the basis of Vico's historical consciousness. The roman-
interesting points, but its main argument, that recovery of past political languages may make the past irrelevant to contemporary legal concerns, or even that historical research is-always a threat to legal scholarship, shows a failure to reflect adequately upon the relation of law and history. Legal science cannot proceed on the basis of its own view of history; there can be no separate "legal" historiology. Yet law must be historical; this is the sense of Maitland's statement that the lawyer who is not or- thodox is no lawyer. What for Professor Gordon signals the impossibility of inter- pretation, namely, that a text may be alien to us and different from our expectations, is in fact the premise of interpretation. Similarly, a historical argument, such as that made by Professor Duncan Kennedy in his highly influential article on Blackstone, "The Structure of Blackstone's Commentaries," 28 Buffalo Law Review (1979), pp. 205, 270, must be accurate, or the thrust of the argument miscarries. Although it is a distinction often forced upon us, scholarly research about a historical figure can- not be good as legal or political theory and bad as history. What the theorist thematizes either happened or it did not, and, if it did not, then his theory has no ground in history, though it may have much else to recommend it. Thus I believe it is a telling criticism of Professor Kennedy's larger argument as to Blackstone's apologetic pur- pose that he has mis-identified his subject's political allegiance; cf. Thomas Garden Barnes, "Notes from the*Editors," in his edition of Blackstone's Commentaries on the Laws of England, books 1-4 (undated). For a bibliography of writings of those sharing the perspective of the Critical Legal Studies movement, see Duncan Kennedy and Karl E. Klare, "A Bibliography of Critical Legal Studies," 94 Yale Law Review (1984), p. 461. Note what Phillip E. Johnson says in his article, "Do You Sincerely Want to be Radical?," 36 Stanford Law Review (1984), p. 247: If one parent of Critical legal scholarship is the Critical Theory of European Marxist sociology, the other parent is the American Legal Realism of 50 years ago, with its insight that formalistic legal reasoning inevitably conceals subjective value choices; p. 252. The terms in which both the CLS movement and this criticism are developed, for example, the language of value and choice, subjectivity, sincerity as an ideal of personality, formalism, conceal- ment and revelation as strategies of interpretation, the pursuit of interpretative primitives, a critical stance over against authority, etc., all mark their source in the re-presentational thought of the metaphysical tradition which is the starting-point of Heidegger's existential analytic. Neither the CLS critique nor this criticism of CLS overcomes the hiatus between law and its dogmatic expression and elaboration that legal realism brought about as part of its critical strategy. Neither gets around the subject-object impasse, the one because it emulates Marxist praxis, the other because it seeks objectivity. Consider Betti's point that one's interpretive practice is itself a historical outcome, which arises naturally from the necessity of synthesis and intelligibil- ity present in law; see infra, pp. 89-90 and 93. Consider also what Gadamer says: To interpret the law's will or the promises of God is clearly not a form of domination, but of service. They are interpretations-which includes application-in the service of what is considered valid. Our thesis is that historical hermeneutics also has a task of application to perform, because it too serves the validity of meaning, in that it explicitly and consciously bridges the gap in time that separates the interpreter from the text and overcomes the alienation of meaning that the text has undergone; Truth and Method, p. 278.
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tic theory of society and history is thus the fulfillment of the thought of the Enlightenment. Precisely because the romantic theory of mythopoiesis is merely the obsverse of enlightened classicism, both periods, the romantic and the classical, give evidence of a failure to understand the tradition of Western culture, so that it is reconstructed on principles different from those according to which it has power. Heidegger and Gadamer thus measure their distance not only from Hobbes and Descartes but also from Vico and his heirs.
Heidegger, Gadamer, and the theologian Rudolf Bultmann seek to avoid the alternation of classicism and romanticism, of "myth" and "reason," by attempting to think the thinking that precedes both the division of subject and object and also their reunion by way of human productivity. This is a theme in Heidegger's Letter on Humanism, writ- ten in 1946, in response to an essay of Sartre describing "existentialism" as a humanism.
Sartre had written that existence precedes essence. Tillich tells how his brilliant aphorism had flashed across people's minds, illuminating his interpretation of Heidegger and defining it as the dire, absurdist irruption that has only recently fallen from public attention. Sartre had taken Plato's assertion that essence precedes existence and merely reversed it, to great effect.
But the reversal of a metaphysical statement remains a metaphysical statement. Heidegger's response in the Letter was no less aphoristic than Sartre's, though more neologistic: man's essence is his ek-sistence, the manner of being whereby he stands out, ek-sists, into the truth of what is." This is the question driving Heidegger's thought, the essen- tial relation of man to being within being's relation to the essence of man, the question of being, and the manner of human existence.
Heidegger faults Sartre for his acceptance of the traditional view that thought is in some essential way a making, a production, a repre- sentation, either of thoughts or of actions, in theory or practice. For Sartre, thought is a process whereby meaning, even the meaning of one's life, is posited courageously on the basis of a conscious, if ab- surd, decision. But fabrication, even self-fabrication, is merely the self-
91. Heidegger, "Letter on Humanism," Basic Writings: From Being and Time (1927) to The Task of Thinking (1964) ed. David Farrell Krell, pp. 204-9 (1977); cY. Being and Time, § 9. Gadamer makes the same point: [Understanding] is ... the original form of the realization of [Dasein], which is being in the world. Before any differentiation of understanding into the different directions of pragmatic or theoretical interest, understanding is [Dasein]'s mode of being, in that it is potentiality for being and 'possibility'. . . . Understanding is the original character of human life itself; Truth and Method, p. 230.
GEORGE WRIGHT
assertion of a subjectivity, which represents objects for contemplation or manipulation. Sartre had not overcome the metaphysical tradition.
What is true of self-fabrication is true also of the fabrication of values. For Heidegger, it is not the creating and choosing of values, or even their criticism, clarification, or destruction, that is or assures the undoubted ground or presupposition of human understanding:
To think against "values" is not to maintain that everything inter- preted as a "value"-"culture," "art," "science," "human dign- ity," "world," and "God"-is valueless. Rather, it is important finally to realize that precisely through the characterization of soem- thing as a "value" what is so valued is robbed of its worth. That is to say, by the assessment of something as a value what is valued is admitted only as an object for man's estimation. But what a thing is in its being is not exhausted by its being an object, particularly when objectivity takes the form of value. Every valuing, even when it values positively, is a subjectivizing. It does not let things be. Rather valuing lets beings be valid-solely as the objects of its do- ing. The bizarre effort to prove the objectivity of values does not know what it is doing. When one proclaims "God" as the altogether "highest value," this is a degradation of God's essence. Here as elsewhere thinking in values is the greatest blasphemy imaginable against being. To think against values therefore does not mean to beat the drum for the valuelessness and nullity of beings. It means rather to bring the lighting of the truth of being before thinking, as against subjectivizing beings into mere objects. 2
Both the production and the destruction of values, unless more is said, remain within the subjectivism of the metaphysical tradition."
92. "Letter on Humanism," p. 228. Although talk about values is widespread among academics and becoming endemic among lawyers, countercurrents are also noticeable, not only among opponents of the neo-Kantians, but also among followers of Comte and Durkheim, as well as certain legal positivists. On Comte, see Gilson, The Unity of Philosophical Experience, pp. 248-70, 277-80 (1937), and Voegelin, From Enlighten- ment to Revolution (1975), pp. 136-59. Heidegger criticized the theory of values, or axiology, as it has come to be known, also in his Introduction to Metaphysics, pp. 166-67 (Eng. trans. 1961), a difficult but important piece; see also Felice Battaglia's excellent Heidegger e la filosofia dei valori (1967). Richard Stith, in his article, "Toward Freedom from Value," 24 Catholic Lawyer (1979), pp. 333-60, rejects the talk about values in the context of abortion. Like Heidegger, Stith insists that to assign a value to any entity, especially another person, is already to fail to some extent to recognize that entity's givenness and uniqueness, to split it in some way from its presence. There is nothing particularly extraordinary about relations in which values do not figure. There are people with whom our lives are fatefully intertwined, for good or ill. They are not discovered by looking for a comparison; they simply exist for us in a fateful way.
93. The destruction of values in favor of value-neutrality by American behaviorists was prepared in part by the terms of their defense by American pragmatists. If what is interesting about a phenomenon is only its results, then there is little need, apart from convenience, to understand the phenomenon, its manner of being, and considerable
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What then is relation of theory and practice to thought which ponders the truth of being as ek-sistence?
[Sluch thinking is neither theoretical nor practical. It comes to pass before this distinction. Such thinking is, insofar as it is, recollection of being and nothing else. Belonging to being, because thrown by being into the preservation of its truth and claimed for such preserva- tion, it thinks being. Such thinking has no result. It has no effect. It satisfies its essence in that it is. But it is by saying its matter. Historically, only one saying belongs to the matter of thinking, the one that is in each case appropriate to its matter. Its material relevance is essentially higher than the validity of the sciences because it is freer. For it lets being be."'
and what direction can jurists take from Heidegger's thought?
Only so far as man, ek-sisting into the truth of being, belongs to being can there come from being the assignment of those directions that must become law and rule for man. The Greek to assign is nemein. Nomos is not only law but more originally the assignment contained in the dispensation of being. Only the assignment is capable of dispatching man into being. Otherwise all law remains merely something fabricated by human reason. More essential than insti- tuting rules is that man find the way to his abode in the truth of
reason, for simplicity's sake, to understand the results as if there were no phenomenon. Behaviorism obviates analysis of the background practices within which institutions arise and develop, have, retain and lose meaning. To have noticed, for example, the ways in which the United States Supreme Court behaves like an administrative agency is not to recognize that result as an indication of the failure of an institution to fulfill a set of expectations, if- it is, much less to prescribe a remedy. Both pragmatism and behaviorism accepted what Edward. Purcell has called the normative concept of America, that is, the view that the American historical development has general validity as an ideal of political and social life; see supra, footnote 73. Pragmatism, as the "philosophy of the American way of life," did so explicitly, obliging its proponents to remain open to criticism and the possibility of growth. Its vision of social life was also condi- tioned by its intellectual origins; Dewey's pragmatism was in some large part derived from Hegel. See Herbert W. Schneider, A History of American Philosophy passim (2d ed. 1963), and Wayne A. R. Leys, "Dewey's Social, Political and Legal Philosophy," Jo Ann Boydston, Guide to the Works of John Dewey (1970), p. 131. Behaviorists do not presuppose a background in a reflective philosophy, such as Dewey had. Thus their defense of the normative concept of America has been implicit and their understanding of American legal and political institutions uncritical. Though in- formative, their research is not self-executing, even as systems maintenance; it assumes and addresses an audience and a political context, whose meaning and purposes are inaccessible as such in principle. Thus it is difficult to see how behaviorism can be useful in answering the questions legal and political thinkers have historically posed since behaviorists themselves do not admit asking these questions. It is peculiarly a view of politics that refuses to recognize itself in its own results. Cf. Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History (1953), pp. 1-8.
94. "Letter on Humanism,"'p. 236.
GEORGE WRIGHT
being. This abode first yields the experience of something we can hold on to. "Hold" in our language means "protective heed." Being is the protective heed that holds man in his ek-sistent essence to the truth of such protective heed-in such a way that it houses ek- sistence in language; Thus language is at, once the house of being and the home of human beings. Only because language is the home of the essence of man can historical mankind and human' beings riot be at home in their language, so that for them language becomes a more container for their sundry preoccupations."
This appears to give rather little guidance, but it may be enough. For despite his difficult language, despite the range and complexity of his problems, and despite his immense output of books and articles, Heidegger's re-appropriation of the tradition has had an enormous ef- fect in the other human sciences, in. philosophy, theology, in literary studies, and in the social sciences. Indeed, his thought is the most influ- ential, his philosophic project, the most truly, thought-provoking, of our era. And while his impact upon American legal researchers has so far been slight, negligible, some points suggest themselves for further development.
One is the recent debate over constitutional interpretation, that is, over whether judges must determine and follow the original intent of the Founding Fathers. 9 6 As usual, the participants in this debate framed the issues in the most harshly disparate fashion, as a set of antinomies, whose necessary propositions were mutually inconsistent. And the polemical tone of the exchanges was unfortunately rather high. But surely no one who wishes to accord the authority of the legal tradition its force and power can deny that constitutional interpretation consistent with the Constitution is possible, that is, that the document can be understood in its continuity with the present, as the mediation of the past and present. To deny this possibility precipitates a line of questions whose answers can only be preposterous and perhaps dangerous: when did it become impossible to interpret the Constitution; why did this happen; could it have been avoided; what are the new principles which serve the functions reserved for the Constitution; does some translation language operate between this new set of constitutional principles and the Constitution itself; who knows it; how does one learn it.
On the other side, no one who wishes to avoid the subjectivism of historicism will rest content with the view that the Framers' original intent is the constitutional interpreter's proper focus. Is it necessary
/
95. "Letter on Humanism," pp. 238-9. 96. Cf. Alexander M. Bickel's The Supreme Court and the Idea of Progress (1970).
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to focus on intent at all? Is this approach itself not the reflection of a failure properly to conceive the currency the Constitution retains in our political life? Is it not preferable to seek an adequate understand- ing of the doctument itself, from within the context of the tradition of constitutionalism that speaks in and through the Framers into our own times, rather than attempt some guess as to the subjective states of mind? This is certainly in historical enquiry, but any approach, any interpretation of and by an entity whose essence is historical, must also be historical by necessity; otherwise, it fails to comport with the manner of human existence. Future researchers may arrive at a keener understanding of the historical sources within which the Constitution speaks and gathers meaning. Recognizing this in no way detracts from the dignity and seriousness of the work at hand but only bespeaks a fair recognition of the partiality of our understanding and of the open- ness of human affairs to the future.
A second way in which Heidegger's thought may become effective is in bringing into clearer focus the realist thesis that the processes of private law are means of gathering useful, social knowledge, on the basis of which judges may reform the law. Legal realism is familiar as a critical philosophy of law, scientific, empirical, methodical, manipulative, cynical as to tradition, seeking to interpose a standard of reason between tradition and its dogmatic expression and elabora- tion and claiming superior knowledge and a certain method; suspicious of authority, it gives reasons of utility and clarity for the specific political directives it wishes to carry out.
It is pecular that the judge's opinion in a case should have been taken over from the law schools as the archetypal expression of law in realist jurisprudence. Few undertakings rival the modern lawsuit for its capacity to draw participants out of their own quite real concerns into the rigid typicality of the re-presentational concepts taken over in various ways from philosophy and applied in the law of evidence, procedure, fault, duty, etc." Whatever is not mediated through these concepts simply is not there; it does not appear. A truth is hidden here, namely, that immediacy is not a necessary condition of public life. But is is naive to think that opinions and cases yield unimpeachable evidence of the law or that they teach all the legal researchers need know. Rather, it seems that they may be data only for those who do
97. See, for example, my article, "Stoic Midwives at the Birth of Jurisprudence," 28 American Journal of Jurisprudence (1983), p. 169. To emphasize the indebtedness of law and lawyers to the philosophic tradition is not to deny that the relationship has been reciprocal, as shown by a number of interesting examples.
GEORGE WRIGHT
not know legal concepts or for those who do not use them merely as data. This often remarked contradiction, that legal realism relies on a tradition of legal thought it itself can neither replace nor sustain, lends credence to the hypothesis that the movement was aimed at the federal judicary, as an incitement to get and use power.
This hypothesis is also borne out by the predominance of essentially biographical explanation of judicial action. Realist historiography remembers those who changed rather than sustained the law and reveres those who did so surreptiously. Indeed it is as biography that judicial decisions are often explained; this accounts for the importance of chambers gossip. It is as though what actually determined the outcome of cases were some peculiarity in the lives of the actors, as individuals or in concert, rather than the most accurate reading of the law. And motivating the biographical understanding of law is the aesthetics of genius, the romantic idea of creativity which we have seen proposed in quite different circumstances by Vico: The judge has a vision and is creative, and he creates out of the depth of his experience. But, whether divulged in an opinion or not, biography, particularly in the articulated, self-reflective form required of judges, is not primary; in it, history is inevitably a private affair, merely an instance of some larger, internal scheme, abstracted from the concerns which determine and animate both the interests of the participants and the prejudices of the judge himself. Again, the focus of subjectivity that is the hallmark of realist jurisprudence is a distorting mirror.
Thus it is not surprising that, despite professed intentions, realist jurisprudence reinforced and even necessitated an oracular interpreta- tion of judges' activity. For, if thescience of law is essentially predic- tive, rather than prescriptive, then a utopia of the future must replace the mediation of the past and present as the judge's chief concern. This is true despite claims of a superior knowledge and a certain method. If social science yields a knowledge superior to that embedded in the tradition, the choice to employ it rests nonetheless with the personal convictions of the judge. And in the absence of data which, it might be claimed, demystified and clarified the outcomes of cases better than legal reasoning, the judge, disabused of his prejudices regarding the legal tradition, must feel all the more required to develop a utopian vision as the ground of this decision-making.
Now, if it is true that, to the extent that projects become objects of conscious reflection, they lose their power to move, then we may expect that the elaborated utopian visions of realist judges may lose their power to move. There are indications of this failure in the areas of abortion, capital punishment, the dminished capacity defense, alter-
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native lifestyles, and defendants' rights. And citizens may refuse to confirm a judge whose personal, articulated vision is seen to differ markedly from their own, both when theirs is implicit and inarticulate and when it is developed self-consciously in the representative concepts countervailing those adopted by the individual judge. In these restraints which the tradition exercises and gives effect we may see the limits of the critical understanding that underlies realist jurisprudence.' 8
It may be useful to consider another question linked to the moral dimension of law. It is true that the judge's decision, as a judgment made by a legally constituted official, presumptively binds the con- science? This is taken generally as one way in which moral concerns become active in the law, and some notions of morality and some uses of the term conscience support this understanding of the effect of the judge's role and action.
But with Heidegger we may seek a deeper, that is, more primordial, meaning than those whose origin was determined first in the school of Plato, with its separation of the moral from the logical and the physical. Heidegger describes conscience in ontological terms; that is, he seeks to show how the phenomenon of having a conscience is a
98. See Preble Stolz, Judging Judges: The Investigation of Rose Bird and the California Supreme Court (1981). Professor Stolz notes: The combination of the in- evitability of political decisions, the constant threat of superior power, and the absence of a theory that legitimates the judicial role would seem to put the justices in an intol- erably tenuous position. But that has been true since John Marshall. Americans have come over the years to believe deeply that judges have a useful if limited role in their governance. The key word is "limited." . . . Most judges have not been great, but nearly all share a belief that confidence in judicial power can best be cultivated by staying close to the ideal of the moderate middle that judges are professionals who care deeply about impartiality and who see themselves as neutral interpreters of policies principally declared through the political arms of government. . . . Recognizing that judicial power is always threatened by some exercise of majoritarian power is debilitating only if the justices believe they have a mandate to govern by virtue of their office ... If the court has no program beyond fair process and if its fundamental principle is to do its best to understand, articulate and promote the policy preferences of others, then judicial power should endure despite the ambiguities in the justices' high office; p. 427. Whatever the specific direction one may take from Professor Stolz' account, this statement recapitulates some key aspects of realist jurisprudence: the inability to develop a political/historical understanding of adjudication (judicial review) and hence the separation of law, as an essentially regulative sphere, subject to judicial oversight, from politics, as a heteronomous area of arbitrary (policy) preferences; a description of judicial behavior in terms of power, together with a defnse of judicial power as guarantor of minority preferences by means of the language of rights; recommenda- tion of impartiality and craftsmanship as aspects of a "confidence"-building strategy for retaining judicial power, as well as a psychological analysis of factors promoting or impeding judicial "performance." Professor Stolz writes of and to a judiciary formed in the image of interest-group liberalism and subject to its prejudices.
GEORGE WRIGHT
testimony to some essential aspect of the relation of being and human existence:
The ontological analysis of conscience on which we are thus em- barking is prior to any description and classification of experience of conscience, and likewise lies outside of any biological "explanation" of this phenomenon (which would mean its dissolution). But it is no less distant from a theological exegesis of conscience or any em- ployment of this phenomenon for proofs of God or for establishing an "immediate" consciousness of God.
. . . As a phenomenon of Dasein, conscience is not just a fact which occurs and is occasionally present at hand. It "is" only in Dasein's kind of being, and it makes itself known as a fact only with factical existence and in it. The demand that an "inductive empirical proof" should be given for the "factuality" of conscience and for the legitimacy of its "voice," rests upon an ontological perversion of the phenomenon. This perversion however is one that is shared by every "superior" criticism in which conscience is taken as something just occurring from time to time rather than as a "universally established and ascertainable fact." Among such proofs and counter- proofs, the fact of conscience cannot present itself at all. This is no lack in it, but merely a sign by which we can recognize it as ontologically of a different kind from what is environmentally present at hand.
Conscience gives us "something" to understand; it discloses. By characterizing this phenomenon formally in this way, we find ourselves enjoined to take it back into the disclosedness of Dasein. This disclosedness, as a basic state of that entity which we ourselves are, is constituted by state of mind, understanding, falling and discourse. If we analyze conscience more penetratingly, it is revealed as a call. Calling is a mode of discourse. The call of conscience has the character of an appeal to Dasein by calling it to its ownmost potentiality for being its self; and this is done by way of summoning it to its ownmost being guilty. 9"
"Falling" is a term we have not encountered so far. It is a state of mind, a mood. Mood is a primordial attestation of the essential relation of human existence to being. It is not a content, a belief, an awareness. It is rather an attunement, a specific, unavoidable part of the way Dasein is:
Factically, Dasein can, should and must, through knowledge and will, become master of its moods; in certain possible ways of ex- isting, this may signify a priority of volition and cognition. Only we must not be misled by this into denying that ontologically mood
99. Being and Time, H269.
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is a primordial kind of being for Dasein, in which Dasein is disclosed to itself prior to all cognition and volition, and beyond their range of disclosure. And furthermore, when we master a mood, we do so by way of a countermood; we are never free of moods.' 00
Fallenness, as a mood, is the continual attestation of Dasein's way of being for the most part; in general Dasein is in an everyday kind of way. It is attuned to what is in the world in an average, conforming manner:
Idle talk, curiosity and ambiguity characterize the way in which, in an everyday manner, Dasein is its "there"-the disclosedness of being in the world. As definite existential characteristics, these are not present at hand in Dasein but help to make up its being. In these and in the way they are interconnected in their being, there is revealed a basic kind of being which belongs to everydayness; we call this the "falling" of Dasein.
This term does not express any negative evaluation, but is used to signify that Dasein is proximally and for the most part alongside the "world" of its concern. This "absorption in . . ." has mostly the character of being lost in the publicness of the "they." Dasein has, in the first instance, fallen away from itself as an authentic potentiality for being its self, and has fallen into the world. "Fallen- ness" into the world means an absorption in being with one another, insofar as the latter is guided by idle talk, curiosity and ambiguity ... On no account however do the "inauthentic" and "non- authentic" signify "really not" as if in this mode of being Dasein were altogether to lose its being . . . Not being its self functions as a positive possibility of that entity, which, in its essential con- cern, is absorbed in the world. This kind of not-being has to be conceived as that kind of being which is closest to Dasein and in which Dasein maintains itself for the most part.
So neither must we take the fallenness of Dasein as a "fall" from a purer and higher "primal status." Not only do we lack any ex- perience of this ontically, but ontologically we lack any possibilities or clues for interpreting it.' 0 '
Conscience is a call; it summons Dasein from its lostness in the public self, the self that is average, conforming, forgetful of itself, fallen. Conscience is thus the call of Dasein to Dasein and is in every case my own conscience, calling me in an uncanny way to be myself:
The call does not report events; it calls without uttering anything. The call discourses in the uncanny mode of keeping silent. And it
100. Being and Time, H136. 101. Being and Time, H175.
GEORGE WRIGHT
does this only because, in calling the one to whom the appeal is made, it does not call him into the public idle talk of the "they," but calls him back from this into the reticence of his existent poten- tiality for being. When the caller reaches him to whom the appeal is made, it does so with a cold assurance which is uncanny but by no means obvious. Wherein lies the basis for this assurance if not in the fact that when Dasein has been individualized down to itself in its uncanniness, it is for itself something that cannot be mistaken for anything else? What is it that so radically deprives Dasein of the possibility of misunderstanding itself by any sort of alibi and failing to recognize itself, if not the forsakenness with which it has been abandoned to itself?' 2
Dasein is at the same time both the caller of conscience and the one to whom the appeal of conscience is made; the caller is Dasein, which in its thrownness, in its already being in, is anxious about its poten- tiality for being. Dasein, falling into the anonymity of the public self, calls itself back in the appeal of the conscience to be itself. The call of conscience, the retrieval of Dasein from projects taken over in an average way, reveals that the entity that has a conscience is, in the very basis of its being, care.
On the basis of the radical mine-ness that Dasein displays in having a conscience, Heidegger disputes the claim of the public conscience to be a universally binding, objective norm:
But this "public conscience"-what else is it than the voice of the "they"? A "world-conscience" is a dubious fabrication, and Dasein can come to this only because conscience, in its basis and essence, is in each case mine-not only in the sense that in each case the appeal is to one's ownmost potentiality for being, but because the call comes from that entity which in each case I am myself.' 3
There is reason to doubt then that the judge's decision presumptive-
102. Being and time, H277. 103. Being and Time, H278. Paul Tillich derived many important insights from
Heidegger, and he drew directly on Heidegger's views of the conscience in describing what he called the transmoral conscience; see Tillich, "The Transmoral Conscience," The Protestant Era (1957), pp. 136-49, and Morality and Beyond (1963). He defines it in this way: A conscience may be "transmoral" which judges not in obedience to a moral law but according to the participation in a reality which transcends the sphere of moral commands. A transmoral conscience does not deny the moral-realm, but it is driven beyond it by the unbearable tensions of the sphere of law; The Protestant Era, p. 145. Tillich wrote with conscious reference to the seminal work of Anders Nygren, the Bishop of Lund, Agape and Eros (translated by Philip S. Watson 1969); see John M. Rist, "Some Interpretations of Agape and Eros," The Philosophy and Theology of Anders Nygren ed. Charles W. Kegley (1970), pp. 156-73. At issue is the question of whether, law, in specific historical manifestations or in its essence, is not a form of estrangement. I hope to take up this theme again at greater length.
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ly binds my conscience, however much, it determines my actions, or even that, as an assertion' based on a derivative, representational mode of understanding, it can bind my conscience. For what having a con- science reveals is a guilt that is prior to the morally good and evil. Indeed it is because Dasein, whose being is care, is guilty as such that moral categories have their validity:
Not only can entities whose being is care load themselves with fac- tical guilt, but they are guilty in the very basis of their being; and this being-guilty is what provides, above all, the ontological condi- tion for Dasein's ability to come to owe anything in factically ex- isting. This essential being guilty is equiprimordially the existential condition for the possibility of the "morally" good and for that of the "morally" evil-that is, for morality in general and for the possible forms which this may take factically. The primordial "be- ing guilty" cannot be defined by morality, since morality already presupposes it for itself."'
But if the judge's decision does not presumptively bind my conscience, neither do I:
Indeed the call is precisely something which we ourselves have neither planned nor prepared for nor voluntarily performed, nor have we ever done so. "It" calls, against our expectations and even against our will. On the other hand, the call undoubtedly does not come from someone who is with me in the world. The cali comes from me and yet from beyond and over me."'
Hearing the call of the conscience does not mean loading oneself up with guilt about failures and omissions. It means being guilty authentically-guilty in the way Dasein is:
Hearing the appeal correctly is thus tantamount to having an understanding of oneself in one's ownmost potentiality for being- that is, to projecting oneself upon one's ownmost authentic poten- tiality for becoming guilty. When Dasein understandingly lets itself be called forth to this possibility, this includes its becoming free for the call-its readiness for the potentiality of getting appealed to. In understanding the call, Dasein is in thrall to its ownmost poten- tiality of existence. It has chosen itself.
In so choosing, Dasein makes possible its ownmost being guilty. The common sense of the "they" knows only the satisfying of manipulable rules and public norms and the failure to satisfy them. It reckons up infractions of them and tries to balance them off. It has slunk away from its ownmost being guilty so as to be able
104. Being and Time, H286. 105. Being and Time, H275.
GEORGE WRIGHT
to talk more loudly about making "mistakes". But in the appeal, the they-self gets called to the ownmost being guilty of the self. Understanding the call is choosing; but it is not a choosing of con- science, which as such cannot be chosen. What is chosen is having a conscience as being free for one's ownmost being guilty. "Understanding the appeal" means "wanting to have a con- science." 106
But are we not justified in faulting an understanding of the con- science that fails to take account of the common, basic forms of the phenomenon, that is, the bad and good conscience, that which reproves and warns?
We miss a "positive" content in that which is called, because we expect to be told something currently useful about assured possibilities of "taking action" which are available and calculable. This expectation has its basis within the horizon of that way of in- terpreting which belongs to common-sense concern-a way of inter- preting which forces Dasein's existence to be subsumed under the idea of a business procedure that can be regulated. Such expecta- tions (and in part these tacitly underlie even the demand for a material ethic of value as contrasted with one that is "merely" for- mal) are of course disappointed with the conscience. The call of con- science fails to give any such "practical" injunctions, solely because it summons Dasein to existence, to its ownmost potentiality for be- ing its self . . . The call discloses nothing which could be either positive or negative as something with which we can concern ourselves; for what it has in view is a being which is ontologically quite different-namely, existence.'°'
At this point, Heidegger's existential analysis circles back upon itself in that conscience, in revealing that Dasein is guilty as such, reveals an essential incompleteness that is nonetheless the basis and necessary condition of projective understanding:
Dasein's being is care. It comprises in itself facticity (thrownness), existence (projection), and falling. As being, Dasein is something that has been thrown; it has been brought into its "there," but not of its own accord. As being, it has taken the definite form of a potentiality for being which has heard itself and has devoted itself to itself, but not as itself. As existent, it never comes back behind its thrownness in such a way that it might first release this "that it is and has to be" from its being its self and lead it into the "there." Thrownness however does not lie behind it as some event which has happened to Dasein, which has factually befallen and fallen loose
106. Being and Time, H287-8. 107. Being and Time, H294. Heidegger is criticizing here not only neo-Kantian ethics
but Max Scheler's as well.
242 THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF JURISPRUDENCE (1987)
from Dasein again; on the contrary, as long as Dasein is, Dasein, as care, is constantly its "that it is." To this entity it has been delivered over, and as such it can exist solely as the entity which it is; and as this entity to which it has been thus delivered over, it is, in its existing, the basis of its potentiality for being. Although it has not laid that basis itself, it reposes in the weight of it, which is made manifest to it as a burden by Dasein's mood.
And how is Dasein this thrown basis? Only in that it projects itself upon possibilities into which it has been thrown. The self, which as such has to lay the basis for itself, can never get that basis into its power; and yet, as existing, it must take over being a basis. To be its own thrown basis is that potentiality for being which is the issue for care.
In being a basis-that is, in existing as thrown-Dasein constantly lags behind its possibilities. It is never existent before its basis, but only from it and as this basis. Thus "being a basis" means never to have power over one's ownmost being from the ground up. This "not" belongs to the existential meaning of "thrownness." It itself, being a basis, is a nullity of itself. "Nullity" does not signify anything like not being present at hand or not subsisting; what one has in view here is rather a "not" which is constitutive for this being of Dasein-its thrownness. The character of this "not" as a "not" may be defined existentially: in being its self, Dasein is, as a self, the entity that has been thrown. It has been released from its basis, not through itself but to itself, so as to be as this basis. Dasein is not itself the basis of its being, inasmuch as this basis first arises from its own projection; rather, being its self, it is the being of its basis. This basis is never anything but the basis for an entity whose being has to take over being a basis."' 8
Thus conscience is a constituent element in human existence that testifies to our finitude, to our being toward an end, as a constant possibility. This theme is taken up by Gadamer, as I have emphasized, and it makes possible and grounds an interpretation of human existence as finite in being as in understanding.
I have translated the esssay by Betti that follows because I want to introduce American legal researchers to the Betti-Gadamer dispute and its underlying problems. Much of the fundamental work of Gadamer has been translated; none of Betti's equally praised writings has appeared, to my knowledge, in English."0 9 And Betti's approach,
108. Being and Time, H284-5. 109. 1 have obtained the rights to translate Betti's hermeneutic manifesto, "Zur
Grundlegung einer allgemeinen Auslegungslehre," which first appeared in the Festschrift
GEORGE WRIGHT
despite Gadamer's strictures, is likely more accessible to those of us in America who are both influenced by realism and disabused of its scientism. Both men are vastly learned, powerful writers and thinkers, bringing a particularly large vision to bear on questions that have yet to be asked among us with equal comprehension or breadth. They understand legal interpretation in the frame of a general account of understanding. With them, American legal researchers can learn to repre- sent the characteristic achievements of their discipline to those outside the circle of professional education. With them, we can begin to trace clearer lines of influence and insight between law and other interpretive disciplines. With them, we may move beyond the preoccupation with the conveniences and exigencies of the courtroom, the law office, the law school, the legislature and the police station, toward the discourse that unites these institutions with other centers of power in our in- tellectual, political and social lives.
fir Ernst Rabel, published by J. C. b. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), Tijbingen. The question Betti and Gadamer dispute as to the roles of the historian and the practitioner has been considered by the great English scholar of the common law F.W. Maitland, in his essay "Why the History of English Law is not written," The Collected Papers of Frederick William Maitland ed. H. A. L. Fisher, vol. 1, (1911), pp. 480-87, 491.
Man and Language by H G Gadamer.pdf
Reflection on Judging.pdf
Betti Emilio Las Categorias Civil sticas de la Interpretaci n.pdf
entre betti y gadamer.pdf
el libro de los veinticuatro juristas.pdf
Metas[e]sis de la Raz n y el Derecho.pdf
SCALIA ANTONIN A MATTER OF INTERPRETATION.pdf
LAW AND LITERATURE.pdf
Mangabeira Unger Roberto Critical Legal Studies.pdf
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Page 53 He omits all discussion of what Gadamer characterized as "the central problem of all hermeneutics," the problem of the subtilitas applicandi (see WM 290 f f.). Historically speaking, the subtilitas applicandi was considered a third moment of ... Page 59 The phenomenon of practical wisdom shows that in understanding in general, thought and action (or, in hermeneutical terms, the subtilitas intelligendi and the subtilitas applicandi) are not completely separate moments but are dialectically ... Page 182 14 Subtilitas applicandi. See Application Subtilitas explicandi. See Interpretation Subtilitas See Understanding intelligendi. Tradition (Uberlieferung), 7, 42, 50, 53, 59-61, 63, 95, 99, 104, 109, 115, 118, 125-128, 137, 141, 149, 151152, ...
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ECONSTRUCTION
OSSIBILITY
USTICE
EDITED BY
DRUCILLA CORNELL
MICHEL ROSENFELD
DAVID GRAY CARLSON
New YcMrk • London
Published in 1992 by
Routledge j tt n t An imprint of Routledge, Chapman and Hall, Inc. 29 West 35 Street New York, NY 10001
Published in Great Britain by
Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane London EC4P 4EE Copyright © 1992 by Routledge, Chapman and Hall, Inc.
Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 14 copyright © 1990 in the names of the authors
of the essays. Chapter 9 was previously published in Gregory Leyh, ed.. Legal Hermeneutics (Univer sity of California Press). Copyright © 1992 The Regents of the University of California.
Reprinted with permission. Chapter 12 was previously published in Agnes Heller, Can Modernity Survive?, and is reprinted with permission of the University of California Press and Polity Press (UK).
Chapter 13 will appear in Alan Wolfe, Human Difference, forthcoming bom the Uni versity of California Press, and is reprinted with permission.
Printed in the United States of America on acid free paper.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Deconstruction and the possibility of justice / David Gray Carlson,
Drucilla Cornell, and Michel Rosenfeld, eds.
P- cm.Most of these papers were presented at a symposium held at the Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law on October 1—2,1989.
Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-90303-3 (CL).—ISBN 0-415-90304-1 (PB) 1. Justice 2. Law—Interpretation and construction. 3. Law and
politics. 4. Derrida, Jacques. I. Carlson, David (David Gray) II. Cornell, Drucilla. III. Rosenfeld, Michel. IV. Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law. K246.D43 1992
340'.11—dc20
British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data also available.
91-34742 CIP
T
Contents
Acknowledgments vii Introduction , ix
Law, Violence and Justice
1 Force of Law: The “Mystical Foundation of Authority” 3 Jacques Derrida
2 The Philosophy of the Limit: Systems Theory and 68 Feminist Legal Reform Drucilla Cornell
>
Deconstruction and Legal Interpretation
3 The Idolatry of Rules: Writing Law According to Moses, 95 With Reference to Other Jurisprudences Arthur J. Jacobson
4 Deconstruction and Legal Interpretation: 152 Conflict, Indeterminacy and the Temptations of the New Legal Formalism Michel Rosenfeld
5 Judgment After the Fall 211 Barbara Herrnstein Smith
6 In the Name of the Law 232 Samuel Weber
7 Forms 258 Charles M. Yablon
V
1
Force of Law: The “Mystical Foundation of Authority” Jacques Derrida
I
C’est id un devoir, je dois m’adresser a vous en anglais.This is an obligation, I must address myself to you in English.
The title of this colloquium and the problem that it requires me, as you say transitively in your language, to address, have had me musing for months. Although I’ve been entrusted with the formidable honor of the “keynote address,” I had nothing to do with the invention of this title or with the implicit formulation of the problem. “Decon struction and the Possibility of Justice”: the conjunction “and” brings together words, concepts, perhaps things that don’t belong to the same category. A conjunction such as “and” dares to defy order, tax onomy, classificatory logic, no matter how it works: by analogy, dis tinction or opposition. An ill-tempered speaker might say: I don’t see the connection, no rhetoric could bend itself to such an exercise. I’d be glad to try to speak of each of these things or these categories (“deconstruction,” “possibility,” “justice”) arfd even of these syncate- goremes (“and,” “the,” “of”), but not at all in this order, this taxis, this taxonomy or this syntagmT
Translated by Mary Quaintance. The author would like to thank Sam Weber for his help in the final revision of this text. Except for some footnotes added after the fact, this text corresponds to the version distributed at the colloquium on “Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice” (October 1989, Cardozo Law School), of which Jacques Der- nda read only the first part to open the session. For lack of time, Derrida was unable to conclude the elaboration of the work in progress, of which this is only a preliminary Version. In addition, the second part of the lecture, the part that precisely was not read hut only discussed at the same colloquium, was delivered on April 26, 1990, to open a colloquium organized by Saul Friedlander at the University of California, Los Angeles ^ Naz/sw and the “Final Solution": Probing the Limits of Representation.
4 I The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
1 Mn’t merelv be in a bad temper, he’d be in bad Such a speaker wou could easily propose an interpretation
faith. And even unjust, o in this case an adequate that would do the title ,ust.ce.m.ch.s^to and lucid so tat “ ^sts a question that itself takes the tions or vouloir-dtre. This gg \ncnre nermit, authorize the form of a suspicion; does ^econsttucnon msure^^^^^^^^^^ possibility ^“y'hTOTnditions of its possibility? Yes, ret- consequence on justice ana so-called tain people would reply; ^ justice, anything to do deconstructionists have anyth S so little? Does it interest with it? Why, basically, suspect, decon- them, in the end. l^n t ;„ot action any just discourse on struction doesn’t in itse to law or right, and justice but instead possibility of justice? Yes, certain ruins the condition of ^ Jj-ty. In this first Active ex people would reply, no, ^p i • i slippages between law {droit)
would allow one to disPn-
guish unequivocally ^-d, detect in this That IS the choice, the either/or, y i ^^,^1, inquisitorial,
title. To this extent, the title is is, a We may fear that it j^e most just. Needless to say, manner of mterroganon t a^ response, at least no reassuring re- from this point on 1 ca (“either/or,” “yes or no”), to sponse, to any q-stions put m this way. either party or to either p T m’adresser a vous en anglais. So I .i:tt;tt’oC^oraddres;myse^^
devoir? I must? 1 should, I * condition by a sort of sym-
ir tre oTi: ra si— i do 00—0.. Ax:?:ir:that I speak your language, I Ti must speak V-t morf£7 a"pj'
r„::t&T[in the sense of >st’ ri^tn "e^Tn wS"
Jacques Derrida / 5
or heard and understood by the majority of those who are here and who manifestly lay down the law. “Faire la loi” (laying down the law) is an interesting expression that we shall have more to say about later.
3. I must speak in a language that is not my own because that will be more just, in another sense of the word juste, in the sense of justice, a sense which, without worrying about it too much for now, we can call juridico-ethico-political: it is more just to speak the language of the majority, especially when, through hospitality, it grants a foreigner the right to speak. It’s hard to say if the law we’re referring to here is that of decorum, of politeness, the law of the strongest, or the equi table law of democracy. And whether it depends on justice or law {droit). Also, if I am to bend to this law and accept it, a certain number of conditions are necessary; for example, I must respond to an invi tation and manifest my desire to speak here, something that no one apparently has constrained me to do; I must be capable, up to a cer tain point, of understanding the contract and the conditions of the law, that is, of at least minimally adopting, appropriating, your lan guage, which from that point ceases, at least to this extent, to be for eign to me. You and I must understand, in more or less the same way, the translation of my text, initially written in French; this translation, however excellent it may be (and I’ll take this moment to thank Mary Quaintance) necessarily remains a translation, that is to say an always possible but always imperfect compromise between two idioms.
This question of language and idiom will doubtless be at the heart of what I would like to propose for discussion tonight.
There are a certain number of idiomatic expressions in your lan guage that have always been rather valuable to me as they have no strict equivalent in French. I’ll cite at least two of them, before I even begin. They are not unrelated to what I’d like to try to say tonight.
A. The first is “to enforce the law,” or “enforceability of the law or Contract.” When one translates “to enforce the law” into French, by
*‘appliquer la loi,’' for example, one loses this direct or literal allusion to the force that comes from within to remind us that law is always an authorized force, a force that justifies itself or is justified in apply-
, dng itself, even if this justification may be judged from elsewhere to be ,i yanjust or unjustifiable. Applicability, “enforceability,” is not an exte
rior or secondary possibility that may or may not be added as a sup- , |>lement to law. It is the force essentially\mplied in the very concept
of justice as law {droit), of justice as it becomes droit, of the law as droit” (for I want to insist right away on reserving the possibility of
I^qusHce^indeed of a law that not only exceeds or contradicts “law ';Ka^7rpbut also, perhaps, has no relation to law, or maintains such a
trange relation to it that it may just as well command the “droit”
6 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
r that excludes it). The word “enforceability” reminds us that there is I no such thing as law {droit) that doesn’t imply in itself, a priori, in the
analytic structure of its concept, the possibility of being “enforced,”
I applied by force. There are, to be sure, laws that are not enforced, but there is no law without enforceability, and no applicability or enforce ability of the law without force, whether this force be direct or indi rect, physical or symbolic, exterior or interior, brutal or subtly discur sive and hermeneutic, coercive or regulative, and so forth.
How are we to distinguish between this force of the law, this force of law,” as one says in English as well as in French, I believe, and the
I violence that one always deems unjust? What difference is there be tween, on the one hand, the force that can be just, or in any case deemed legitimate (not only an instrument in the service of law but the practice and even the realization, the essence of droit), and on the
1 other hand the violence that one always deems unjust? What is a just I force or a non-violent force? To stay with the question of idiom, let
me turn here to a German word that will soon be occupying much of our attention; Gewalt. In English, as in French, it is often translated as “violence.” The Benjamin text that I will be speaking to you about soon is entitled “Zur Kritik der Gewalt,” translated in French as “Cri tique de la violence” and in English as “Critique of Violence. But these two translations, while not altogether injustes (and so not alto gether violent), are very active interpretations that don’t do justice to the fact that Gewalt also signifies, for Germans, legitimate power, au thority, public force. Gesetzgebende Gewalt is legislative power, geist- liche Gewalt the spiritual power of the church, Staatsgewalt the au thority or power of the state. Gewalt, then, is both violence and legitimate power, justified authority. How are we to distinguish be-
^ tween the force of law of a legitimate power and the supposedly ori ginary violence that must have established this authority and that could not itself have been authorized by any anterior legitimacy, so that, in this initial moment, it is neither legal nor illegal—or, others would quickly say, neither just nor unjust? I gave a lecture in Chicago
~a few days ago—which I’m deliberately leaving aside here, even though its theme is closely connected—devoted to a certain number of texts by Heidegger in which the words Walten and Gewalt play a decisive role, as one cannot simply translate them by either force or violence, especially not in a context where Heidegger will attempt to demonstrate his claim that originally, and for example for Heraclitus, Dike—iustice, droit, trial, penalty or punishment, vengeance, and so forth—is Eris (conflict, Streit, discord, polemos or Kampf), that is, it is adikia, injustice, as well. We could come back to this, if you wish, during the discussion, but I prefer to hold off on it for now.
Jacques Derrida / 7
Since this colloquium is devoted to deconstruction and the possibil ity of justice, my first thought is that in the many texts considered “deconstructive”, and particularly in certain of those that I’ve pub lished myself, recourse to the word “force” is quite frequent, and in strategic places I would even say decisive, but at the same time always or almost always accompanied by an explicit reserve, a guardedness. I have often called for vigilance, I have asked myself to keep in mind the risks spread by this word, whether it be the risk of an obscure, substantialist, occulto-mystic concept or the risk of giving authoriza tion to violent, unjust, arbitrary force. I won’t cite these texts. That would be self-indulgent and would take too much time, but I ask you to trust me. A first precaution against the risks of substantialism or irrationalism that I just evoked involves the differential character of force. For me, it is always a question of differential force, of difference as difference of force, of force as aifferance {differance is a force diffe- ree-differante), of the relation between force and form, between force and signification, performative force, illocutionary or perlocutionary force, of persuasive and rhetorical force, of affirmation by signature, but also and especially of all the paradoxical situations in which the greatest force and the greatest weakness strangely enough exchange places. And that is the whole history. What remains is that I’ve always been uncomfortable with the word force, which I’ve often judged to be indispensable, and I thank you for thus forcing me to try and say a little more about it today. And the same thing goes for justice. There are no doubt many reasons why the majority of texts hastily identified as “deconstructionist”—for example, mine—seem, I do say seem, not to foreground the theme of justice (as theme, precisely), or the theme of ethics or politics. Naturally this is only apparently so, if one consid ers, for example, (I will only mention these) the many texts devoted to Levinas and to the relations between “violence and metaphysics,” or to the philosophy of right, Hegel’s, with all its posterity in Glas, of which it is the principal motif, or the texts devoted to the drive for power and to the paradoxes of power in Speculer—sur Freud, to the law, in Devant la loi (on Kafka’s Vor dem Gesetz) or in Declaration dTndependance, in Admiration de Nelson Mandela ou les lois de la reflexion, and in many other texts. It goes without saying that dis courses on double affirmation, the gift beyond exchange and distri bution, the undecidable, the incommensurable or the incalculable, or on singularity, difference and heterogeneity are also, through and through, at least obliquely discourses on justice.
Besides, it was normal, foreseeable, desirable that studies of decon structive style should culminate in the problematic of law {droit), of law and justice. (I have elsewhere tried to show that the essence of law
8 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
is not prohibitive but affirmative.) Such would even be the most proper place for them, if such a thing existed. A deconstructive interrogation that starts, as was the case here, by destabilizing or complicating the opposition between notnos and physis, between thesis and physis that is to say, the opposition between law, convention, the institution on the one hand, and nature on the other, with all the oppositions that they condition; for example, and this is only an example, that between positive law and natural law (the differance is the displacement of this oppositional logic), a deconstructive interrogation that starts, as this one did, by destabilizing, complicating, or bringing out the paradoxes of values like those of the proper and of property in all their registers, of the subject, and so of the responsible subject, of the subject of law {droit) and the subject of morality, of the juridical or moral person, of intentionality, etc., and of all that follows from these, such a decon structive line of questioning is through and through a problematiza- tion of law and justice. A problematization of the foundations of law, morality and politics. This questioning of foundations is neither foun- dationalist nor anti-foundationalist. Nor does it pass up opportunities to put into question or even to exceed the possibility or the ultimate necessity of questioning, of the questioning form of thought, interro gating without assurance or prejudice the very history of the question and of its philosophical authority. For there is an authority and so a legitimate force in the questioning form of which one might ask one self whence it derives such great force in our tradition.
If, hypothetically, it had a proper place, which is precisely what cannot be the case, such a deconstructive “questioning” or meta questioning would be more at home in law schools, perhaps also this sometimes happens—in theology or architecture departments, than in philosophy departments and much more than in the literature departments where it has often been thought to belong. That is why, without knowing them well from the inside, for which I feel I am to blame, without pretending to any familiarity with them, I think that the developments in “critical legal studies” or in work by people like Stanley Fish, Barbara Herrnstein Smith, Drucilla Cornell, Sam Weber and others, which situates itself in relation to the articulation between literature and philosophy, law and politico-institutional problems, are today, from the point of view of a certain deconstruction, among the most fertile and the most necessary. They respond, it seems to me, to the most radical programs of a deconstruction that would like, in or der to be consistent with itself, not to remain enclosed in purely spec ulative, theoretical, academic discourses but rather (with all due re spect to Stanley Fish) to aspire to something more consequential, to change things and to intervene in an efficient and responsible, though
Jacques Derrida / 9
always, of course, very mediated way, not only in the profession but in what one calls the cite, the polis and more generally the world. Not, doubtless, to change things in the rather naive sense of calculated, deliberate and strategically controlled intervention, but in the sense of maximum intensification of a transformation in progress, in the name of neither a simple symptom nor a simple cause (other categories are required here). In an industrial and hyper-technologized society, aca demia is less than ever the monadic or monastic ivory tower that in any case it never was. And this is particularly true of “law schools.”
I hasten to add here, briefly, the following three points: 1. This conjunction or conjuncture is no doubt inevitable between,
on the one hand, a deconstruction of a style more directly philosoph ical or motivated by literary theory and, on the other hand, juridico- literary reflection and “critical legal studies.”
2. It is certainly not by chance that this conjunction has developed in such an interesting way in this country; this is another problem— urgent and compelling—that I must leave aside for lack of time. There are no doubt profound and complicated reasons of global dimensions, I mean geo-political and not merely domestic, for the fact that this development should be first and foremost North American.
3. Above all, if it has seemed urgent to give our attention to this joint or concurrent development and to participate in it, it is just as vital that we do not confound largely heterogeneous and unequal dis courses, styles and discursive contexts. The word “deconstruction” could, in certain cases, induce or encourage such a confusion. The word itself gives rise to so many misunderstandings that one wouldn’t want to add to them by reducing all the styles of critical legal studies to one or by making them examples or extensions of Deconstruction with a capital “D.” However unfamiliar they may be to me, I know that these efforts in critical legal studies have their history, their con text, and their proper idiom; in relation to such a philosophico- deconstructive questioning they are often (we shall say for the sake of brevity) uneven, timid, approximating or schematic,^ not to mention belated, although their specialization and the acuity of their technical competence puts them, on the other hand, very much in advance of whatever state deconstruction finds itself in a more literary or philo sophical field. Respect for contextual, academico-institutional, discur sive specificities, mistrust for analogies and hasty transpositions, for confused homogenizations, seem to me to be the first imperatives the way things stand today. I hope in any case that this encounter will leave us with the memory of disparities and disputes at least as much as it leaves us with agreements, with coincidences or consensus.
I said a moment ago: it only appears that deconstruction, in its
10! The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
manifestations most recognized as such, hasn t addressed, as one says in English, the problem of justice. It only appears that way, but one must account for appearances, “keep up appearances as Aris totle said, and that is how I’d like to employ myself here: to show why and how what is now called Deconstruction, while seeming not to “address” the problem of justice, has done nothing but address it, if only obliquely, unable to do so directly. Obliquely, as at this very mo ment, in which I’m preparing to demonstrate that one cannot speak directly about justice, thematize or objectivize justice, say “this is just” and even less “I am just,” without immediately betraying justice, if not law {droit)}
But I have not yet begun. I started by saying that I must address myself to you in your language and announced right away that I ve always found at least two of your idiomatic expressions invaluable, indeed irreplaceable. One was “to enforce the law,” which always re minds us that if justice is not necessarily law {droit) or the law, it cannot become justice legitimately or de jure except by withholding force or rather by appealing to force from its first moment, from its first word. “At the beginning of justice there was logos, speech or language,” which is not necessarily in contradiction with another in- cipit, namely, “In the beginning there will have been force.”
Pascal says it in a fragment I may return to later, one of his famous “pensees” as usual more difficult than it seems. It starts like this: “Jus tice, force.—II est juste que ce qui est juste soit suivi, il est necessaire que ce qui est le plus fort soit suivi. {Justice, force. It is just that what is just be followed, it is necessary that what is strongest be fol lowed” frag. 298, Brunschvicq edition) The beginning of this frag ment is already extraordinary, at least in the rigor of its rhetoric. It says that what is just must be followed (followed by consequence, followed by effect, applied, enforced) and that what is strongest must also be followed (by consequence, effect, and so on). In other words, the common axiom is that the just and the strongest, the most just as or as well as the strongest, mpist be followed. But this “must be fol lowed,” common to the just and the strongest, is “right ( juste ) in one case, “necessary” in the other: “It is just that what is just be fol lowed”—in other words, the concept or idea of the just, in the sense of justice, implies analytically and a priori that the just be suivi, followed up, enforced, and it is just—also in the sense of just right”—to think this way. “It is necessary that what is strongest be enforced.”
And Pascal continues: “La justice sans la force est impuissante” (“Justice without force is impotent”)—in other words, justice isn t
Jacques Derrida /11
justice, it is not achieved if it doesn’t have the force to be “enforced;” a powerless justice is not justice, in the sense of droit—“la force sans la justice est tyrannique. La justice sans force est contredite, parce quHl y a toujours des mechants; la force sans la justice est accusee. II faut done mettre ensemble la justice et la force; et pour cela faire que ce qui est juste soit fort, ou que ce qui est fort soit juste'’ (“force without justice is tyrannical. Justice without force is contradictory, as there are always the wicked; force without justice is accused of wrong. And so it is necessary to put justice and force together; and, for this, to make sure that what is just be strong, or what is strong be just.”) It is diffi cult to decide whether the “it is necessary” in this conclusion (“And so it is necessary to put justice and force together”) is an “it is neces sary” prescribed by what is just in justice or by what is necessary in force. But that is a pointless hesitation since justice demands, as jus tice, recourse to force. The necessity of force is implied, then, in the “juste" in “justice.”
This pensee, what continues and concludes it (“And so, since it was not possible to make the just strong, the strong have been made just”) deserves a longer analysis than I can offer here. The principle of my analysis (or rather of my active and anything but non-violent interpre tation), of the interpretation at the heart of what I will indirectly pro pose in the course of this lecture, will, notably in the case of this Pascal pensee, run counter to tradition and to its most obvious context. This context and the conventional interpretation that it seems to dictate runs, precisely, in a conventionalist direction toward the sort of pes simistic, relativistic and empiricist skepticism that drove Arnaud to suppress these pensees in the Port Royal edition, alleging that Pascal wrote them under the impression of a reading of Montaigne, who thought that laws were not in themselves just but rather were just only because they were laws. It is true that Montaigne used an interesting expression, which Pascal takes up for his own purposes and which I’d also like to reinterpret and to consider apart from its most conven tional and conventionalist reading. The expression is “fondement mystique de Vautorite” “mystical foundation of .authority.” Pascal cites Montaigne without naqiing him when he writes in pensee 293: “... Vun dit que Vessence de la justice est Vautorite du legislateur, Vautre la commodite du souverain, Vautre la coutume presente; et e’est le plus sur: rien, suivant la seule raison, n’est juste de soi; tout branle avec le temps. La coutume fait toute Vequite, par cette seule raison qu’elle est reque; e’est le fondement mystique de son autorite. Qui la ramene a son principe, Vaneantit.” (“. . . one man says that the essence of justice is the authority of the legislator, another that it is the con-
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venience of the king, another that it is current custom; and the latter is closest to the truth: simple reason tells us that nothing is just in itself; everything crumbles with time. Custom is the sole basis for equity, for the simple reason that it is received; it is the mystical foun dation of its authority. Whoever traces it to its source annihilates it.”)
Montaigne was in fact talking about a “mystical foundation” of the authority of laws: “Or les loix” he says, “se maintiennent en credit, non parce qu’elles sont justes, mais parce qu’elles sont loix: c’est le fondement mystique de leur auctorite, elles n’en ont point d’autre. . .. Quiconque leur obeit parce qu’elles sont justes, ne leur obeit pas jus- tement par ou il doibt” (“And so laws keep up their good standing, not because they are just, but because they are laws: that is the mys tical foundation of their authority, they have no other. . . . Anyone who obeys them because they are just is not obeying them the way he ought to.”)^
Here Montaigne is clearly distinguishing laws, that is to say droit, from justice. The justice of law, justice as law is not justice. Laws are not just as laws. One obeys them not because they are just but because they have authority.
Little by little I shall explain what I understand by this expression “mystical foundation of authority.” It is true that Montaigne also wrote the following, which must, again, be interpreted by going be yond its simply conventional and conventionalist surface: “{notre droit mime a, dit-on des fictions legitimes sur lesquelles il fonde la verite de sa justice)”-, “(even our law, it is said, has legitimate fictions on which it founds the truth of its justice).” I used these words as an epigraph to a text on Vor dem Gesetz. What is a legitimate fiction? What does it mean to establish the truth of justice? These are among the questions that await us. It is true that Montaigne proposed an analogy between this supplement of a legitimate fiction, that is, the fiction necessary to establish the truth of justice, and the supplement of artifice called for by a deficiency in nature, as if the absence of natural law called for the supplement of historical or positive, that is to say, fictional, law {droit), just as—to use Montaigne’s analogy— “/es femmes qui emploient des dents d’ivoire ou les leurs naturelles leur manquent, et, au lieu de leur vrai teint, en forgent un de quelque matiere etrangere . . .” {Livre II, ch. XII, p. 601 Pleiade); (“women who use ivory teeth when they’re missing their real ones, and who, instead of showing their true complexion, forge one with some foreign material. . .”).
Perhaps the Pascal pensee that, as he says, “puts together” justice and force and makes force an essential predicate of justice (by which he means ^droit” more than justice) goes beyond a conventionalist or
Jacques Derrida /13
utilitarian relativism, beyond a nihilism, old or new, that would make the law a “masked power,” beyond the cynical moral of La Fontaine’s “The Wolf and the Sheep,” according to which “La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure” (“Might makes right”).
The Pascalian critique, in its principle, refers us back to original sin and to the corruption of natural laws by a reason that is itself corrupt. {“Il y a sans doute des lois naturelles; mais cette belle raison a tout corrompu” section IV, 294; “There are, no doubt, natural laws; but this fine thing called reason has corrupted everything,” and elsewhere: “Notre justice s’aneantit devant la justice divine” 263; “Our justice comes to nothing before divine justice.” I cite these pensees to prepare for our reading of Benjamin.)
But if we set aside the functional mechanism of the Pascalian cri tique, if we dissociate it from Christian pessimism, which is not im possible, then we can find in it, as in Montaigne, the basis for a mod ern critical philosophy, indeed for a critique of juridical ideology, a desedimentation of the superstructures of law that both hide and re flect the economic and political interests of the dominant forces of society. This would be both possible and always useful.
But beyond its principle and its mechanism, this Pascalian pensee perhaps concerns a more intrinsic structure, one that a critique of ju ridical ideology should never overlook. The very emergence of justice and law, the founding and justifying moment that institutes law im plies a performative force, which is always an interpretative force: this time not in the sense of law in the service of force, its docile instru ment, servile and thus exterior to the dominant power, but rather in the sense of law that would maintain a more internal, more complex relation with what one calls force, power or violence. Justice—in the sense of droit (right or law)—would not simply be put in the service of a social force or power, for example an economic, political, ideo logical power that would exist outside or before it and which it would have to accommodate or bend to when useful. Its very moment of foundation or institution (which in any case is never a moment in scribed in the homogeneous tissue of a history, since it is ripped apart with one decision), the operation that amounts to founding, inaugu rating, justifying law {droit), making law, would consist of a coup de force, of a performative and therefore interpretative violence that in itself is neither just nor unjust and that no justice and no previous law ^with its founding anterior moment could guarantee or contradict or invalidate. No justificatory discourse could or should insure the role of metalanguage in relation to the performativity of institutive lan guage or to its dominant interpretation.
Here the discourse comes up against its limit: in itself, in its per-
formative power itself. It is what I here propose to call the mystical. Here a silence is walled up in the violent structure of the founding act. Walled up, walled in because silence is not exterior to language. It is in this sense that I would be tempted to interpret, beyond simple com mentary, what Montaigne and Pascal call the mystical foundation of authority. One can always turn what I am doing or saying here back onto —or against—the very thing that I am saying is happening thus at the origin of every institution. I would therefore take the use of the word “mystical” in what I’d venture to call a rather Wittgensteinian direction. These texts by Montaigne and Pascal, along with the texts from the tradition to which they belong and the rather active interpre tation of them that I propose, could be brought into Stanley Fish’s discussion in “Force” {Doing What Comes Naturally) of Hart’s Con cept of Law, and several others, implicitly including Rawls, himself criticized by Hart, as well as into many debates illuminated by certain texts of Sam Weber on the agnostic and not simply intra-institutional or mono-institutional character of certain conflicts in Institution and Interpretation.^
Since the origin of authority, the foundation or ground, the position of the law can’t by definition rest on anything but themselves, they are themselves a violence without ground. Which is not to say that they are in themselves unjust, in the sense of “illegal.” They are neither legal nor illegal in their founding moment. They exceed the opposition between founded and unfounded, or between any foundationalism or anti-foundationalism. Even if the success of performatives that found law or right (for example, and this is more than an example, of a state as guarantor of a right) presupposes earlier conditions and conven tions (for example in the national or international arena), the same “mystical” limit will reappear at the supposed origin of said condi tions, rules or conventions, and at the origin of their dominant inter pretation.
The structure I am describing here is a structure in which law (droit) is essentially deconstructible, whether because it is founded, con structed on interpretable and transformable textual strata (and that is the history of law [droit], its possible and necessary transformation, sometimes its amelioration), or because its ultimate foundation is by definition unfounded. The fact that law is deconstructible is not bad news. We may even see in this a stroke of luck for politics, for all historical progress. But the paradox that I’d like to submit for discus sion is the following: it is this deconstructible structure of law (droit), or if you prefer of justice as droit, that also insures the possibility of deconstruction. Justice in itself, if such a thing exists, outside or be yond law, is not deconstructible. No more than deconstruction itself.
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if such a thing exists. Deconstruction is justice. It is perhaps because law (droit) (which I will consistently try to distinguish from justice) is constructible, in a sense that goes beyond the opposition between con vention and nature, it is perhaps insofar as it goes beyond this oppo sition that it is constructible and so deconstructible and, what’s more, that it makes deconstruction possible, or at least the practice of a de- construction that, fundamentally, always proceeds to questions of droit and to the subject of droit. (1) The deconstructibility of law (droit), of legality, legitimacy or legitimation (for example) makes de- construction possible. (2) The undeconstructibility of justice also makes deconstruction possible, indeed is inseparable from it. (3) The result: deconstruction takes place in the interval that separates the undeconstructibility of justice from the deconstructibility of droit (au thority, legitimacy, and so on). It is possible as an experience of the impossible, there where, even if it does not exist (or does not yet ex ist, or never does exist), there is justice. Wherever one can replace, translate, determine the x of justice, one should say: deconstruction is possible, as impossible, to the extent (there) where there is (unde- constructible) x, thus to the extent (there) where there is (the undecon- structible).
In other words, the hypothesis and propositions toward which I’m tentatively moving here call more for the subtitle: justice as the pos sibility of deconstruction, the structure of law (droit) or of the law, the foundation or the self-authorization of law (droit) as the possibility of the exercise of deconstruction. I’m sure this isn’t altogether clear; I hope, though I’m not sure of it, that it will become a little clearer in a moment.
I’ve said, then, that I have not yet begun. Perhaps I’ll never begin and perhaps this colloquium will have to do without a “keynote,” except that I’ve already begun. I authorize myself—but by what right?—to multiply protocols and detours. I began by saying that I was in love with at least two of your idioms. One was the word “en forceability,” the other was the transitive use of the verb “fo address.’' In French, one addresses oneself to someone, one addresses a letter or a word, also a transitive use, without being sure that they will arrive at their destination, but one does not address a problem. Still less does one address someone. Tonight I have agreed by contract to address, in English, a problem, that is to go straight toward it and straight toward you, thematically and without detour, in addressing myself to you in your language. Between law or right, theTectitude of address, direc tion and uprightness, we should be able to find a direct line of com munication and to find ourselves on the right track. Why does decon struction have the reputation, justified or'not, of treating things
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obliquely, indirectly, with “quotation marks,” and of always asking whether things arrive at the indicated address? Is this reputation de served? And, deserved or not, how does one explain it?
And so we have already, in the fact that I speak another’s language and break with my own, in the fact that I give myself up to the other, a singular mixture of force, justesse and justice.
And I am obliged, it is an obligation, to “address” in English, as you say in your language, infinite problems, infinite in their number, infinite in their history, infinite in their structure, covered by the title Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice. But we already know that these problems are not infinite simply because they are infinitely numerous, nor because they are rooted in the infinity of memories and cultures (religious, philosophical, juridical, and so forth) that we shall never master. They are infinite, if we may say so, in themselves, be cause they require the very experience of the aporia that is not unre lated to what I just called the “mystical.” When I say that they require the very experience of aporia, I mean two things. (1) As its name in dicates, an experience is a traversal, something that traverses and trav els toward a destination for which it finds the appropriate passage. The experience finds its way, its passage, it is possible. And in this sense it is impossible to have a full experience of aporia, that is, of something that does not allow passage. An aporia is a non-road. From this point of view, justice would be the experience that we are not able to experience. We shall soon encounter more than one aporia that we shall not be able to pass. But (2) I think that there is no justice without this experience, however impossible it may be, of aporia. Justice is an experience of the impossible. A will, a desire, a demand for justice whose structure wouldn’t be an experience of aporia would have no chance to be what it is, namely, a call for justice. Every time that something comes to pass or turns out well, every time that we placidly apply a good rule to a particular case, to a correctly subsumed ex ample, according to a determinant judgment, we can be sure that law {droit) may find itself accounted for, but certainly not justice. Law {droit) is not justice. Law is the element of calculation, and it is just that there be law, but justice is incalculable, it requires us to calculate with the incalculable; and aporetic experiences are the experiences, as improbable as they are necessary, of justice, that is to say of moments in which the decision between just and unjust is never insured by a rule.
And so I must address myself to you and “address” problems, I must do it briefly and in a foreign language. To do it briefly, I ought to do it as directly as possible, going straight ahead, without detour, without historical alibi, without obliqueness, toward you, supposedly
Jacques Derrida! 17
the primary addressees of this discourse, but at the same time toward the place of essential decision for said problems. Address—as direc tion, as rectitude—says something about droit (law or right); and what we must not forget when we want justice, when we want to be just, is the rectitude of address. II ne faut pas manquer d’adresse, I might say in French, but above all il ne faut pas manquer Padresse, one mustn’t miss the address, one mustn’t mistake the address and the address always turns out to be singular. An address is always singular, idiomatic, and justice, as law {droit), seems always to suppose the generality of a rule, a norm or a universal imperative. How are we to reconcile the act of justice that must always concern singularity, indi viduals, irreplaceable groups and lives, the other or myself as other, in a unique situation, with rule, norm, value or the imperative of justice which necessarily have a general form, even if this generality pre scribes a singular application in each case? If I were content to apply a just rule, without a spirit of justice and without in some way invent ing the rule and the example for each case, I might be protected by law {droit), my action corresponding to objective law, but I would not be just. I would act, Kant would say, in conformity with duty, but not through duty or out of respect for the law. Is it ever possible to say: an action is not only legal, but also just? A person is not only within his rights but also within justice? Such a man or woman is just, a decision is just? Is it ever possible to say: I know that I am just? Allow me another detour.
To address oneself to the other in the language of the other is, it seems, the condition of all possible justice, but apparently, in all rigor, it is not only impossible (since I cannot speak the language of the other except to the extent that I appropriate it and assimilate it according to the law of an implicit third) but even excluded by justice as law {droit), inasmuch as justice as right seems to imply an element of uni versality, the appeal to a third party who suspends the unilaterality or singularity of the idioms.
When I address myself to someone in English, it is always an ordeal for me. For my addressee, for you as well, I imagine. Rather than explain why and lose time in doing so, I begin in medias res, with several remarks that for me tie the agonizing gravity of this problem of language to the question of justice, of the possibility of justice.
First remark: On the one hand, for fundamental reasons,.it seems just to us to “rendre la justice,” as one says in French, in a given idiom, in a language in which all the “subjects” concerned are supposedly competent, that is, capable of understanding and interpreting—all the “subjects,” that is, those who establish the laws, those who judge and those who are judged, witnesses in both the broad and narrow sense.
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all those who are guarantors of the exercise of justice, or rather of droit. It is unjust to judge someone who does not understand the lan guage in which the law is inscribed or the judgment pronounced, etc. We could give multiple dramatic examples of violent situations in which a person or group of persons is judged in an idiom they do not understand very well or at all. And however slight or subtle the differ ence of competence in the mastery of the idiom is here, the violence of an injustice has begun when all the members of a community do not share the same idiom throughout. Since in all rigor this ideal situation is never possible, we can perhaps already draw some inferences about what the title of our conference calls “the possibility of justice.” The violence of this injustice that consists of judging those who don’t understand the idiom in which one claims, as one says in French, that “justice est faite” (“justice is done,” “made”) is not just any violence, any injustice. This injustice supposes that the other, the victim of the language’s injustice, is capable of a language in general, is man as a speaking animal, in the sense that we, men, give to this word lan guage. Moreover, there was a time, not long ago and not yet over, in which “we, men” meant “we adult white male Europeans, carnivo rous and capable of sacrifice.”
In the space in which I’m situating these remarks or reconstituting this discourse one would not speak of injustice or violence toward an animal, even less toward a vegetable or a stone. An animal can be made to suffer, but we would never say, in a sense considered proper, that it is a wronged subject, the victim of a crime, of a murder, of a rape or a theft, of a perjury—and this is true a fortiori, we think, for what we call vegetable or mineral or intermediate species like the sponge. There have been, there are still, many “subjects” among man kind who are not recognized as subjects and who receive this animal treatment (this is the whole unfinished history I briefly alluded to a moment ago). What we confusedly call “animal,” the living thing as living and nothing else, is not a subject of the law or of law {droit). The opposition between just and unjust has no meaning in this case. As for trials for animals (there have been some) or lawsuits against those who inflict certain kinds of suffering on animals (legislation in certain Western countries provides for this and speaks not only of the rights of man but also of the rights of animals in general), these are considered to be either archaisms or still marginal and rare phenom ena not constitutive of our culture. In our culture, carnivorous sacri fice is fundamental, dominant, regulated by the highest industrial technology, as is biological experimentation on animals—so vital to our modernity. As I have tried to show elsewhere,'* carnivorous sacri
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fice is essential to the structure of subjectivity, which is also to say to the founding of the intentional subject and to the founding, if not of the law, at least of law {droit), the difference between the law and law {droit), justice and law {droit), justice and the law here remaining open over an abyss. I will leave these problems aside for the moment, along with the afiinity between carnivorous sacrifice, at the basis of our cul ture and our law, and all the cannibalisms, symbolic or not, that struc ture intersubjectivity in nursing, love, mourning and, in truth, in all symbolic or linguistic appropriations.
If we wish to speak of injustice, of violence or of a lack of respect toward what we still so confusedly call animals—the question is more topical than ever, and so I include in it, in the name of deconstruction, a set of questions on carno-phallogocentrism—we must reconsider in its totality the metaphysico-anthropocentric axiomatic that domi nates, in the West, the thought of just and unjust.
From this very first step we can already glimpse the first of its con sequences, namely, that a deconstructionist approach to the bounda ries that institute the human subject (preferably and paradigmatically the adult male, rather than the woman, child or animal) as the mea sure of the just and the unjust, does not necessarily lead to injustice, nor to the effacement of an opposition between just and unjust but may, in the name of a demand more insatiable than justice, lead to a reinterpretation of the whole apparatus of boundaries within which a history and a culture have been able to confine their criteriology. Under the hypothesis that I shall only touch lightly upon for the mo ment, what is currently called deconstruction would not correspond (though certain people have an interest in spreading this confusion) to a quasi-nihilistic abdication before the ethico-politico-juridical ques tion of justice and before the opposition between just and unjust, but rather to a double movement that I will schematize as follows:
1. The sense of a responsibility without limits, and so necessarily excessive, incalculable, before memory; and so the task of recalling the history, the origin and subsequent direction, thus the limits, of concepts of justice, the law and right, of values, norms, prescriptions that have been imposed and sedimented there, from then on remaining more or less readable or presupposed. As to the legacy we have re ceived under the name of justice, and in more than one language, the task of a historical and interpretative memory is at the heart of decon struction, not only as philologico-etymological task or the historian’s task but as responsibility in face of a heritage that is at the same time the heritage of an imperative or of a sheaf of injunctions. Deconstruc tion is already engaged by this infinite demand of justice, for justice.
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which can take the aspect of this “mystique” I spoke of earlier. One must be juste with justice, and the first way to do it justice is to hear, read, interpret it, to try to understand where it comes from, what it wants of us, knowing that it does so through singular idioms {Dike, Jus, justitia, justice, Gerechtigkeit, to limit ourselves to European idi oms which it may also be necessary to delimit in relation to others: we shall come back to this later) and also knowing that this justice always addresses itself to singularity, to the singularity of the other, despite or even because it pretends to universality. Consequently, never to yield on this point, constantly to maintain an interrogation of the origin, grounds and limits of our conceptual, theoretical or normative apparatus surrounding justice is on deconstruction’s part anything but a neutralization of interest in justice, an insensitivity toward injustice. On the contrary, it hyperbolically raises the stakes of exacting justice; it is sensitivity to a sort of essential disproportion that must inscribe excess and inadequation in itself and that strives to denounce not only theoretical limits but also concrete injustices, with the most palpable effects, in the good conscience that dogmatically stops before any in herited determination of justice.
2. This responsibility toward memory is a responsibility before the very concept of responsibility that regulates the justice and appro priateness ijustesse) of our behavior, of our theoretical, practical, ethico-political decisions. This concept of responsibility is inseparable from a whole network of connected concepts (property, intentionality, will, freedom, conscience, consciousness, self-consciousness, subject, self, person, community, decision, and so forth) and any deconstruc tion of this network of concepts in their given or dominant state may seem like a move toward irresponsibility at the very moment that, on the contrary, deconstruction calls for an increase in responsibility. But in the moment that an axiom’s credibility {credit) is suspended by de- construction, in this structurally necessary moment, one can always believe that there is no more room for justice, neither for justice itself nor for theoretical interest directed toward the problems of justice. This moment of suspense, this period of epoche, without which, in fact, deconstruction is not possible, is always full of anxiety, but who will claim to be just by economizing on anxiety? And this anxiety- ridden moment of suspense—which is also the interval of spacing in which transformations, indeed juridico-political revolutions take place—cannot be motivated, cannot find its movement and its impulse (an impulse which itself cannot be suspended) except in the demand for an increase in or supplement to justice, and so in the experience of an inadequation or an incalculable disproportion. For in the end, where will deconstruction find its force, its movement or its motiva
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tion if not in this always unsatisfied appeal, beyond the given deter minations of what we call, in determined contexts, justice, the possi bility of justice? But it is still necessary to interpret this disproportion. If I were to say that I know nothing more just than what I today call deconstruction (nothing more just. I’m not saying nothing more legal or more legitimate), I know that I wouldn’t fail to surprise or shock not only the determined adversaries of said deconstruction or of what they imagine under this name but also the very people who pass for or take themselves to be its partisans or its practitioners. And so I will not say it, at least not directly and not without the precaution of sev eral detours.
As you know, in many countries, in the past and in the present, one founding violence of the law or of the imposition of state law has consisted in imposing a language on national or ethnic minorities regrouped by the state. This was the case in France on at least two occasions, first when the Villers-Cotteret decree consolidated the unity of the monarchic state by imposing French as the juridico- administrative language and by forbidding that Latin, the language of law and of the Church, allow all the inhabitants of the kingdom to be represented in a common language, by a lawyer-interpreter, without the imposition of the particular language that French still was. It is true that Latin was already a violent imposition and that from this point of view the passage from Latin to French was only the ,passage from one violence to another. The second major moment of imposi tion was that of the French Revolution, when linguistic unification sometimes took the most repressive pedagogical turns, or in any case the most authoritarian ones. I’m not going to engage in the history of these examples. We could also find them in this country, today, where this linguistic problem is still acute and will be for a long time, pre cisely in this place where questions of politics, education and law {droit) are inseparable (and where a debate has been recently begun on “national standards” of education).
Now I am moving right along, without the least detour through historical memory toward the formal, abstract statement of several aporias, those in which, between law and justice, deconstruction finds its privileged site—or rather its privileged instability. Deconstruction is generally practiced in two ways or two styles, although it most often grafts one on to the other. One takes on the demonstrative and appar ently ahistorical allure of logico-formal paradoxes. The other, more historical or more anamnesic, seems to proceed through readings of texts, meticulous interpretations and genealogies. I will devote my at tention to these two practices in turn.
First I will drily, directly state, I will “address” the following apo-
22 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
rias. In fact there is only one aporia, only one potential aporetic that infinitely distributes itself, I shall only propose a few examples that will suppose, make explicit or perhaps produce a difficult and unstable distinction between justice and droit, between justice (infinite, incal culable, rebellious to rule and foreign to symmetry, heterogeneous and heterotropic) and the exercise of justice as law or right, legitimacy or legality, stabilizable and statutory, calculable, a system of regulated and coded prescriptions. I would be tempted, up to a certain point, to compare the concept of justice—which I’m here trying to distinguish from law—to Levinas’s, just because of this infinity and because of the heteronomic relation to others, to the faces of otherness that gov ern me, whose infinity I cannot thematize and whose hostage I remain. In Totalite and Infini (“Verite et Justice,” p. 62), Levinas writes; . la relation avec autrui—c'est a dire la justice” (“. . . the relation to others—that is to say, justice”)—which he defines, moreover, as “droiture de Vaccueil fait au visage” (p. 54) (“equitable honoring of faces”). Equity {la droiture) is not reducible to right or law {le droit), of course, but the two values are not unrelated.
Levinas speaks of an infinite right: in what he calls “Jewish human ism,” whose basis is not “the concept of man,” but rather the other; “the extent of the right of the other” is that of “a practically infinite right”; “Vetendue du droit d’autrui [est\ un droit pratiquement infini” {“Un droit infini,” in Du Sacre au Saint, Cinq Nouvelles Lectures Tal- mudiques, pp. 17—18). Here equity is not equality, calculated propor tion, equitable distribution or distributive justice but rather absolute dissymmetry. And Levinas’s notion of justice might sooner be compa red to the Hebrew equivalent of what we would perhaps translate as “sanctity.” But since Levinas’s difficult discourse would give rise to other difficult questions, I cannot be content to borrow conceptual moves without risking confusions or analogies. And so I will go no further in this direction. Everything would still be simple if this dis tinction between justice and droit were a true distinction, an opposi tion whose functioning was logically regulated and permitted mastery. But it turns out that droit claims to exercise itself in the name of justice and that justice is required to establish itself in the name of a law that must be “enforced,” Deconstruction always finds itself between these two poles. Here, then, are some examples of aporias.
1. First aporia: epokhe of the rule. Our common axiom is that to be just or unjust and to exercise
justice, I must be free and responsible for my actions, my behavior, my thought, my decisions. We would not say of a being without free dom, or at least of one without freedom in a given act, that its decision
Jacques Derrida / 23
is just or unjust. But this freedom or this decision of the just, if it is one, must follow a law or a prescription, a rule. In this sense, in its very autonomy, in its freedom to follow or to give itself laws, it must have the power to be of the calculable or programmable order, for example as an act of fairness. But if the act simply consists of applying a jule, of enacting a program or effecting a calculation, we might say that it is legal, that it conforms to law, and perhaps, by metaphor, that it is just, but we would be wrong to say that the decision was just.
To be just, the decision of a judge, for example, must not only fol low a rule of law or a general law but must also assume it, approve it, confirm its value, by a reinstituting act of interpretation, as if ultima tely nothing previously existed of the law, as if the judge himself in vented the law in every case. No exercise of justice as law can be just unless there is a “fresh judgment” (I borrow this English expression from Stanley Fish’s article, “Force,” in Doing What Comes Naturally). This “fresh judgment” can very well—must very well—conform to a preexisting law, but the reinstituting, reinventive and freely decisive interpretation, the responsible interpretation of the judge requires that his “justice” not just consist in conformity, in the conservative and reproductive activity of judgment. In short, for a decision to be just and responsible, it must, in its proper moment if there is one, be both regulated and without regulation: it must conserve the law and also destroy it or suspend it enough to have to reinvent it in each case, rejustify it, at least reinvent it in the reaffirmation and the new and free confirmation of its principle. Each case is other, each decision is different and requires an absolutely unique interpretation, which no existing, coded rule can or ought to guarantee absolutely. At least, if the rule guarantees it in no uncertain terms, so that the judge is a calculating machine, which happens, and we will not say that he is just, free and responsible. But we also won’t say it if he doesn’t refer to any law, to any rule or if, because he doesn’t take any rule for granted beyond his own interpretation, he suspends his decision, stops short before the undecidable or if he improvises and leaves aside all rules, all principles. It follows from this paradox that there is never a moment that we can say in the present that a decision is just (that is, free and responsible),, or that someone is a just man—even less, “/ am just.” Instead of “just,” we could say legal or legitimate, in conformity with a state of law, with the rules and conventions that authorize cal culation but whose founding origin only defers the problem of justice. For in the founding of law or in its institution, the same problem of justice will have been posed and violently resolved, that is to say bu ried, dissimulated, repressed. Here the best paradigm is the founding
24 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
of the nation-states or the institutive act of a constitution that esta blishes what one calls in French Tetat de droit.
2. Second aporia: the ghost of the undecidable. Justice, as law, is never exercised without a decision that cuts, that
divides. This decision does not simply consist in its final form, for example a penal sanction, equitable or not, in the order of propor tional or distributive justice. It begins, it ought to begin, by right or in principle, with the initiative of learning, reading, understanding, in terpreting the rule, and even in calculating. For if calculation is cal culation, the decision to calculate is not of the order of the calculable, and must not be.
The undecidable, a theme often associated with deconstruction, is not merely the oscillation between two significations or two contra dictory and very determinate rules, each equally imperative (for ex ample respect for equity and universal right but also for the always heterogeneous and unique singularity of the unsubsumable example). The undecidable is not merely the oscillation or the tension between two decisions; it is the experience of that which, though heteroge neous, foreign to the order of the calculable and the rule, is still obli ged—it is of obligation that we must speak—to give itself up to the impossible decision, while taking account of law and rules. A decision that didn’t go through the ordeal of the undecidable would not be a free decision, it would only be the programmable application or un folding of a calculable process. It might be legal; it would not be just. But in the moment of suspense of the undecidable, it is not just either, for only a decision is just (in order to maintain the proposition “only a decision is just,” one need not refer decision to the structure of a subject or to the propositional form of a judgment). And once the ordeal of the undecidable is past (if that is possible), the decision has again followed a rule or given itself a rule, invented it or reinvented, reaffirmed it, it is no longer presently just, fully just. There is appa rently no moment in which a decision can be called presently and fully just: either it has not yet been made according to a rule, and nothing allows us to call it just, or, it has already followed a rule—whether received, confirmed, conserved or reinvented—which in its turn is not absolutely guaranteed by anything; and, moreover, if it were guaran teed, the decision would be reduced to calculation and we couldn’t call it just. That is why the ordeal of the undecidable that I just said must be gone through by any decision worthy of the name is never past or passed, it is not a surmounted or sublated {aufgehoben) mo ment in the decision. The undecidable remains caught, lodged, at least as a ghost—but an essential ghost—in every decision, in every event of decision. Its ghostliness deconstructs from within any assurance of
Jacques Derrida / 25
presence, any certitude or any supposed criteriology that would assure I us of the justice of a decision, in truth of the very event of a decision. I Who will ever be able to assure us that a decision as such has taken
place? That it has not, through such and such a detour, followed a I cause, a calculation, a rule, without even that imperceptible suspense f that marks any free decision, at the moment that a rule is, or is not, i applied? I The whole subjectal axiomatic of responsibility, of conscience, of I intentionality, of property that governs today’s dominant juridical dis- I course and the category of decision right down to its appeals to med- I ical expertise is so theoretically weak and crude that I need not em-
phasize it here. And the effects of these limitations are massive and ^ concrete enough that I don’t have to give examples. I We can already see from this second aporia or this second form of l^the same aporia that the deconstruction of all presumption of a deter- I minant certitude of a present justice itself operates on the basis of an I'tinfinite “idea of justice,” infinite because it is irreducible, irreducible >?because owed to the other, owed to the other, before any contract, ,J>ecause it has come, the other’s coming as the singularity that is al- l^ivays other. This “idea of justice” seems to be irreducible in its affir- 'inative character, in its demand of gift without exchange, without cir-
ilation, without recognition or gratitude, without economic circularity, without calculation and without rules, without reason and dthout rationality. And so we can recognize in it, indeed accuse, iden-
|dfy a madness. And perhaps another sort of mystique. And decon- ^struction is mad about this kind of justice. Mad about this desire for
t istice. This kind of justice, which isn’t law, is the very movement of econstruction at work in law and the history of law, in political his- |i^ry and history itself, before it even presents itself as the discourse lat the academy or modern culture labels “deconstructionism.”
I would hesitate to assimilate too quickly this “idea of justice” to a j^gulative idea (in the Kantian sense), to a messianic promise or to
■ Other horizons of the same type. I am only speaking of a type, of this ype of horizon that would have numerous competing versions. By ompeting I mean similar enough in appearance and always pretend- ig to absolute privilege and irreducible singularity. The singularity of
historical place—perhaps our own, which in any case is the one |t m obscurely referring to here—allows us a glimpse of the type itself,
the origin, condition, possibility or promise of all its exemplifica- l^ons (messianism of the Jewish, Christian or Islamic type, idea in the
sntian sense, eschato-teleology of the neo-Hegelian, Marxist or |>ost-Marxist type, etc.). It also allows us to perceive and conceive the
, w of irreducible competition (concurrence), but from a brink where
26 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
vertigo threatens to seize us the moment we see nothing but examples and some of us no longer feel engaged in it; another way of saying that from this point on we always run the risk (speaking for myself, at least) of no longer being, as they say, “in the running” {dans la course). But not to be “in the running” on the inside track, does not mean that we can stay at the starting-line or simply be spectators— far from it. It may be the very thing that “keeps us moving,” {fait courir) with renewed strength and speed, for example, deconstruction.
3. Third aporia: the urgency that obstructs the horizon of knowl edge.
One of the reasons I’m keeping such a distance from all these hori zons—from the Kantian regulative idea or from the messianic advent, for example, or at least from their conventional interpretation—is that they are, precisely, horizons. As its Greek name suggests, a hori zon is both the opening and the limit that defines an infinite progress or a period of waiting.
But justice, however unpresentable it may be, doesn’t wait. It is that which must not wait. To be direct, simple and brief, let us say this: a just decision is always required immediately, “right away.” It cannot furnish itself with infinite information and the unlimited knowledge of conditions, rules or hypothetical imperatives that could justify it. And even if it did have all that at its disposal, even if it did give itself the time, all the time and the necessary facts about the matter, the moment of decision, as such, always remains a finite moment of ur gency and precipitation, since it must not be the consequence or the effect of this theoretical or historical knowledge, of this reflection or this deliberation, since it always marks the interruption of the juridico- or ethico- or politico-cognitive deliberation that precedes it, that must precede it. The instant of decision is a madness, says Kier kegaard. This is particularly true of the instant of the just decision that must rend time and defy dialectics. It is a madness. Even if time and prudence, the patience of knowledge and the mastery of condi tions were hypothetically unlimited, the decision would be structur ally finite, however late it came, a decision of urgency and precipita tion, acting in the night of non-knowledge and non-rule. Not of the absence of rules and knowledge but of a reinstitution of rules which by definition is not preceded by any knowledge or by any guarantee as such. If we were to trust in a massive and decisive distinction be tween performative and constative—a problem I can’t get involved in here—we would have to attribute this irreducibility of precipitate ur gency, at bottom this irreducibility of thoughtlessness and uncon sciousness, however intelligent it may be, to the performative structure of speech act and acts in general as acts of justice or law, whether they
Jacques Derrida! 27
be performatives that institute something or derived performatives I supposing anterior conventions. A constative can be juste (right), in f the sense of justesse, never in the sense of justice. But as a performative : cannot be just, in the sense of justice, except by founding itself on I conventions and so on other anterior performatives, buried or not, it I always maintains within itself some irruptive violence, it no longer I' responds to the demands of theoretical rationality. Since every consta- 1 five utterance itself relies, at least implicitly, on a performative struc- Iture (“I tell you that, I speak to you, I address myself to you to tell you that this is true, that things are like this, I promise you or renew my promise to you to make a sentence and to sign what I say when I
M say that, tell you, or try to tell you the truth,” and so forth), the di- ^ mension of justesse or truth of the theoretico-constatie utterances (in i|all domains, particularly in the domain of the theory of law) always ||thus presupposes the dimension of justice of the performative utter
ances, that is to say their essential precipitation, which never proceeds l^ithout a certain dissymmetry and some quality of violence. That’s Ihow I would be tempted to understand the proposition of Levinas, l^ho, in a whole other language and following an entirely different discursive procedure, declares that “La verite suppose la justice” (“Truth supposes justice”) {“Yerite et justice,” in Totalite et infini 3,
I p. 62). Dangerously parodying the French idiom, we could end up I saying: "La justice, y a qu’qa de vrai.” This is not without conse- I quence, needless to say, for the status, if we still can call it that, of I truth.^ t Paradoxically, it is because of this overflowing of the performative, I because of this always excessive haste of interpretation getting ahead j, of itself, because of this structural urgency and precipitation of justice I that the latter has no horizon of expectation (regulative or messianic). J' But for this very reason, it may have an avenir, a “to-come,” which I I rigorously distinguish from the future that can always reproduce the s present. Justice remains, is yet, to come, a venir, it has an, it is d-venir, ; the very dimension of events irreducibly to come. It will always have : it, this d-venir, and always has. Perhaps it is for this reason that justice,
insofar as it is not only a juridical or political concept, opens up for Vavenir the transformation, the recasting or refounding of law and politics. “Perhaps,” one must always say perhaps for justice. There is an avenir. for justice and there is no justice except to the degree that some event is possible which, as event, exceeds calculation, rules, pro grams, anticipations and so forth. Justice as the experience of absolute alterity is unpresentable, but it is the chance of the event and the con dition of history. No doubt an unrecognizable history, of course, for thpse who believe they know what they’re talking about when they
28! The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
use this word, whether it’s a matter of social, ideological, political, juridical or some other history.
That justice exceeds law and calculation, that the unpresentable ex ceeds the determinable cannot and should not serve as an alibi for staying out of juridico-political battles, within an institution or a state or between institutions or states and others. Left to itself, the incal culable and giving (donatrice) idea of justice is always very close to the bad, even to the worst for it can always be reappropriated by the most perverse calculation. It’s always possible. And so incalculable justice requires us to calculate. And first, closest to what we associate with justice, namely, law, the juridical field that one cannot isolate within sure frontiers, but also in all the fields from which we cannot separate it, which intervene in it and are no longer simply fields: eth ics, politics, economics, psycho-sociology, philosophy, literature, etc. Not only must we calculate, negotiate the relation between the calcul able and the incalculable, and negotiate without the sort of rule that wouldn’t have to be reinvented there where we are cast, there where we find ourselves; but we must take it as far as possible, beyond the place we find ourselves and beyond the already identifiable zones of morality or politics or law, beyond the distinction between national and international, public and private, and so on. This requirement does not properly belong either to justice or law. It only belongs to either of these two domains by exceeding each one in the direction of the other. Politicization, for example, is interminable even if it cannot and should not ever be total. To keep this from being a truism or a triviality, we must recognize in it the following consequence: each ad vance in politicization obliges one to reconsider, and so to reinterpret the very foundations of law such as they had previously been calcu lated or delimited. This was true for example in the Declaration of the Rights of Man, in the abolition of slavery, in all the emancipatory battles that remain and will have to remain in progress, everywhere in the world, for men and for women. Nothing seems to me less outdated than the classical emancipatory ideal. We cannot attempt to disqualify it today, whether crudely or with sophistication, at least not without treating it too lightly and forming the worst complicities. But beyond these identified territories of juridico-politicization on the grand geo political scale, beyond all self-serving interpretations, beyond all de termined and particular reappropriations of international law, other areas must constantly open up that at first can seem like secondary or marginal areas. This marginality also signifies that a violence, indeed a terrorism and other forms of hostage-taking are at work (the ex amples closest to us would be found in the area of laws on the teach ing and practice of languages, the legitimization of canons.
Jacques Derrida / 29
the military use of scientific research, abortion, euthanasia, problems of organ transplant, extra-uterine conception, bio-engineering, medi cal experimentation, the social treatment of AIDS, the macro- or micro-politics of drugs, the homeless, and so on, without forgetting, of course, the treatment of what we call animal life, animality. On this hst problem, the Benjamin text that I’m coming to now shows that its author was not deaf or insensitive to it, even if his propositions on this subject remain quite obscure, if not quite traditional).
If I have not exhausted your patience, let us now approach, in an ther style, the promised reading of a brief and disconcerting Benja- in text. I am speaking of Zur Kritik der Gewalt (1921), translated Critique of Violence. I will not presume to call this text exemplary. \ are in a realm where, in the end, there are only singular examples, othing is absolutely exemplary. I will not attempt to justify abso- tely the choice of this text. But I could say why it is not the worst ample of what might be exemplary in a relatively determined con-
xt such as ours. 1. Benjamin’s analysis reflects the crisis in the European model of urgeois, liberal, parliamentary democracy, and so the crisis in the
.incept of droit that is inseparable from it. Germany in defeat is at is time a place in which this crisis is extremely sharp, a crisis whose
Tginality also comes from certain modern features like the right to rike, the concept of the general strike (with or without reference to rel). It is also the aftermath of a war and a pre-war that saw the
hropean development and failure of pacifist discourse, anti- ilitarism, the critique of violence, including juridico-police violence, hich will soon be repeated in the years to follow. It is also the mo- ent in which questions of the death penalty and of the right to pun- h in general are painfully current. Change in the structures of public inion, thanks to the appearance of new media powers such as radio,
:gins to put into question this liberal model of parliamentary discus- on or deliberation in the production of laws and so forth. Such con- tions motivated the thoughts of German jurists like Carl Schmitt, to ention only him. And so I was also interested by several historical dices. For example, this text, at once “mystical” (in the overdeter- ned sense that interests us here) and hypercritical, this text which, certain respects, can be read as neo-messianical Jewish mysticism
tystique) grafted onto post-Sorelian neo-Marxism (or the reverse), pon its publication won Benjamin a letter of congratulations from
30 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
Carl Schmitt, that great conservative Catholic jurist, still a constitu tionalist at the time; but you are already familiar with his strange conversion to Hitlerism in 1933 and his correspondence with Benja min. But also with Heidegger. As for analogies between Zur Kritik der Gewalt and certain turns of Heideggerian thought, they are impos sible to miss, especially those surrounding the motifs of Walten and Gewalt. Zur Kritik der Gewalt concludes with divine violence {gott- liche Gewalt) and in the end Walter says of divine violence that we might call it die waltende {Die gdttliche Gewalt.. . mag die waltende heiflen): “Divine violence . . . may be called sovereign violence.” “. . . die waltende heifien” are the last words of the text. It is this historical network of equivocal contracts that interests me in its necessity and in its very dangers. In the Western democracies of 1989, with work and a certain number of precautions, lessons can still be drawn from it.
2. Keeping in mind the thematic of our colloquium, this text seemed exemplary to me, up to a point, to the degree that it lends itself to an exercise in deconstructive reading, as I shall try to show.
3. But this deconstruction is in some way the operation or rather the very experience that this text, it seems to me, first does itself, by itself, on itself. What does this mean? Is it possible? What remains, then, of such an event? Of its auto-hetero-deconstruction? Of its just and unjust incompletion? What is the ruin of such an event or the open wound of such a signature? And also, in what does its strength consist, strength precisely in the sense of Gewalt, that is, its violence, authority and legitimacy? That is one of my questions. It is a question about the possibility of deconstruction. If you will allow me to cite myself, I happened to write that “the most rigorous deconstructions have never claimed to be . . . possible. And I would say that decon struction loses nothing from admitting that it is impossible; and also that those who would rush to delight in that admission lose nothing from having to wait. For a deconstructive operation possibility would rather be the danger, the danger of becoming an available set of rule- governed procedures, methods, accessible approaches. The interest of deconstruction, of such force and desire as it may have, is a certain experience of the impossible.”^
Benjamin’s demonstration concerns the question of droit, recht, right or law. It even means to inaugurate, we shall be able to say it more rigorously in a moment, a “philosophy of droit.” And this phi losophy seems to be organized around a series of distinctions that all seem interesting, provocative, necessary up to a certain point but that all, it seems to me, remain radically problematic.
Jacques Derrida / 31
First, there is the distinction between two kinds of violence in law, in relation to law {droit): the founding violence, the one that institutes and positions law {die rechtsetzende Gewalt, “law making violence”) and the violence that conserves, the one that maintains, confirms, in sures the permanence and enforceability of law {die rechtserhaltende Gewalt, “law preserving violence”). For the sake of convenience, let us continue to translate Gewalt as violence, but I have already men tioned the precautions this calls for. As for translating Recht as “law” rather than “right,” as in the published version I’m using here, that is another problem that I’ll leave aside for now.
Next there is the distinction between the founding violence of law termed “mythic” (implicit meaning: Greek, it seems to me) and the annihilating violence of destructive law {Rechtsvernichtend), which is termed “divine” (implicit meaning: Jewish, it seems to me).
Finally, there is the distinction between justice {Gerechtigkeit) as the principle of all divine positioning of the end {das Prinzip aller gottli- chen Zwecksetzung, p. 198, “principle of all divine end making,” p.
1295) and power {Macht) as principle of mythical positioning of droit !{aller mythischen Rechtsetzung, “of all mythical law making, ibid.).
In the title “Z«r Kritik der Gewalt,” “critique” doesn’t simply mean negative evaluation, legitimate rejection or condemnation of violence, but judgment, evaluation, examination that provides itself with the means to judge violence. The concept of “critique,” insofar as it implies decision in the form of judgment and question with re-
fgard to the right to judge, thus has an essential relation, in itself, to t the sphere of law or right. Fundamentally, something like the Kantian tradition of the concept of critique. The concept of violence {Gewalt) ^permits an evaluative critique only in the sphere of law and justice JRecht, Gerechtigkeit) or the sphere of moral relations {sittliche Ver- hdltnisse). There is no natural or physical violence. We can speak fig-
; uratively of violence with regard to an earthquake or even to a physi cal ailment. But we know that these aren’t cases of a Gewalt able to give rise to a judgment, before some instrument of justice. The concept of violence belongs to the symbolic order of law, politics and morals. And it is only to this extent that it can give rise to a critique. Up to this point this critique was always inscribed in the space of the dis tinction between means and end. But, objects Benjamin, to ask our selves if violence can be a means with a view toward ends (just or unjust) is to prohibit ourselves from judging violence itself. The criter- iology would then concern only the application of violence, not vio lence itself. We would not be able to tell if the latter, as means, is in Itself ]vist or not, moral or not. The critical question remains open, the
32 / The ‘‘Mystical Foundation of Authority
question of an evaluation and a justification of violence in itself, whether it be a simple means and whatever its end may be. This crit ical dimension would have been foreclosed by the jusnaturalist tradi tion. For defenders of natural droit, recourse to violent means poses no problems, since natural ends are just. Recourse to violent means is as justified, as normal as man’s “right” to move his body to reach a given goal. Violence {Gewalt) is from this point of view a “natural product” (Naturprodukt). Benjamin gives several examples of this naturalization of violence by jusnaturalism:
(a) the state founded on natural law, which Spinoza talks about in the Theological-Political Treatise in which the citizen, be fore a contract is formed by reason, exercises de jure a vio lence he disposes of de facto,
(b) the ideological foundation of the Terror under the French Revolution,
(c) the exploitations of a certain Darwinism (and this could later be applied to Nazism), etc.
But if, in opposition to jusnaturalism, the tradition of positive law is more attentive to the historical evolution of law, it also falls short of the critical questioning called for by Benjamin. Doubtless it can only consider all means to be good once they conform to a natural and ahistorical end. It prescribes that we judge means, that is to say judge their conformity to a droit that is in the process of being insti tuted, to a new (not natural) droit that it evaluates in terms of means, and so by the critique of means. But the two traditions share the same dogmatic presupposition, namely, that just ends can be attained by just means. “Natural law attempts, by the justness of ends {durch die Gerechtigkeit der Zwecke), to ‘justify’ (rechtfertigen) the means, pos itive law to ‘guarantee’ {garantieren) the justness of the ends through the justification {Gerechtigkeit) of the means.” The two traditions would turn in the same circle of dogmatic presuppositions. And there is no solution for the antinomy when a contradiction emerges between just ends and justified means. Positive law would remain blind to the unconditionality of ends, natural right to the conditionality of means. Nevertheless, although he seems to dismiss both cases symmetrically, from the tradition of positive law Benjamin retains the sense of the historicity of law. Inversely, it is true that what he says further on about divine justice is not always incompatible with the theological basis of all jusnaturalisms. In any case, the Benjaminian critique of
Jacques Derrida / 33
violence claims to exceed the two traditions and no longer to arise simply from the sphere of law and the internal interpretation of the juridical institution. It belongs to what he calls in a rather singular sense a “philosophy of history” and is expressly limited to European particulars.
At its most fundamental level, European law tends to prohibit in- ividual violence and to condemn it not because it poses a threat to
this or that law but because it threatens the juridical order itself {die Rechtsordnung, “the legal system”). Whence the law’s interest—for it ’oes have an interest in laying itself down and conserving itself, or in epresenting the interest that, justement, it represents. Law’s interest lay seem “surprising,” that is Benjamin’s word, but at the same time
t is in its nature as interest, and in this sense there is nothing surpris- g here at all, to pretend to exclude any individual violence threat-
ning its order and thus to monopolize violence, in the sense of Ge- ■alt, which is also to say authority. Law has an “interest in a onopoly of violence” (p. 281), {Interesse des Rechts an der Mono-
olisierung der Gewalt). This monopoly doesn’t strive to protect any wen just and legal ends {Rechtszwecke) but law itself. This seems like tautological triviality. But isn’t tautology the phenomenal structure
f a certain violence in the law that lays itself down, by decreeing to violent, this time in the sense of an outlaw, anyone who does not
cognize it? Performative tautology or a priori synthesis, which struc- res any foundation of the law upon which one performatively pro-
uces the conventions that guarantee the validity of the performative, anks to which one gives oneself the means to decide between legal d illegal violence. The expressions “tautology’' and “a priori syn- esis,” and especially the word “performative” are not Benjaminian,
' ut I’ll venture to suggest that they do not betray his purposes. The admiring fascination exerted on the people by “the figure of the
^great’ criminal,” (p. 281) {die Gestalt des “grossen” Verbrechers), an be explained as follows: it is not someone who has committed this r that crime for which one feels a secret admiration; it is someone ho, in defying the law, lays bare the violence of the legal system, the
|iridical order itself. One could explain in the same way the fascina- *on exerted in France by a lawyer like Jacques Verges who defends
e most difficult causes, the most indefensible in the eyes of the ma- ®rity, by practicing what he calls the “strategy of rupture,” that is,
Ae radical contestation of the given order of the law, of judicial au- ority and ultimately of the legitimate authority of the state that sum-
|Qons his clients to appear before the law. Judicial authority before “ ^hich, in short, the accused appears without appearing and claims the
34 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
right to contest the order of right or law. But what order of law? The order of law in general or this order of law instituted and enforced by this state? Or order as inextricably mixed with the state in general?
The telling example would here be that of the right to strike. In class struggle, notes Benjamin, the right to strike is guaranteed to workers who are therefore, besides the state, the only legal subject {Rechtssub- jekt) to find itself guaranteed a right to violence {Recht auf Gewalt) and so to share the monopoly of the state in this respect. Certain people may have thought that since the practice of the strike, this ces sation of activity, this Nicht-Handeln, is not an action, we cannot here be speaking about violence. That is how the concession of this right by the power of the state {Staatsgewalt) is justified when that power cannot do otherwise. Violence would come from the employer and the strike would consist only in an abstention, a non-violent withdrawal by which the worker, suspending his relations with the management and its machines, would simply become alien to them. The man who will become Brecht’s friend defines this withdrawal {Abkehr) as an “Entfremdung"’ (“estrangement”). He puts the word in quotation marks. But Benjamin clearly does not believe in the non-violence of the strike. The striking workers set the conditions for the resumption of work, they will not end their strike unless a list, an order of things has changed. And so there is violence against violence. In carrying the right to strike to its limit, the concept or watchword of general strike thus manifests its essence. The state can hardly stand this passage to the limit. It deems it abusive and claims that there was a misunder standing, a misinterpretation of the original intention, and that das Streikrecht “so" nicht gemeint gewesen sei, “the right to strike was not ‘so intended’ ” (p. 282). It can then condemn the general strike as illegal and, if the strike persists, we have a revolutionary situation. Such a situation is in fact the only one that allows us to conceive the homogeneity of law or right and violence, violence as the exercise of droit and droit as the exercise of violence. Violence is not exterior to the order of droit. It threatens it from within. Violence does not con sist essentially in exerting its power or a brutal force to obtain this or that result but in threatening or destroying an order of given right and precisely, in this case, the order of state law that was to accord this right to violence, for example the right to strike. How can we interpret this contradiction? Is it only de facto and exterior to law? Or is it rather immanent in the law of law {au droit du droit) ?
What the state fears (the state being law in its greatest force) is not so much crime or brigandage, even on the grand scale of the Mafia or heavy drug traffic, as long as they transgress the law with an eye to ward particular benefits, however important they may be. The state is
Jacques Derrida / 35
afraid of fundamental, founding violence, that is, violence able to jus tify, to legitimate, {begriinden, “to found,” p. 283) or to transform the relations of law {Rechtsverhdltnisse, “legal conditions”), and so to present itself as having a right to law. This violence thus belongs in advance to the order of a droit that remains to be transformed or founded, even if it may wound our sense of justice {Gerechtigkeitsge- fiihl). Only this violence calls for and makes possible a “critique of violence” that determines it to be something other than the natural exercise of force. For a critique of violence—that is to say, an inter pretative and meaningful evaluation of it—to be possible, one must first recognize meaning in a violence that is not an accident arriving from outside law. That which threatens law already belongs to it, to the right to law (droit), to the law of the law (droit), to the origin of law (droit). The general strike thus furnishes a valuable guiding thread, since it exercises the conceded right to contest the order of existing law and to create a revolutionary situation in which the task will be to found a new droit, if not always, as we shall see in a mo ment, a new state. All revolutionary situations, all revolutionary dis courses, on the left or on the right (and from 1921, in Germany, there were many of these that resembled each other in a troubling way, Benjamin often finding himself between the two) justify the recourse to violence by alleging the founding, in progress or to come, of a new. law. As this law to come will in return legitimate, retrospectively, the violence that may offend the sense of justice, its future anterior already justifies it. The foundation of all states occurs in a situation that we can thus call revolutionary. It inaugurates a new law, it always does so in violence. Always, which is to say even when there haven’t been those spectacular genocides, expulsions or deportations that so often accompany the foundation of states, great or small, old or new, right near us or far away.
In these situations said to found law (droit) or state, the grammati cal category of the future anterior all too well resembles a modifica tion of the present to describe the violence in progress. It consists, precisely, in feigning the presence or simple modalization of presence. Those who say “our time,” while thinking “our present” in light of a future anterior present do not know very well, by definition, what they are saying. It is precisely in this ignorance that the eventness of the event consists, what we naively call its presence.®
These moments, supposing we can isolate them, are terrifying mo ments. Because of the sufferings, the crimes, the tortures that rarely fail to accompany them, no doubt, but just as much because they are in themselves, and in their very violence, uninterpretable or indeci pherable. That is what I am calling “mystique.” As Benjamin presents
36 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
it, this violence is certainly legible, indeed intelligible since it is not alien to law, no more than polemos or eris is alien to all the forms and significations of dike. But it is, in droit, what suspends droit. It inter rupts the established droit to found another. This moment of suspense, this epokhe, this founding or revolutionary moment of law is, in law, an instance of non-law. But it is also the whole history of law. This moment always takes place and never takes place in a presence. It is the moment in which the foundation of law remains suspended in the void or over the abyss, suspended by a pure performative act that would not have to answer to or before anyone. The supposed subject of this pure performative would no longer be before the law, or rather he would be before a law not yet determined, before the law as before a law not yet existing, a law yet to come, encore devant et devant venir. And the being “before the law” that Kafka talks about^ resembles this situation, both ordinary and terrible, of the man who cannot manage to see or above all to touch, to catch up to the law: because it is transcendent in the very measure that it is he who must found it, as yet to come, in violence. Here we “touch” without touching this ex traordinary paradox: the inaccessible transcendence of the law before which and prior to which “man” stands fast only appears infinitely transcendent and thus theological to the extent that, so near him, it depends only on him, on the performative act by which he institutes it: the law is transcendent, violent and non-violent, because it depends only on who is before it—and so prior to it, on who produces it, founds it, authorizes it in an absolute performative whose presence always escapes him. The law is transcendent and theological, and so always to come, always promised, because it is immanent, finite and so already past. Every “subject” is caught up in this aporetic structure in advance.
Only the yet-to-come {avenir) will produce intelligibility or inter- pretability of this law. Beyond the letter of Benjamin’s text, which I stopped following in the style of commentary a moment ago but which I am interpreting from the point of its avenir, one can say that the order of intelligibility depends in its turn on the established order that it serves to interpret. This readability will then be as little neutral as it is non-violent. A “successful” revolution, the “successful foun dation of a state” (in somewhat the same sense that one speaks of a “felicitous performative speech act”) will produce apres coup what it was destined in advance to produce, namely, proper interpretative models to read in return, to give sense, necessity and above all legiti macy to the violence that has produced, among others, the interpre tative model in question, that is, the discourse of its self-legitimation. Examples of this circle, this other hermeneutic circle, are not lacking.
Jacques Derrida! 37
near us or far from us, right here or elsewhere, whether it’s a question of what happens from one neighborhood to another, one street to another in a great metropolis or from one country or one camp to another around a world war in the course of which states and nations are founded, destroyed or redesigned. This must be taken into account in order to de-limit an international law constructed on the western concept of state sovereignty and non-intervention, but also in order to think its infinite perfectibility. There are cases in which it is not known for generations if the performative of the violent founding of a state is “felicitous” or not. Here we could cite more than one example. This unreadability of violence results from the very readability of a vio lence that belongs to what others would call the symbolic order of law, if you like, and not to pure physics. We might be tempted to reverse this “logic” like a glove (“logic” in quotation marks, for this “unreadable” is also very much “illogical” in the order of logos, and this is also why I hesitate to call it “symbolic” and precipitately send it into the order of Lacanian discourse), the “logic” of this readable unreadability. In sum, it signifies a juridico-symbolic violence, a per formative violence at the very heart of interpretative reading. And the example or index could be carried by metonymy back toward the con ceptual generality of the essence.
We might say then that there is a possibility of general strike, a right to general strike in any interpretative reading, the right to contest es tablished law in its strongest authority, the law of the state. One has the right to suspend legitimating authority and all its norms of read ing, and to do this in the most incisive, most effective, most pertinent readings, which of course will sometimes argue with the unreadable in order to found another order of reading, another state, sometimes not; for we shall see that Benjamin distinguishes between two sorts of general strikes, some destined to replace the order of one state with another (general political strike), the other to abolish the state (general proletarian strike). In short, the two temptations of deconstruction.
For there is something of the general strike, and thus of the revolu tionary situation in every reading that founds something new and that remains unreadable in regard to established canons and norms of reading, that is to say the present state of reading or of what figures the State, with a capital S, in the state of possible reading. Faced with such a general strike, we can in various cases speak of anarchism, skepticism, nihilism, depoliticization, or on the contrary of subversive overpoliticization. Today, the general strike does not need to demobi lize or mobilize a spectacular number of people: it is enough to cut the electricity in a few privileged places, for example the services, pub lic and private, of postal service and telecommunications, of radio and
38 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
television or to introduce a few efficient viruses into a well-chosen computer network or, by analogy, to introduce the equivalent of AIDS into the organs of transmission, into the hermeneutic Gesprdch.^^
Can what we are doing here resemble a general strike or a revolu tion, with regard to models, structures but also modes of readability of political action? Is that what deconstruction is? Is it a general strike or a strategy of rupture? Yes and no. Yes, to the extent that it assumes the right to contest, and not only theoretically, constitutional proto cols, the very charter that governs reading in our culture and espe cially in the academy. No, at least to the extent that it is in the acad emy that it has been developed (and let’s not forget, if we do not wish to sink into ridicule or indecency, that we are comfortably installed here on Fifth Avenue—only a few blocks away from the inferno of injustice). And besides, just as a strategy of rupture is never pure, since the lawyer or the accused has to “negotiate” it in some way before a tribunal or in the course of a hunger strike in the prison, so there is never a pure opposition between the general political strike looking to re-found another state and the general proletarian strike looking to destroy the state.
And so these Benjaminian oppositions seem to me to call more than ever for deconstruction; they deconstruct themselves, even as para digms for deconstruction. What I am saying here is anything but con servative and anti-revolutionary. For beyond Benjamin’s explicit pur pose, I shall propose the interpretation according to which the very violence of the foundation or position of law [Rechtsetzende Gewalt) must envelop the violence of conservation {Rechtserhaltende Gewalt) and cannot break with it. It belongs to the structure of fundamental violence that it calls for the repetition of itself and founds what ought to be conserved, conservable, promised to heritage and tradition, to be shared. A foundation is a promise. Every position {Setzung) permits and promises {permet et pro-met), it positions en mettant et en pro- mettant. And even if a promise is not kept in fact, iterability inscribes the promise as guard in the most irruptive instant of foundation. Thus it inscribes the possibility of repetition at the heart of the originary. With this, there is no more a pure foundation or pure position of law, and so a pure founding violence, than there is a purely conservative violence. Position is already iterability, a call for self-conserving repe tition. Conservation in its turn refounds, so that it can conserve what it claims to found. Thus there can be no rigorous opposition between positioning and conservation, only what I will call (and Benjamin does not name it) a differantielle contamination between the two, with all the paradoxes that this may lead to. No rigorous distinction between a general strike and a partial strike (again, in an industrial society, we
Jacques Derrida / 39
would also lack the technical criteria for such a distinction), nor, in Sorel’s sense, between a general political strike and a general proletar ian strike. Deconstruction is also the idea of—and the idea adopted by necessity of—this differantielle contamination. It is in thinking about this differantielle contamination, as the contamination at the very heart of law that I single out this sentence of Benjamin’s, which I hope to come back to later: there is, he says “something rotten in law” (p. 286) {etwas Morsches im Recht). There is something decayed or rotten in law, which condemns it or ruins it in advance. Law is con demned, ruined, in ruins, ruinous, if we can risk a sentence of death on the subject of law, especially when it’s a question of the death pen alty. And it is in a passage on the death penalty that Benjamin speaks
ioFwhat is “rotten” in law. If there is something of strike and the right to strike in every inter-
! pretation, there is also war and polemos. War is another example of this contradiction internal to law {Recht or droit). There is a droit de la guerre (Schmitt will complain that it is no,longer recognized as the very possibility of politics). This droit involves the same contradiction as the droit de greve. Apparently subjects of this droit declare war in order to sanction a violence whose object seems natural (the other wants to lay hold of territory, goods, women; he wants my death, I kill him). But this warlike violence that resembles '"brigandage” out side the law {raubende Gewalt, “predatory violence,” p. 283) is al- ;Ways deployed within the sphere of law. It is an anomaly within the jlegal system with which it seems to break. Here the rupture of the relation is the relation. The transgression is before the law. In so-called primitive societies, where these meanings would be more clearly brought out, the peace settlement shows very well that war was not a tiatural phenomenon. No peace is settled without the symbolic phe-
Jaomenon of a ceremonial. It recalls the fact that there was already ‘Ceremony in war. War, then, did not simply amount to a clash of two interests or of two purely physical forces. Here an important paren thesis emphasizes that, to be sure, in the pair war/peace, the peace ceremonial recalls the fact that the war was also an unnatural phe nomenon; but Benjamin apparently wants to withhold a certain meaning of the word “peace” from this correlation, in particular in
■ the Kantian concept of “perpetual peace.” Here it is a question of a ■whole other “unmetaphorical and political” {unmetaphorische und politische) signification, the importance of which we may weigh in a moment. At stake is international law, where the risks of diversion or perversion for the benefit of individual interests (whether those of a state or not) require an infinite vigilance, all the more so as these risks are inscribed in its very constitution.
40 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
After the ceremony of war, the ceremony of peace signifies that the victory establishes a new law. And war, which passes for origmary and archetypal {ursprungliche und urbildliche, “primordial and par adigmatic,” p. 283) violence in pursuit of natural ends, is m fact a violence that serves to found law or right {rechtsetzende, “law mak ing”). From the moment that this positive, positional {setzende) and founding character of another law is recognized, modern law {drott) refuses the individual subject all right to violence. The people’s shud der of admiration before the “great criminal” is addressed to the in dividual who takes upon himself, as in primitive times, the stigma of the lawmaker or the prophet. But the distinction between the two types of violence (founding and conserving) will be very difficult to trace, to found or to conserve. We are going to witness an ambiguous and laborious movement on Benjamin’s part to preserve at any cost a distinction or a correlation without which his whole project could collapse. For if violence is at the origin of law, we must take the cri tique of this double violence (“lawmaking and law-preserving vio lence,” p. 386) to its logical conclusion.
To discuss the conservative violence of law, Benjamin sticks to rela tively modern problems, as modern as the problem of the general strike was a moment ago. Now it is a question of compulsory military service, the modern police or the abolition of the death penalty. It, during’and after World War I, an impassioned critique of violence was developed, it took aim' this time at the law-conserving form of vio lence. Militarism, a modern concept that supposes the exploitation of compulsory military service, is the forced use of force, the compelling (Zwang) to use force or violence {Gewalt) in the service of the state and its legal ends. Here military violence is legal and conserves the law, and thus it is more difficult to criticize than the pacifists and ac tivists believe; Benjamin does not hide his low esteem for these declai- mers. The ineffectiveness and inconsistency of anti-military pacifists results from their failure to recognize the legal and unassailable char acter of this violence that conserves the law.
Here we are dealing with a double bind or a contradiction that can be schematized as follows. On the one hand, it appears easier to crit icize the violence that founds since it cannot be justified by any pre existing legality and so appears savage. But on the other J^^n^ and this reversal is the whole point of this reflection, it is more difficult, more illegitimate to criticize this same violence since one cannot sum mon it to appear before the institution of any preexisting law: it does not recognize existing law in the moment that it founds another. Be tween the two limits of this contradiction, there is the question of this
Jacques Derrida 141
ungraspable revolutionary instant that belongs to no historical, tem poral continuum but in which the foundation of a new law neverthe less plays, if we may say so, on something from an anterior law that it extends, radicalizes, deforms, metaphorizes or metonymizes, this figure here taking the name of war or general strike. But this figure is also a contamination. It effaces or blurs the distinction, pure and simple, between foundation and conservation. It inscribes iterability in originarity, in unicity and singularity, and it is what I will call de- construction at work, in full negotiation: in the “things themselves” and in Benjamin’s text.
As long as they do not give themselves the theoretical or philosoph ical means to think this co-implication of violence and law, the usual critiques remain naive and ineffectual. Benjamin does not hide his dis dain for the declamations of pacifist activism and for the procla mations of “quite childish anarchism” that would like to exempt the individual from all constraints. The reference to the categorical im perative (“Act in such a way that at all times you use humanity both in your person and in the person of all others as an end, and never merely as a means,” p. 285), however uncontestable it may be, allows no critique of violence. Law {droit) in its very violence claims to rec ognize and defend said humanity as end, in the person of each individ ual. And so a purely moral critique of violence is as unjustified as it is impotent. For the same reason, we cannot provide a critique of vio lence in the name of liberty, of what Benjamin here calls ^gestaltlose ^reiheit,” “formless freedom,” that is, in short, purely formal, as «mpty form, following a Marxist-Hegelian vein that is far from absent throughout this meditation. These attacks against violence lack perti nence and effectiveness because they remain alien to the juridical es- ^nce of violence, to the Rechtsordnung, the order of law {droit). An iffective critique must lay the blame on the body of droit itself, in its pcad and in its members, in the laws and the particular usages that few adopts under protection of its power {Macht). This order is such pat there exists one unique fate or history {nur ein einziges Schicksal, ionly one fate,” p. 285). That is one of the key concepts of the text, iut also one of the most obscure, whether it’s a question of fate itself p of its absolute uniqueness. That which exists, which has consist-
{das Bestehende) and that which at the same time threatens what pists {das Drohende) belong inviolably {unverbriichlich) to the same wder and this order is inviolable because it is unique. It can only be
^iolated in itself. The notion of threat is important here but also dif- cult, for the threat doesn’t come from outside. Law is both threat-
ing and threatened by itself. This threat is neither intimidation nor
42 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
dissuasion, as pacifists, anarchists or activists believe. The law turns out to be threatening in the way fate is threatening. To reach the “deepest meaning” of the indeterminacy {Unbestimmtheit, “uncer tainty,” p. 285) of the legal threat {der Rechtsdrohung), it will later be necessary to meditate upon the essence of fate at the origin of this threat.
In the course of a meditation on fate, which includes along the way an analysis of the police, the death penalty, the parliamentary institu tion, Benjamin thus comes to distinguish between divine justice and human justice, between the divine justice that destroys law and the mythic violence that founds it.
The violence that conserves (“law-preserving violence”), this threat which is not intimidation, is a threat of droit. Double genitive: it both comes from and threatens droit. A valuable index arises here from the domain of the right to punish and the death penalty. Benjamin seems to think that the arguments against the droit de punir and notably against the death penalty are superficial, and not by accident. For they do not admit an axiom essential to the definition of law. Which? Well, when one tackles the death penalty, one doesn’t dispute one penalty among others but law itself in its origin, in its very order. If the origin of law is a violent positioning, the latter manifests itself in the purest fashion when violence is absolute, that is to say when it. touches on the right to life and to death. Here Benjamin doesn’t need to invoke the great philosophical arguments that before him have justified, in the same way, the death penalty (Kant, Hegel, for example, against early opponents like Beccaria).
If the legal system fully manifests itself in the possibility of the death penalty, to abolish the penalty is not to touch upon one dispositif among others, it is to disavow the very principle of law. And that is to confirm, says Benjamin, that there is something “rotten” at the heart of law. The death penalty bears witness, it must bear witness, to the fact that law is a violence contrary to nature. But what today bears witness in an even more “spectral” {gespenstiche) way in mixing the two forms of violence (conserving and founding) is the modern insti tution of the police. It is this mixture (Vermischung) that is spectral, as if one violence haunted the other (though Benjamin doesn’t put it this way in commenting on the double meaning of the word gespen- stich). This absence of a frontier between the two types of violence, this contamination between foundation and conservation is ignoble, it is, he says, the ignominy {das Schmachvolle) of the police. For today the police are no longer content to enforce the law, and thus to con serve it; they invent it, they publish ordinances, they intervene when ever the legal situation isn’t clear to guarantee security. Which these
Jacques Derrida / 43
days is to say nearly all the time. The police are ignoble because in : their authority “the separation of the violence that founds and the ^violence that conserves is suspended” {in ihr die Trennung von recht- setzender und rechtserhaltender Gewalt aufgehoben ist, “in this au thority the separation of lawmaking and lawpreserving is suspended,” -p. 286). In this Aufhebung that it itself is, the police invent law, they make themselves “rechtsetzend” “lawmaking,” legislative, each time law is indeterminate enough to give them the chance. The police be have like lawmakers in modern times, not to say lawmakers of mod- iern times. Where there are police, which is to say everywhere and even here, we can no longer discern between two types of violence, con- J^rving and founding, and that is the ignoble, ignominious, disgusting pimbiguity. The possibility, which is also to say the ineluctable neces sity of the modern police force ruins, in sum, one could say decon structs, the distinction between the two kinds of violence that never theless structure the discourse that Benjamin calls a new critique of .violence. He would like either to found it or conserve it but in all ,;purity he can do neither. At most, he can sign it as a spectral event, lext and signature are specters. And Benjamin knows it, so well that
^he event of the text Zur Kritik der Gewalt consists of this strange ex position: before your eyes a demonstration ruins the distinctions it roposes. It exhibits and archivizes the very movement of its implo-
_ion, leaving instead what we call a text, the ghost of a text that, itself ruins, at once foundation and conservation, accomplishes neither
nd remains there, up to a certain point, for a certain amount of time, adable and unreadable, like the exemplary ruin that singularly arns us of the fate of all texts and all signatures in their relation to
'w, that is, necessarily, in their relation to a certain police force. Such ould be (let it be said in passing) the status without statute, the stat
ute without status of a text considered deconstructive and what re ams of it. The text does not escape the law that it states. It is ruined d contaminated, it becomes the specter of itself. But about this ruin
f signature, there will be more to say. What threatens the rigor of the distinction between the two types
f violence is at bottom the paradox of iterability. Iterability requires ^he origin to repeat itself originarily, to alter itself so as to have the Value of origin, that is, to conserve itself. Right away there are police and the police legislate, not content to enforce a law that would have had no force before the police. This iterability inscribes conservation in the essential structure of foundation. This law or this general ne cessity is not a modern phenomenon, it has an a priori worth, even if Benjamin is right to give examples that are irreducibly modern in their specificity. Rigorously speaking, iterability precludes the possibility of
44 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
pure and great founders, initiators, lawmakers (“great” poets, think ers or men of state, in the sense Heidegger will mean in 1935, fol lowing an analogous schema concerning the fatal sacrifice of these founders).
1 do not see ruin as a negative thing. First of all, it is clearly not a thing. And then 1 would love to write, maybe with or following Ben jamin, maybe against Benjamin, a short treatise on love of ruins. What else is there to love, anyway.^ One cannot love a monument, a work of architecture, an institution as such except in an experience itself precarious in its fragility: it hasn’t always been there, it will not al ways be there, it is finite. And for this very reason I love it as mortal, through its birth and its death, through the ghost or the silhouette of its ruin, of my own—which it already is or already prefigures. How can we love except in this finitude? Where else would the right to love, indeed the love of right, come from? (D’om viendrait autrement le droit d’aimer, voire Vamour du droitf)
Let us return to the thing itself, to the ghost, for this text is a ghost story. We can no more avoid ghost and ruin than we can elude the question of the rhetorical status of this textual event. To what figures does it turn for its exposition, for its internal explosion or its implo sion? All the exemplary figures of the violence of law are singular metonymies, namely, figures without limit, unfettered possibilities of transposition and figures without figures. Let us take the example of the police, this index of a phantom-like violence because it mixes foundation with conservation and becomes all the more violent for this. Well, the police that thus capitalize on violence aren’t simply the police. They do not simply consist of policemen in uniform, occasion ally helmeted, armed and organized in a civil structure on a military model to whom the right to strike is refused, and so forth. By defini tion, the police are present or represented everywhere that there is force of law. They are present, sometimes invisible but always effec tive, wherever there is preservation of the social order. The police aren’t just the police (today njore or less than ever), they are there, the faceless figure {figure sans figure) of a Dasein coextensive with the Dasein of the polis. Benjamin recognizes it in his way, but in a double gesture that I don’t think is deliberate and in any case isn’t thematized. He never gives up trying to contain in a pair of concepts and to bring back down to distinctions the very thing that incessantly exceeds them and surpasses them. In this way he admits that the problem with the police is that they are a faceless figure, a violence without a form {ges- taltlos). As such, they are ungraspable in every way {nirgends fass- bare). In so-called civilized states the specter of its ghostly apparition is all-pervasive {allverbreitete gespenstische Erscheinung im Leben der
Jacques Derrida / 45
^^vilisierten Staaten, “all pervasive ghostly presence in the life of civi- Hvzed states, p. 287). And still, this formless ungraspable figure of the |»olice, even as it is metonymized, spectralized, and even as it installs
haunting presence everywhere, would if Benjamin had his way re- ^^ain a determinable figure proper to the civilized states. He claims to ^faow what he is speaking of when he speaks of the proper meaning |||f the police and tries to determine that phenomenon. It is hard to ^Rnow whether he s speaking of the police of the modern state or of ^Ke state m general when he mentions the civilized state. I’m inclined jKsoward the first hypothesis for two reasons: ■P': ^ ‘ selects modern examples of violence, for example that of the l^neral strike or the problem of the death penalty. Earlier on, he ^»eaks not only of civilized states but of another “institution of the ■Modern state, the police. It is the modern police, in politico-technical W^^odern situations that have led to produce the law that they are only Hptpposed to enforce. HI' While recognizing that the phantom body of the police, however Mvasive it may be, always remains equal to itself, he admits that its l^ferit {Geist), the spirit of the police, does less damage in absolute |^PK)ilarchy than it does in modern democracies where its violence de generates. Let us stay with this point a moment. I am not sure that ^^njamin worked out the rapprochement I’m attempting here between
words gespenstische, “spectral,” and spirit also in the ■|nse of the ghostly double.profound logic of this analogy l^ems hardly contestable to me, even if Benjamin didn’t recognize it. Hpe police become hallucinatory and spectral because they haunt Werything; they are everywhere, even there where they are not, in »feir Fort-Dasein to which we can always appeal. Their presence is TOt present, any more than any presence is present, as Heidegger re- |Knds us, but the presence of their spectral double knows no bound- »ies. And it is in keeping with the logic of Zur Kritik der Gewalt to Bote that anything having to do with the violence of droit—here the »>lice themselves—is not natural but spiritual. There is a spirit, both B the sense of specter and in the sense of the life that exalts ’itself, trough death, precisely, by means of the possibility of the death pen- ^Pty, above natural and biological life. The police bear witness to this, pere I shall invoke a passage from the Ursprung der deutschen Trauer-
that speaks of Geist as the capacity to exercise dictatorship. I ^ank my friend Tim Bahti for bringing this passage to my attention K ut one ought to read the whole chapter, which earlier on discusses
apparition of specters [Geisterscheinungen, p. 273]): “Spirit |tGe/s?)_so the epoch would have it—manifests itself in power {weist pich aus in Macht)-, spirit is the capacity to exercise dictatorship {Geist
‘46 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
ist das Vermogen, Diktatur auszuuben). This capacity requires a rig orous internal discipline just as much as it requires the most unscru pulous external action {skfupelloseste Aktion)” (p. 276). And further on it is again a question of the evil genius {bose Geist) of despots.
Instead of being itself and being contained within democracy, this spirit of the police, this police violence as spirit degenerates there. It bears witness in modern democracy to the greatest degeneracy imag inable for violence {die denkbar grosste Entartung der Gewalt be- zeugt, “bears witness to the greatest conceivable degeneration of vio lence,” p. 287). Why? In absolute monarchy, legislative and executive powers are united. In it violence is therefore normal, in keeping with its essence, its idea, its spirit. In democracy, on the other hand, vio lence is no longer accorded to the spirit of the police. Because of the supposed separation of powers, it is exercised illegitimately, especially when instead of enforcing the law the police make the law. Here Ben jamin indicates the principle of an analysis of police reality in indus trial democracies and their military-industrial complexes with high computer technology. In absolute monarchy, police violence, terrible as it may be, proves to be what it is and what it ought to be in its spirit, while the police violence of democracies denies its proper prin ciple, making laws surreptitiously, clandestinely. The consequences or implications are twofold: (1) democracy is a degeneracy of droit and of the violence of droit; (2) there is not yet any democracy worthy of this name. Democracy remains to come: to engender or to regenerate. And so Benjamin’s argument, which then develops into a critique of the parliamentarism of liberal democracy, is revolutionary, even marx- isant, but in the two senses of the word “revolutionary,” which also includes the sense “reactionary,” that is, the sense of a return to the past of a purer origin. This equivocation is typical enough to have fed many revolutionary discourses on the right and the left, particularly between the two wars. A critique of “degeneracy” {Entartung) as cri tique of a parliamentarism powerless to control the police violence that substitutes itself for it, is very much a critique of violence on the basis of a “philosophy of history”: a putting into archeo-teleological, indeed archeo-eschatological perspective that deciphers the history of droit as a decay {Verfall) since its origin. The analogy with Schmittian or Heideggerian schemas does not need to be spelled out. This triangle could be illustrated by a correspondence, I mean the epistolary corre spondence that linked these three thinkers (Schmitt/Benjamin, Heideg ger/Schmitt). And it is still a question of spirit and revolution.
The basic question would be: what about liberal and parliamentary democracy today? As means, all violence founds or preserves droit. Otherwise it would lose all value. There is no problematic of droit
Jacques Derrida / 47
thout this violence of means. The result: every juridical contract, ery Rechtsvertrag (“legal contract,” p. 288) is founded on violence, ere is no contract that does not have violence as both an origin
'rsprung) and an outcome {Ausgang). Here a furtive and elliptical lusion by Benjamin is decisive, as is often the case. The violence that unds or positions droit need not be immediately present in the con- act {nicht unmittelbar in ihm gegenwdrtig zu sein: “it need not be rectly present in it as lawmaking violence,” p. 288). But without ing immediately present, it is replaced {vertreten, “represented”) by e supplement of a substitute. And it is in this differance, in the move- ent that replaces presence (the immediate presence of violence iden-
:,:fiable as such in its traits and its spirit), it is in this differantielle ifepresentativity that originary violence is consigned to oblivion. This
‘ Amnesic loss of consciousness does not happen by accident. It is the very passage from presence to representation. Such a passage forms the trajectory of decline, of institutional “degeneracy , their Verfall :(“decay”). Benjamin had just spoken of a degeneracy {Entartung) of originary violence, for example, that of police violence in absolute monarchy, which is corrupted in modern democracies. Here is Benja min deploring the Verfall of revolution in parliamentary spectacle: “When the consciousness of the latent presence of violence in a legal institution disappears, the institution falls into decay (p. 288)
' {schwindet das Bewufitsein von der latenten Anwesenheit der Gewalt in einetn Rechtsinstitut, so verfdllt es). The first example chosen is that of the parliaments of the time. If they offer a deplorable spectacle, it is because these representative institutions forget the revolutionary violence from which they are born. In Germany in particular, they have forgotten the abortive revolution of 1919. They have lost the sense of the founding violence of droit that is represented in them {''Ihnen fehlt der Sinn fur die rechtsetzende Gewalt, die in ihnen re- prdsentiert ist,” “They lack the sense that a lawmaking violence is represented by themselves,” p. 288). The parliaments live in forgetful ness of the violence from which they are born. This amnesic dene gation is not a psychological weakness, it is their statut and their structure. From this point on, instead of coming to decisions commen-, surable or proportional to this violence and worthy {wiirdig) of it,, they practice the hypocritical politics of compromise. The concept of compromise, the denegation of open violence, the recourse to dissi mulated violence belong to the spirit of violence, to the “mentality of violence” {Mentalitdt der Gewalt) that goes so far as to accept coer cion of the adversary to avoid the worst, at the same time saying to itself with the sigh of the parliamentarian that this certainly isn’t ideal, that, no doubt, this would have been better otherwise but that, pre-
48 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority”
cisely, one couldn’t do otherwise. Parliamentarism, then, is m violence and the renunciation o£ the ideal. It faUs to resolve political conflicts by non-violent speech, discussion, deliberation, m short by liberal democracy to work. In face of the “decay of parliaments {der Verfall der Parlamente), Benjamin finds the critique of the BolshevisB and the trade-unionists both pertinent (treffende) overall and radically destructive {vernichtende).
Now we must introduce a distinction that once again brings to gether Benjamin and one Carl Schmitt and in any case gives a more precise sense of what the historical configuration could have been m which all these different modes of thinking were inscribed (the exor bitant price Germany had to pay for defeat, the Weimar Republic, the crisis and impotence of the new parliamentarism, the failure of paci fism, the aftermath of the October revolution, conflict between the media and parliamentarism, new particulars of international law, and so forth). We just saw, in sum, that in its origin and its end, in its foundation and its conservation, le droit was inseparable from vio lence, immediate or mediate, present or represented. Does this exclude all non-violence in the elimination of conflicts, as we might placidly conclude? Not at all. Benjamin does not exclude the possibility of non-violence. But the thought of non-violence must exceed the order of public droit. Union without violence {gewaltlose Einigung, “non violent agreement,” p. 289) is possible everywhere that the culture of the heart {die Kultur des Herzens) gives men pure means with accord [Ubereinkunft) in view. Does this mean we must stop at this opposi tion between private and public to protect a domain of non-violence. Things are far from that simple. Other conceptual divisions will de limit, in the sphere of politics itself, the relation of violence to non violence. This would be, for example, in the tradition of Sorel or Marx, the distinction between the general political strike, violent since it wants to replace the state with another state (for example the one that just flashed forth in Germany) and the general proletarian strike, that revolution that instead of strengthening the state aims at its suppression, as it aims at the elimination of “sociologists, says Sorel, men of the world so fond of social reforms, intellectuals who have embraced the profession of thinking for the proletariat” (“sociolo gists, elegant amateurs of social reforms or intellectuals who have made it their profession to think for the proletariat, p. 292).
Another distinction seems even more radical and closer to what concerns the critique of violence as a means. It opposes the order of means and representation, precisely, to the order of manifestation. Once again it is very much a question of the violence of language, but
Jacques Derrida / 49
also of the advent of non-violence through a certain language. Does the essence of language consist in signs, considered as means of com munication as re-presentation, or in a manifestation that no longer arises, or not yet, from communication through signs, from commu nication in general, that is, from the means/end structure?
Benjamin intends to prove that a non-violent elimination of con flicts is possible in the private world when it is ruled by the culture of
le heart, cordial courtesy, sympathy, love of peace, trust. Dialogue SJUnterredung, “conference”), as technique of civil agreement, would fee the most profound example. But by what token can violence be
nsidered excluded from the private or proper sphere [eigentliche ^hdre)} Benjamin’s response may be surprising to some. The possi bility of this non-violence is attested to by the fact that the lie {die
iige, “lying,” p. 289) is not punished, nor is deception {Betrug, fraud”). Roman law and Old German law did not punish them. To nsider a lie an offence is a sign of decadence {Verfallsprozess, “de- ming vitality”). Modern law loses faith in itself, it condemns decep-
*on not for moral reasons but because it fears the violence that it ight lead to on the victims’ part. They may in return threaten the der of droit. It is the same mechanism as the one at work in the ncession of the right to strike. It is a matter of limiting the worst
jolence with another violence. What Benjamin seems to be dreaming is an order of non-violence that withholds from the order of droit—
Id so from the right to punish the lie—not only private relations but m certain public relations as in the general proletarian strike that
speaks about, which is a strike that would not attempt to re- :nd a state and a new droit; or again certain diplomatic relations in
b, in a manner analogous to private relations, certain ambassa- settle conflicts peacefully and without treaties. Arbitration is
i-violent in this case because it is situated beyond all order of droit so beyond violence (“beyond all legal systems, and therefore be-
id violence,” p. 293). We shall see in a moment how this non- lence is not without affinity to pure violence, lere Benjamin proposes an analogy that we should linger over for ioment, particularly because it brings in this enigmatic concept of -. What would happen if a violence linked to fate {schicksalsmds-
Gewalt, “violence imposed by fate,” p. 293) and using just means ^chtigte) found itself in an insoluble conflict with just {gerechten)
^s? And in such a way that we had to envision another kind of dence that regarding these ends would be neither a justified nor an fustified means? Neither a justified nor an unjustified means, unde- ’bly, it would no longer even be a means but would enter into a
50 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
whole other relation with the pair means/end. Then we would be deal ing with a wholly other violence that would no longer allow itself to be determined in the space opened up by the opposition means/end. The question is all the more grave in that it exceeds or displaces the initial problematic that Benjamin had up to this point constructed on the subject of violence and droit and that was entirely governed by the concept of means. Here it will be noticed that there are cases m which, posed in terms of means/ends, the problem of droit remains undecid-. able. This ultimate undecidability which is that of all problems o droit (Unentscheidbarkeit aller Rechtsprobleme, “ultimate msol^ubil- ity of all legal problems,” p. 293) is the insight of a singular and dis couraging experience. Where is one to go after recognizing this in eluctable undecidability?
Such a question opens, first, upon another dimension of language, on an au-deld beyond mediation and so beyond language as sign in the sense of mediation, as a means with an end in view. It seems at first that there is no way out and so no hope. But at the impasse, this despair {Aussichtslosigkeit, “insolubility,” “hopelessness”) summons up decisions of thought that concern nothing less than the origin of language in its relation to the truth, destinal violence {schicksalhafte Gewalt, “fate-imposed violence”) that puts itself above reason, t en, above this violence itself, God: another, a wholly other “mystical foundation of authority.” It is not, to be sure, Montaigne’s or Pascal s, but we shouldn’t trust too much in this distance. That is what the Aussichtslosigkeit of droit in some way opens up on, that is where the impasse of drod leads.
There would be an analogy between “the undecidability {Unentsch eidbarkeit) of all the problems of droit” and what happens in nascent language {in werdenden Sprachen) in which it is impossible to make a clear, convincing, determinant decision {Entscheidung) between true and false, correct and incorrect {richtig/falsch, “right/wrong’). This is only an analogy proposed in passing. But it could be ^eveli^ed on the basis of other Benjamin texts on language, notably The Task of the Translator” (1923) and especially the famous essay of 1916, five years before, “On Language in General and Human Lanpage.” Both put into question the notion that the essence of language is originally com municative, that is to say semiological, informative, representative, conventional, hence mediatory. It is not a means with an end in view—a thing or signified content—to which it would have to ade quate itself correctly. This critique of the sign was political then as well: the conception of language as means and as sign would, be “bourgeois.” The 1916 text defined original sin as that fall into a lan guage of mediate communication where words, having become
Jacques Derrida / 51
means, incite babbling {Geschwdtz). The question of good and evil after the creation arises from this babbling. The tree of knowledge was not there to provide knowledge of good and evil but as the “Wahr- zeichen” the sign betokening judgment {Gericht) borne by he who questions. “This extraordinary irony,” Benjamin concludes, “is the sign by which the mythical origin of droit is recognized” {das Kenn- zeichen des mythischen Ursprungs des Rechtes, Bd 11, 1, p. 154).
Beyond this simple analogy, Benjamin here wants to conceive of a finality, a justice of ends that is no longer tied to the possibility of droit, in any case to what is always conceived of as universalizable. The universalization of droit is its very possibility, it is analytically inscribed in the concept of justice {Gerechtigkeit). But in this case what is not understood is that this universality is in contradiction with God himself, that is, with the one who decides the legitimacy of means and the justice of ends over and above reason and even above destinal violence. This sudden reference to God above reason and universality,
I beyond a sort of Aufkldrung of law, is nothing other than a reference V to the irreducible singularity of each situation. And the audacious \ thought, as necessary as it is perilous, of what I shall here call a sort ^ of justice without droit (this is not one of Benjamin’s expressions) is
just as valid for the uniqueness of the individual as for the people and '^the language, in short, for history.
' To explain this “nonmediate function of violence” (p. 294) {Eine , nicht mittelbare Funktion der Gewalt), Benjamin again takes the ex-
: ample of everyday language as if it were only an analogy. In fact, it fi^eems to me, we have here the true mechanism, and the very place of indecision. Is it by chance and unrelated to such a figure of God that he ispeaks then of the experience of anger, an example of an immediate Mtnanifestation that has nothing to do with any means/end structure? ^ The explosion of violence, in anger, is not a means that looks toward
{ to end; it has no object other than to show and show itself. Let us leave the responsibility for this concept to Benjamin: the in some way 1 disinterested, immediate and uncalculated manifestation of anger.
ft^Tiat matters to him is a manifestation of violence that would not be means looking toward an end. Such would be mythic violence as
§ manifestation of the gods. 11^ Here begins the last sequence, the most enigmatic, the most fasci-
|toating and the most profound in this text. For lack of time but not time, I cannot claim to do it justice. I will have to content myself
ith stressing on the one hand the terrible ethico-political ambiguity f the text, on the other hand the exemplary instability of its status nd its signature, what, finally, you will permit me to call this heart or ourage {ce coeur ou ce courage) or a thinking that knows there is no
52 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
justesse, no justice, no responsibility except in exposing oneself to all risks, beyond certitude and good conscience.
In the Greek world, the manifestation of divine violence in its mythic form founds a droit rather than enforcing an existing one by distributing compensations and punishments. It is not a distributive or retributive justice, and Benjamin evokes the legendary examples of Niobe, Apollo and Artemis, Prometheus. As it is a matter of founding a new droit, the violence that falls upon Niobe comes from fate; and this fate can only be uncertain and ambiguous {zweideutig), since it is not preceded or regulated by any anterior, superior or transcendant droit. This founding violence is not “properly destructive” {eigentlich zerstdrend, “actually destructive”), since, for example, it respects the mother’s life in the moment it brings a bloody death to Niobe’s chil dren. But this allusion to blood spilled, as we shall see, is here a dis criminating index for identifying the mythical and violent foundation of droit in the Greek world and distinguishes it from the divine vio lence of Judaism. Benjamin offers multiple examples of this ambiguity {Zweideutigkeit, the word returns at least four times), and even of the “demonic” ambiguity of this mythical positioning of droit^^ which is in its fundamental principle a power {Macht), a force, a position of authority and so, as Sorel himself suggests, with Benjamin’s appar ent approval here, a privilege of kings, of the great or powerful: at the origin of all droit is a privilege {in den Anfdngen dies Recht “Vor"recht der Konige oder der Grossen, kurz der Mdchtigen: “in the beginning all right was the prerogative of the kings or the nobles—in short of the mighty,” p. 296). At this originary and mythic moment, there is still no distributive justice, no chastisement or penalty, only expiation {Suhne, badly translated as “retribution”).
To this violence of the Greek mythos, Benjamin opposes feature for feature the violence of God. From all points of view, he says, it is its opposite. Instead of founding droit, it destroys it; instead oif setting limits and boundaries, it annihilates them; instead of leading to error and expiation, it causes to expiate; instead of threatening, it strikes; and above all, this is the essential point, instead of killing with blood, it kills and annihilates without bloodshed. Blood makes all the differ ence. The interpretation of this thought of blood is as troubling, de spite certain dissonances, in Benjamin as it is in Rosenzweig (espe cially if we think of the “final solution”). Blood is the symbol of life, he says. In making blood flow, the mythological violence of droit is exercised in its own favor {um ihrer selbst widen) against life pure and simple which it causes to bleed, even as it remains precisely within the order of natural life {das blosse Leben). In contrast, purely divine (Ju daic) violence is exercised on all life but to the profit or in favor of the
Jacques Derrida / 53
living {iiber alles Leben um des Lebendigen widen: “Mythical violence is bloody power over mere life for its own sake, divine violence pure power over all life for the sake of the living,” p. 297). In other words, the mythological violence of droit is satisfied in itself by sacrificing the living, while divine violence sacrifices life to save the living, in favor of the living. In both cases there is sacrifice, but in the case where blood is exacted, the living is not respected. Whence Benjamin’s sin gular conclusion, and again I leave to him responsibility for this inter pretation, particularly for this interpretation of Judaism: “The first (the mythological violence of droit) demands {fordert) sacrifice, the second (divine violence) accepts it, assumes it {nimmt sie an).” In any case, this divine violence, which will be attested to not only by religion but also in present life or in manifestations of the sacred, may anni hilate goods, life, droit, the foundation of droit, and so on, but it never mounts an attack to destroy the soul of the living {die Seek des Le bendigen). Consequently, we have no right to conclude that divine violence leaves the field open for all human crimes. “Thou shalt not kill” remains an absolute imperative once the principle of the most destructive divine violence commands the respect of the living being, beyond droit, beyond judgment. It is not a “criterion of judgment” but a “guideline for the actions of persons or communities who have to wrestle with it in solitude and in exceptional cases, to take on them selves the responsibility of ignoring it. That for Benjamin is the essence of Judaism which forbids all murder, except in the singular cases of legitimate self-defense, and which sacralizes life to the point that cer tain thinkers extend this sacralization beyond man, to include animal and vegetable. But here we should sharpen the point of what Benjamin means by the sacrality of man, life or rather human Dasein. He stands up vigorously against all sacralization of life for itself, natural life, the simple fact of life. Commenting at length on the words of Kurt Hiller, according to which “higher even than the happiness and the justice of existence stands existence itself” (p. 298), Benjamin judges the prop osition that simple Dasein should be higher than just Dasein {als ge- rechtes Dasein) to be false and ignoble, if simple Dasein is taken to mean the simple fact of living. And while noting that these terms '"Dasein” and “life” remain very ambiguous, he judges the same prop osition, however ambiguous it may remain, in the opposite way, as full of a powerful truth {gewaltige Wahrheit) if it means that man’s non-being would be still more terrible than man’s not-yet-being just, than the not yet attained condition of the just man, purely and simply. In other words, what makes for the worth of man, of his Dasein and his life, is that he contains the potential, the possibility of justice, the yet-to-come {avenir) of justice, the yet-to-come of his being-just, of his
54 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
having-to-be just. W^hat is sacred in his life is not his life but the justice of his life. Even if beasts and plants were sacred, they would not be so simply for their life, says Benjamin. This critique of vitalism or bio- logism, if it also resembles one by a certain Heidegger and if it recalls, as 1 have noted elsewhere, a certain Hegel, here proceeds like the awakening of a Judaic tradition. Because of this ambiguity in the con cepts of life and Dasein, Benjamin is both drawn to and reticent before the dogma that affirms the sacred character of life, as natural life, pure and simple. The origin of this dogma deserves inquiry, notes Benja min, who is ready to see in it the relatively modern and nostalgic re sponse of the West to the loss of the sacred.
Which is the ultimate and most provocative paradox of this critique of violence? The one that offers the most to think about? It is that this critique presents itself as the only “philosophy” of history (the word “philosophy” remaining in unforgettable quotation marks) that makes possible an attitude that is not merely “critical” but, in the more critical and diacritical sense of the word “critique,” krinein, an attitude that permits us to choose {krinein), and so to decide and to cut decisively in history and on the subject of history. It is the only one, Benjamin says, that permits us, in respect to present time, to take a decisive position {scheidende und entscheidende Einstellung, dis criminating and decisive approach,” pp. 299-300). All undecidability {Unentscheidbarkeit) is situated, blocked in, accumulated on the side of droit, of mythological violence, that is to say the violence that founds and conserves droit. But on the other hand all decidability stands on the side of the divine violence that destroys le droit, we could even venture to say deconstructs it. To say that all decidability is found on the side of the divine violence that destroys or decon structs le droit is to say at least two things:
1. That history is on the side of this divine violence, and history precisely in opposition to myth. It is indeed for this reason that it s a matter of a “philosophy” of history and that Benjamin appeals in fact to a “new historical era” {ein neues geschtchtliches Zeitalter, a new historical epoch,” p. 300) that should follow the end of the mythic reign, the interruption of the magic circle of the mythic forms of droit, the abolition of the Staatsgewalt, of the violence or authority of the state. This new historical era would be a new political era on the con dition that politics not be tied to state control, as Schmitt for example would have it.
2. If all decidability is concentrated on the side of divine violence in the Judaic tradition, this would come to confirm and give meaning to the spectacle offered by the history of droit which deconstructs itself and is paralyzed in undecidability, since what Benjamin calls the “dia
Jacques Derrida / 55
lectic of up and down” {ein dialektisches Auf und Ab, “dialectical rising and falling”) in the founding or conserving violence of droit constitutes an oscillation in which the violence that conserves must constantly give itself up to the repression of hostile counter-violences {Unterdriickung der feindlichen Gegengewalten). But this repres sion—and droit, the juridical institution, is essentially repressive from this point of view—never ceases to weaken the founding violence that it represents. And so it destroys itself in the course of this cycle. For here Benjamin to some extent recognizes this law of iterability that insures that the founding violence is constantly represented in a con servative violence that always repeats the tradition of its origin and that ultimately keeps nothing but a foundation destined from the start t6 be repeated, conserved, reinstituted. Benjamin says that founding violence is “represented” {reprdsentiert) in conservative violence.
To think at this point that we have cast light and correctly inter preted the meaning, the vouloir-dire of Benjamin’s text, by opposing in a decidable way the decidability of divine, revolutionary, historical, anti-state, anti-juridical violence on one side and on the other the un decidability of the mythic violence of state droit, would still be to decide too quickly and not to understand the power of this text. For in its last lines a new act of the drama is played, or a coup de theatre jthat I couldn’t swear was not premeditated from the moment the cur tain went up. What does Benjamin in fact say? First he speaks in the ^conditional about revolutionary violence {revolutiondre Gewalt): “if,” beyond droit, violence sees its status insured as pure and immediate
Stiolence, then this will prove that revolutionary violence is possible. '-Then we would know, but this is a conditional clause, that it is this Evolutionary violence whose name is the purest manifestation of vio- fcnce among men. But why is this statement in the conditional? Is it iDnly provisional and contingent? Not at all. For the decision {Entsch- )^idung) on this subject, the determinant decision, the one that permits
■ns to know or to recognize such a pure and revolutionary violence as ^ch, is a decision not accessible to man. Here we must deal with a
l%hole other undecidability, and I prefer to cite Benjamin’s sentence in t^tenso: “But it is neither equally possible nor equally urgent for man fto decide when pure violence was effected in a determined case.” "J.Nicht gleich mdglich, noch auch gleich dringend ist aber fiir Men-
i schen die Entscheidung, wann reine Gewalt in einem bestimmten Falle fWirklich war, “Less possible and also less urgent for humankind, how-
to decide when unalloyed violence has been realized in partic- ^^^lar cases,” p. 300).
' This results from the fact that divine violence, which is the most Itist, the most historic, the most revolutionary, the most decidable or
56 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
the most deciding does not lend itself to any human determination, to any knowledge or decidable “certainty” on our part. It is never known in itself, “as such,” but only in its “effects” and its effects are “incom parable,” they do not lend themselves to any conceptual generaliza tion. There is no certainty {Gewiflheit) or determinant knowledge ex cept in the realm of mythic violence, that is, of droit, that is, of the undecidable we have been talking about. “For only mythical violence, not divine, will be recognizable as such with certainty, unless it be in incomparable effects . . .” (p. 300). To be schematic, there are two violences, two competing Gewalten: on one side, decision (just, his torical, political, and so on), justice beyond droit and the state, but without decidable knowledge; on the other, decidable knowledp and certainty in a realm that structurally remains that of the undecidable, of the mythic droit of the state. On one side the decision without de cidable certainty, on the other the certainty of the undecidable but without decision. In any case, in one form or another, the undecidable is on each side, and is the violent condition of knowledge or action. But knowledge and action are always dissociated.
Questions: What one calls in the singular, if there is one and only one, deconstruction, is it the former or the latter? Something else en tirely or something else again? If we trust the Benjaminian schema, is the deconstructive discourse on the undecidable more Jewish (or Judaeo-Christian-Islamic) or Greek? More religious, more mythic or more philosophical? If I do not answer questions that take this form, it is not only because I am not sure that such a thing as Deconstruc tion,” in the singular, exists or is possible. It is also because I think that'deconstructive discourses as they present themselves in their ir reducible plurality participate in an impure, contaminating, negoti ated, bastard and violent way in all these filiations lets call them Judaeo-Greek to save time—of decision and the undecidable. And then, the Jew and the Greek, that may not be exactly what Benjamin had in mind for us. And finally for what remains to come in decon struction, I think that something else runs through its veins,perhaps without filiation, an entirely different blood or rather something en tirely different from blood.
And so in saying adieu or au-revoir to Benjamin, I nevertheless leave him the last word. I let him sign, at least if he can. It is always neces sary that the other sign and it is always the other that signs last. In other words, first.
In his last lines, Benjamin, just before signing, even uses the word “bastard.” That in short is the definition of the myth, and so of the founding violence of droit. Mythic droit, we could say juridical fiction.
Jacques Derrida! 57
is a violence that will have “bastardized” {bastardierte) the “eternal forms of pure divine violence.” Myth has bastardized divine violence with droit [mit dem Recht). Misalliance, impure genealogy: not a mix ture of bloods but bastardy which at its root will have created a droit that makes blood flow and exacts blood as payment.
And then, as soon as he has taken responsibility for this interpre tation of the Greek and the Jew, Benjamin signs. He speaks in an eval uative, prescriptive, non-constative manner, as we do each time we sign. Two energetic sentences proclaim what must be the watchwords, what one must do, what one must reject, the evil or perversity of what must be rejected (Verwerflich). “But one must reject {Verwerflich aber) all mythical violence, the violence that founds droit, which we may call governing {schaltende) violence. One must also reject {Verwerflich
iauch) the violence that conserves droit, the governed violence {die ver- fwaltete Gewalt) in the service of the governing.” (The English trans- |lation is, as it often is, insipid: “But all mythical, lawmaking violence, "which we may call executive, is pernicious. Pernicious, too, is the law- tpreserving, administrative violence that serves it,” p. 300).
Then there are the last words, the last sentence. Like the shophar at night or on the brink of a prayer one no longer hears or does not yet
* hear. Not only does it sign, this ultimate address, and very close to the first name of Benjamin, Walter. It also names the signature, the sign ,and the seal, it names the name and what calls itself “die waltende.” iBut who signs? It is God, the Wholly Other, as always, it is the divine Violence that always will have preceded but also will have given all the |frst names: “Die gdttliche Gewalt, welche Insignium und Siegel, nie-
^'^mls Mittel heiliger Vollstreckung ist, mag die waltende heif^en”: “Di- le violence, which is the sign and seal but never the means of sacred
iecution, may be called sovereign violence {die waltende heissen).” Jacques Derrida
Post-scriptum This strange text is dated. Every signature is dated, even and per- ps all the more so if it slips in among several names of God and ly signs by pretending to let God himself sign. If this text is dated
signed (Walter, 1921), we have only a limited right to convoke it witness either to Nazism in general (which had not yet devel-
as such), or to the new forms assumed there by the racism and antisemitism that are inseparable from it, or even less to the final
ution: not only because the project and the deployment of the final ution came later and even after the death of Benjamin, but because
58 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
within the history itself of Nazism the final solution is something that some might consider an ineluctable outcome and inscribed in the very premises of Nazism, if such a thing has a proper identity that can sustain this sort of utterance, while others—whether or not they are Nazis or Germans—might think that the project of a final solution is an event, indeed something entirely new within the history of Nazism and that as such it deserves an absolutely specific analysis. For all of these reasons, we would not have the right or we would have only a limited right to ask ourselves what Walter Benjamin would have thought, in the logic of this text (if it has one and only one) of both Nazism and the final solution.
And yet in a certain way I will do just that, and I will do it by going beyond my interest for this text itself, for its event and its structure, for that which it allows us to read of a configuration of Jewish and German thinking right before the rise of Nazism, as one says, of all the shared portions and all the partitions that organize such a config uration, of the vertiginous proximities, the radical reversals of pro into con on the basis of sometimes common premises. Presuming, that is, that all these problems are really separable, which I doubt. In truth, I will not ask myself what Benjamin himself thought of Nazism and antisemitism, all the more so since we have other means of doing so, other texts by him. Nor will I ask what Walter Benjamin himself would have thought of the final solution and what judgments, what interpretations he would have proposed. I will seek something else, in a modest and preliminary way. However enigmatic and overdeter mined the logical matrix of this text might be, however mobile and convertible, however reversible it is, it has its own coherence. This coherence also marks a number of other texts by Benjamin, both ear lier and later ones. It is by taking account of certain insistent elements in this coherent continuity that I will try out several hypotheses in order to reconstitute not some possible utterances by Benjamin but the larger aspects of the problematic and interpretive space in which his discourse on the final solution might have been inscribed.
On the one hand, he would probably have taken the final solution to be the extreme consequence of a logic of Nazism that, to take up again the concepts from our text, would have corresponded to:
1. The radicalization of evil linked to the fall into the language of communication, representation, information (and from this point of view, Nazism has indeed been the most pervasive figure of media vio lence and of political exploitation of the modern techniques of com municative language, of industrial language and of the language of industry, of scientific objectification to which is linked the logic of the conventional sign and of formalizing registration);
Jacques Derrida / 59
2. The totalitarian radicalization of a logic of the state (and our text is indeed a condemnation of the state, even of the revolution that re places a state by another state, which is also valid for other totalitar ianisms—and already we see prefigured the question of the Histori- kerstreit);
3. The radical but also fatal corruption of parliamentary and rep resentative democracy through a modern police that is inseparable from it, that becomes the true legislative power and whose phantom commands the totality of the political space. From this point of view, the final solution is both a historico-political decision by the state and a decision by the police, the civil and the military police, without any one ever being able to discern the one from the other and to assign the true responsibilities to any one decision whatsoever.
4. A radicalization and total extension of the mythical, of mythical violence, both in its sacrificial founding moment and its most conserv ative moment. And this mythological dimension, that is at once Greek and aestheticizing (like fascism, Nazism is mythological, Grecoid, and if it corresponds to an aestheticization of the political, it is in an aes thetics of representation), this mythological dimension also responds to a certain violence of state law, of its police and its technics, of right totally dissociated from justice, as the conceptual generality propi tious to the mass structure in opposition to the consideration of sin gularity and uniqueness. How can one otherwise explain the institu tional, even bureaucratic form, the simulacra of legalization, of juridicism, the respect for expertise and for hierarchies, in short, the whole judicial and state organization that marked the techno industrial and scientific deployment of the “final solution”? Here a certain mythology of right was unleashed against a justice which Ben jamin believed ought to be kept radically distinct from right, from natural as well as historic right, from the violence of its foundation as well as from that of its conservation. And Nazism was a conservative revolution of right.
But, on the other hand and for these very reasons, because Nazism leads logically to the final solution as to its own limit and because the mythological violence of right is its veritable system, one can only think, that is, also remember the uniqueness of the final solution from a place other than this space of the mythological violence of right. To take the measure of this event and of what links it to destiny, one would have to leave the order of right, of myth, of representation (of juridico-political representation with its tribunals of historian-judges, but also of aesthetic representation). Because what Nazism, as the fi nal achievement of the logic of mythological violence, would have at tempted to do is to exclude the other witness, to destroy the witness
60 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
of the other order, of a divine violence whose justice is irreducible to right, of a violence heterogeneous to the order both of right (be it that of human rights or of the order of representation) and of myth. In other words, one cannot think the uniqueness of an event like the final solution, as extreme point of mythic and representational violence, within its own system. One must try to think it beginning with its other, that is to say, starting from what it tried to exclude and to destroy, to exterminate radically, from that which haunted it at once from without and within. One must try to think it starting from the possibility of singularity, the singularity of the signature and of the name, because what the order of representation tried to exterminate was not only human lives by the millions, natural lives, but also a demand for justice; and also names: and first of all the possibility of giving, inscribing, calling and recalling the name. Not only because there was a destruction or project of destruction of the name and of the very memory of the name, of the name as memory, but also be cause the system of mythical violence (objectivist, representational, communicational, etc.) went all the way to its limit, in a demonic fashion, on the two sides of the limit: at the same time, it kept the archive of its destruction, produced simulacra of justificatory argu ments, with a terrifying legal, bureaucratic, statist objectivity and par adoxically produced a system in which its logic, the logic of objectiv ity made possible the invalidation and therefore the effacement of testimony and of responsibilities, the neutralization of the singularity of the final solution; in short, it produced the possibility of the histo riographic perversion that has been able to give rise both to the logic of revisionism (to be brief, let us say of the Faurisson type) as well as a positivist, comparatist, or relativist objectivism (like the one now linked to the Historikerstreit) according to which the existence of an analogous totalitarian model and of earlier exterminations (the Gu lag) explains the final solution, even “normalizes” it as an act of war, a classic state response in time of war against the Jews of the world, who, speaking through the mouth of Weizman in September, 1939, would have, in sum, like a quasi-state, declared war on the Third Reich.
From this point of view, Benjamin would perhaps have judged vain and without pertinence—in any case without a pertinence commen surable to the event, any juridical trial of Nazism and of its responsi bilities, any judgmental apparatus, any historiography still homoge neous with the space in which Nazism developed up to and including the final solution, any interpretation drawing on philosophical, moral, sociological, psychological or psychoanalytical concepts, and espe cially juridical concepts (in particular those of the philosophy of right.
Jacques Derrida / 61
whether it be that of natural law, in the Aristotelian style or the style of the Aufkldrung). Benjamin would perhaps have judged vain and without pertinence, in any case without pertinence commensurable to the event, any historical or aesthetic objectification of the final solu tion that, like all objectifications, would still belong to the order of the representable and even of the determinable, of the determinant and decidable judgment. Recall what we were saying a moment ago: in the order of the bad violence of right, that is the mythological order, evil arose from a certain undecidability, from the fact that one could not distinguish between founding violence and conserving violence, because corruption was dialectical and dialectically inevitable there, even as theoretical judgment and representation were determinable or determinant there. On the contrary, as soon as one leaves this order, history begins—and the violence of divine justice—but here we hu mans cannot measure judgments, which is to say also decidable inter pretations. This also means that the interpretation of the final solu tion, as of everything that constitutes the set and the delimitation of the two orders (the mythological and the divine) is not in the measure of man. No anthropology, no humanism, no discourse of man on man, even on human rights, can be proportionate to either the rupture between the mythical and the divine, or to a limit experience such as the final solution. Such a project attempts quite simply to annihilate the other of mythic violence, the other of representation: destiny, di vine justice and that which can bear witness to it, in other words man insofar as he is the only being who, not having received his name from God, has received from God the power and the mission to name, to give a name to his own kind and to give a name to things. To name is not to represent, it is not to communicate by signs, that is, by means of means in view of an end, etc. In other words, the line of this inter pretation would belong to that terrible and crushing condemnation of
I the Aufkldrung that Benjamin had already formulated in a text of '>1918 published by Scholem in 1963 honoring Adorno on his 60th birthday.
This does not mean that one must simply renounce Enlightenment and the language of communication or of representation in favor of the language of expression. In his Moscow Diary in 1926-27, Benja min specifies that the polarity between the two languages and all that they command cannot be maintained and deployed in a pure state, but that “compromise” is necessary or inevitable between them. Yet this remains a compromise between two incommensurable and radi cally heterogeneous dimensions. It is perhaps one of the lessons that We could draw here: the fatal nature of the compromise between het erogeneous orders, which is a compromise, moreover, in the name of
62 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
the justice that would command one to obey at the same time the law of representations [Aufkldrung, reason, objectification, comparison, explication, the taking into account of multiplicity and therefore the serialization of the unique) and the law that transcends representation and withholds the unique, all uniqueness, from its reinscription in an order of generality or of comparison.
What I find, in conclusion, the most redoubtable, indeed (perhaps, almost) intolerable in this text, even beyond the affinities it maintains with the worst (the critique of Aufkldrung, the theory of the fall and of originary authenticity, the polarity between originary lanpage and fallen language, the critique of representation and of parliamentary democracy, etc.), is a temptation that it would leave open, and leave open notably to the survivors or the victims of the final solution, to its past, present or potential victims. Which temptation? The tempta tion to think the holocaust as an uninterpretable manifestation of di vine violence insofar as this divine violence would be at the same time nihilating, expiatory and bloodless, says Benjamin, a divine violence that would destroy current law through a bloodless process that strikes and causes to expiate. Here I will re-cite Benjamin: ‘ The le^ end of Niobe may be confronted, as an example of this violence, with God’s judgment on the company of Korah (Numbers 16: strikes privileged Levites, strikes them without warning, without threat, and does not stop short of annihilation. But in annihilating it also expiates, and a deep connection between the lack of bloodshed and the expiatory character of this violence is unmistakable (p. When one thinks of the gas chambers and the cremation ovens, this allusion to an extermination that woulcTbe expiatory because blood less must cause one to shudder. One is terrified at the idea of an inter pretation that would make of the holocaust an expiation and an in decipherable signature of the just and violent anger of God.
It is at that point that this text, despite all its polysemic mobility and all its resources for reversal, seems to me finally to resemble too closely, to the point of specular fascination and vertigo, the very thmg against which one must act and think, do and speak, that with whic one must break (perhaps, perhaps). This text, like many others by Benjamin, is still too Heideggerian, too messianico-marxist or archeo- eschatological for me. I do not know whether from this nameless thmg called the final solution one can draw something which still deserves the name of a lesson. But if there were a lesson to be drawn, a unique lesson among the always singular lessons of murder, from even a single murder, from all the collective exterminations of history (be cause each individual murder and each collective murder is singular, thus infinite and incommensurable) the lesson that we can draw to-
i i-
i
Jacques Derrida / 63
day—and if we can do so then we must—is that we must think, know, represent for ourselves, formalize, judge the possible complicity be tween all these discourses and the worst (here the final solution). In my view, this defines a task and a responsibility the theme of which (yes, the theme) I have not been able to read in either Benjaminian “destruction” or Heideggerian “Destruktion” It is the thought of dif ference between these destructions on the one hand and a deconstruc- tive affirmation on the other that has guided me tonight in this read ing. It is this thought that the memory of the final solution seems to me to dictate.
NOTES
On the oblique, cf. my Du droit d la philosophie (Paris: Galilee, 1990), esp. pp. 71ff, and “Passions: An Oblique Offering,” Derrida: A Critical Reader, David Wood, ed. (London: Blackwell, 1992). On this notion of credit, see my Given Time I: Counterfeit Money, trans. Peggy Kamuf, forthcoming University of Chicago Press.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987. On animality, cf. my Of Spirit: Heidegger and the Question, trans. Geoffrey Ben nington arid Rachel Bowlby (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989). Other references are collected in this volume. As for sacrifice, see the interview with Jean- Luc Nancy, trans. Peter T. Connor, in Topoi, vol. 7, no. 2. And as for what consists, as St. Augustine would have said, in “making the truth,” see my Circonfession, in Geoffrey Bennington and Jacques Derrida, Jacques Der rida (Paris: Le Seuil, 1991). Editors’ note: The following comprises the introduction to this second part of the essay when it served as a lecture delivered at the UCLA colloquium, “Nazism and the ‘Final Solution’”:
Rightly or wrongly, I thought that it would perhaps not be entirely inappro priate to interrogate a text by Walter Benjamin, singularly an essay written in 1921 and entitled Zur Kritik der Gewalt {Critique of Violence), at the opening of such a meeting on Nazism, the final solution, and the limits of representation, especially since my lecture is also presented (and I am greatly honored by this double hospitality) under the auspices of a center for Critical Studies and the Human Sciences. If I have therefore chosen to present a somewhat risky reading of this text by Benjamin, it is for several reasons that seem to converge here.
1.1 believe this uneasy, enigmatic, terribly equivocal text is, as it were, haunted in advance (but can one say “in advance” here?) by the theme of radical destruc tion, extermination, total annihilation, beginning with the annihilation of the law and of right, if not of justice, and, among those rights, human rights, at least such as these are interpreted within a tradition of natural law of the Greek type or the “Aufkldrung" type. I purposely say that this text is haunted by the themes of exterminating violence because first of all, as I will try to demonstrate, it is haunted by haunting itself, by a quasi-logic of the phantom which, because it is the more forceful one, should be substituted for an ontological logic of presence.
/ The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
absence or representation. Now, I ask myself whether a community that assembles or gathers itself together in order to think what there is to be thought and gathered of this nameless thing that has been called the “final solution” does not have to show, first of all, its readiness to welcome the law of the phantom, the spectral experience and the memory of the phantom, of that which is neither dead nor living, more than dead and more than living, only surviving, the.law of the most commanding memory, even though it is the most effaced and the most effaceable, but for that very reason the most demanding.
This text by Benjamin is not only signed by a thinker who is considered and considered himself to be, in a certain fashion, Jewish (and I most especially would like to talk about the enigma of this signature). Zur Kritik der Gewalt is also inscribed in a Judaic perspective that opposes just, divine (Jewish) violence that would destroy the law to mythical violence (of the Greek tradition) that would install and conserve the law.
2. The profound logic of this essay puts to work an interpretation of lan guage—of the origin and the experience of language—according to which evil, that is to say lethal power, comes to language by way of, precisely, representation, in other words, by that dimension of language as means of communication that is re-presentative, mediating, thus technical, utilitarian, semiotic, informational—all of those powers that uproot language and cause it to decline, to fall far from or outside of its originary destination which was appellation, nomination, the giving or the appeal or presence in the name. We will ask ourselves how this thinking about the name is articulated with haunting and the logic of the specter. This essay by Benjamin, which treats thus of evil, of that evil that is coming and that comes to language through representation, is also an essay in which the concepts of responsibility and of culpability, of sacrifice, decision, solution, punishment or expiation play a major role, one which is most often associated with the value of what is demonic and “demonically ambiguous” [ddmonisch zweideutig).
3. Zur Kritik der Gewalt is a critique of representation not only as perversion and fall of language, but as a political system of formal and parliamentary de mocracy. From that point of view, this revolutionary essay (revolutionary in a style that is at once Marxist and messianic) belongs, in 1921, to the great anti parliamentary and anti-“Aufkldrung” wave on which Nazism so to speak sur faced and even surfed in the 1920s and the beginning of the 1930s.
4. This very polyhedric and polysemic question of representation is posed as well from another point of view in this strange essay. Having begun by distin guishing between two sorts of violence, founding violence and conserving vio lence, Benjamin must concede at one moment that the one cannot be so radically heterogeneous to the other since the violence called founding violence is some times represented (reprdsentiert) by the conserving violence.
For all of these reasons and according to all of these interlaced threads to which I am going to return, one can ask oneself a certain number of questions. They will be on the horizon of my reading even if I do not have the time here or the means to make them explicit. What would Benjamin have thought, or at least what thought of Benjamin is potentially formed or articulated in this essay—and can it be anticipated—on, the “final solution,” its project, its mise en oeuvre, the expe rience of its victims, the judgments, trials, interpretations, narrative, explicating, literary, historical representations which have attempted to measure up to it? How would Benjamin have spoken, how would he have wished one to speak, to repre sent, or to forbid oneself from representing the “final solution”? How might he
Jacques Derrida / 65
have attempted to identify it, to assign places in it, origins to it, responsibilities for it (as a philosopher, a historian, judge or jurist, as moralist, man of faith, poet, filmmaker). The very singular multiplicity of the codes that converge in this text, to say nothing of other texts; the graft of the language of marxist revolution on that of messianic revolution, both of them announcing not only a new historical epoch, but also the beginning of a true history that has been rid of myth; all of this makes it difficult to propose any hypotheses about a Benjaminian discourse on the “final solution” or about a Benjaminian discourse on the possibility or impossibility of a discourse on the “final solution.” A “final solution” of which it would be reckless to say, relying on the objective dates of the Wannsee conference in 1942 and Benjamin’s suicide on the Franco-Spanish border in 1940, that Ben jamin knew nothing about it. One will always find ways to support the hypothesis according to which Benjamin, already in 1921, was thinking about nothing else than the possibility of this final solution that would be all the more challenging to the order of representation from having perhaps arisen, in his view, from radical evil, from the fall as fall of language into representation. And if one relies on a constant logic of his discourse, many signs allow one to think that for Benjamin, after this unrepresentable thing that will have been the “final solution,” not only are discourse and literature and poetry not impossible but, more originarily and more eschatologically than ever, they must offer themselves to the dictation of the return or the still promised advent of a language of names, a language or a poetics of appellation, in opposition to a language of signs, of informative or communi cative representation: beyond myth and representation but not beyond the lan guage of names. Something I tried to show elsewhere about Celan on the subject of dates and acts. At the end, after the end of a reading in the course of which the horizon of Nazism and the final solution will appear only through signs or brief flashes of expectation and will be treated only in a virtual, oblique or elliptical fashion, 1 will propose a few hypotheses on the ways in which this text from 1921 can today be read, after the event of Nazism and the event of the final solution.
Before proposing a reading of this singular text, before articulating some ques tions that concern it more strictly, I must also say a few words, in this already too lengthy introduction, about the contexts in which I began to read the essay. That context was double and I will define it as schematically as possible, while limiting myself to the aspects that may interest us here, this evening, because they will have left some traces on my reading.
1. First of all, within a three-year seminar on “philosophical nationalities and nationalisms,” there was a year-long sequence subtitled Kant, the Jew, the German in which, while studying the varied but insistent recurrence of the reference to Kant, indeed to a certain Judaism in Kant, on the part of all those who, from Wagner and Nietzsche to Adorno, sought to respond to the question “Was ist Deutsch}”, I became very interested in what I then called the Judeo-German psyche, that is, the logic of certain phenomena of a disturbing sort of specularity {Psyche also meaning in French a sort of mirror) that was itself reflected in some of the great German Jewish thinkers and writers of this century: Cohen, Buber, Rosenzweig, Scholem, Adorno, Arendt—and, precisely, Benjamin. I believe that a serious reflection on Nazism—and the “final solution”—cannot avoid a coura geous, interminable and polyhedral analysis of the history and structure of this Judeo-German “psyche.” Among other things that I cannot go into here, we stud ied certain analogies, which were sometimes of the most equivocal and disquieting sort, between the discourse of certain “great German” thinkers and certain “great
66 / The “Mystical Foundation of Authority
German Jewish” thinkers, a certain German patriotism, often a German nation alism, and sometimes even a German militarism (during and after the First World War) being not the only example, far from it, for instance in Cohen or Rosenzweig or, to some extent, in Husserl. It is in this context that certain limited but deter minable affinities between Benjamin’s text and some texts by Carl Schmitt, even by Heidegger, began to intrigue me. Not only because of the hostility to parlia mentary democracy, even to democracy as such, or to the Aufklurung, not only because of a certain interpretation of the polemos, of war, violence and language, but also because of a thematic of “destruction” that was very widespread at the time. Although Heideggerian Destruktion cannot be confused with the concept of destruction that was also at the center of Benjaminian thought, one may well ask oneself what such an obsessive thematic might signify and what it is preparing or anticipating between the two wars, all the more so in that, in every case, this destruction also sought to be the condition of an authentic tradition and memory, and of the reference to an originary language.
2. Other context: On the occasion of a recent colloquium held at the Cardozo Law School of Yeshiva University of New York on the topic “Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice,” I began, after a long consideration of “Deconstruction and Justice,” to examine this text by Benjamin from another point of view. I fol lowed there precisely, and as cautiously as possible, a dismaying trajectory, one that is at the same time aporetic and productive of strange events in its very aporia, a kind of self-destruction, if not a suicide of the text, that lets no other legacy appear than the violence of its signature—but as divine signature. How to read this text with a “deconstructive” gesture that is neither, today any more than it has ever been, Heideggerian nor Benjaminian? In brief, that is the difficult and obscure question that this reading would like to risk putting forth.
7. “Psyche: Invention of the Other,” trans. Catherine Porter, in Reading de Man Reading (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), p. 36.
8. Cf. “Declarations of Independence,” trans. Tom Keenan and Tom Pepper, New Political Science, no. 15, Summer, pp. 7-15.
9. Cf. “Before the Law,” trans. Avital Ronell, in Kafka and the Contemporary Criti cal Performance: Centenary Readings, ed. Alan Udoff. (Bloomington, Ind.: Indi ana University Press, 1987).
10. Cf. my “Rhetorique de la drogue,” in Autrement, no. 106. 11. Cf. my Memoires d’aveugle. Uautoportrait et autres ruines (Paris: Reunion des
Musees Nationaux, 1990). 12. Cf. Of Spirit, op. cit., and “Philopolemogy: Heidegger’s Ear (Geschlecht IV),”
forthcoming, Indiana University Press. 13. This “mythic” dimension of droit in general could no doubt be extended, accord
ing to Benjamin, to any theory of the “rights of man,” at least to the extent that the latter would not proceed from what in this text is called divine violence (gottliche Gewalt).
14. In putting this text of Benjamin to the test of a certain deconstructive necessity, at least such as it is here determined for me now, I am anticipating a more ample and coherent work: on the relations between this deconstruction, what Benjamin calls “destruction” {Zerstorung) and the Heideggerian “Destruktion” (which I have already touched upon and to which 1 will return elsewhere, notably in “Philopo- lemology: Heidegger’s Ear (Geschlecht IV).”
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15. This “play” between waken and Walter does not afford any demonstration or any certainty. That, furthermore, is the paradox of its “demonstrative” force: this force results from the dissociation between the cognitive and the performative of which I spoke a moment ago (and also elsewhere), precisely in regard to the sig nature. But, touching on the absolute secret, this “play” is in no way ludic and gratuitous. For we also know that Benjamin was very interested, notably in Goethe’s Elective Affinities, in the aleatory and significant coincidences of which proper names are properly the site. I would be tempted to give this hypothesis an even better chance after reading the very fine essay by Jochen Horisch “L’ange satanique et le bonheur—Les noms de Walter Benjamin” in Weimar: he toumant esthetique, G. Raulet, ed. (Paris, 1988).
Umberto Eco.Interpretation and Overinterpretation.pdf
Contra natura y otras profanaciones.pdf
district of columbia v heller 554 US ___ (2008).pdf
1 (Slip Opinion) OCTOBER TERM, 2007
Syllabus
NOTE: Where it is feasible, a syllabus (headnote) will be released, as is being done in connection with this case, at the time the opinion is issued. The syllabus constitutes no part of the opinion of the Court but has been prepared by the Reporter of Decisions for the convenience of the reader. See United States v. Detroit Timber & Lumber Co., 200 U. S. 321, 337.
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
Syllabus
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA ET AL. v. HELLER
CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT
No. 07–290. Argued March 18, 2008—Decided June 26, 2008
District of Columbia law bans handgun possession by making it a crime to carry an unregistered firearm and prohibiting the registration of handguns; provides separately that no person may carry an unli- censed handgun, but authorizes the police chief to issue 1-year li- censes; and requires residents to keep lawfully owned firearms unloaded and disassembled or bound by a trigger lock or similar de- vice. Respondent Heller, a D. C. special policeman, applied to regis- ter a handgun he wished to keep at home, but the District refused. He filed this suit seeking, on Second Amendment grounds, to enjoin the city from enforcing the bar on handgun registration, the licensing requirement insofar as it prohibits carrying an unlicensed firearm in the home, and the trigger-lock requirement insofar as it prohibits the use of functional firearms in the home. The District Court dismissed the suit, but the D. C. Circuit reversed, holding that the Second Amendment protects an individual’s right to possess firearms and that the city’s total ban on handguns, as well as its requirement that firearms in the home be kept nonfunctional even when necessary for self-defense, violated that right.
Held: 1. The Second Amendment protects an individual right to possess a
firearm unconnected with service in a militia, and to use that arm for traditionally lawful purposes, such as self-defense within the home. Pp. 2–53.
(a) The Amendment’s prefatory clause announces a purpose, but does not limit or expand the scope of the second part, the operative clause. The operative clause’s text and history demonstrate that it connotes an individual right to keep and bear arms. Pp. 2–22.
(b) The prefatory clause comports with the Court’s interpretation
2 DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA v. HELLER
Syllabus
of the operative clause. The “militia” comprised all males physically capable of acting in concert for the common defense. The Antifederal- ists feared that the Federal Government would disarm the people in order to disable this citizens’ militia, enabling a politicized standing army or a select militia to rule. The response was to deny Congress power to abridge the ancient right of individuals to keep and bear arms, so that the ideal of a citizens’ militia would be preserved. Pp. 22–28.
(c) The Court’s interpretation is confirmed by analogous arms- bearing rights in state constitutions that preceded and immediately followed the Second Amendment. Pp. 28–30.
(d) The Second Amendment’s drafting history, while of dubious interpretive worth, reveals three state Second Amendment proposals that unequivocally referred to an individual right to bear arms. Pp. 30–32.
(e) Interpretation of the Second Amendment by scholars, courts and legislators, from immediately after its ratification through the late 19th century also supports the Court’s conclusion. Pp. 32–47.
(f) None of the Court’s precedents forecloses the Court’s interpre- tation. Neither United States v. Cruikshank, 92 U. S. 542, 553, nor Presser v. Illinois, 116 U. S. 252, 264–265, refutes the individual- rights interpretation. United States v. Miller, 307 U. S. 174, does not limit the right to keep and bear arms to militia purposes, but rather limits the type of weapon to which the right applies to those used by the militia, i.e., those in common use for lawful purposes. Pp. 47–54.
2. Like most rights, the Second Amendment right is not unlimited. It is not a right to keep and carry any weapon whatsoever in any manner whatsoever and for whatever purpose: For example, con- cealed weapons prohibitions have been upheld under the Amendment or state analogues. The Court’s opinion should not be taken to cast doubt on longstanding prohibitions on the possession of firearms by felons and the mentally ill, or laws forbidding the carrying of fire- arms in sensitive places such as schools and government buildings, or laws imposing conditions and qualifications on the commercial sale of arms. Miller’s holding that the sorts of weapons protected are those “in common use at the time” finds support in the historical tradition of prohibiting the carrying of dangerous and unusual weapons. Pp. 54–56.
3. The handgun ban and the trigger-lock requirement (as applied to self-defense) violate the Second Amendment. The District’s total ban on handgun possession in the home amounts to a prohibition on an entire class of “arms” that Americans overwhelmingly choose for the lawful purpose of self-defense. Under any of the standards of scru- tiny the Court has applied to enumerated constitutional rights, this
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prohibition—in the place where the importance of the lawful defense of self, family, and property is most acute—would fail constitutional muster. Similarly, the requirement that any lawful firearm in the home be disassembled or bound by a trigger lock makes it impossible for citizens to use arms for the core lawful purpose of self-defense and is hence unconstitutional. Because Heller conceded at oral argument that the D. C. licensing law is permissible if it is not enforced arbi- trarily and capriciously, the Court assumes that a license will satisfy his prayer for relief and does not address the licensing requirement. Assuming he is not disqualified from exercising Second Amendment rights, the District must permit Heller to register his handgun and must issue him a license to carry it in the home. Pp. 56–64.
478 F. 3d 370, affirmed.
SCALIA, J., delivered the opinion of the Court, in which ROBERTS, C. J., and KENNEDY, THOMAS, and ALITO, JJ., joined. STEVENS, J., filed a dissenting opinion, in which SOUTER, GINSBURG, and BREYER, JJ., joined. BREYER, J., filed a dissenting opinion, in which STEVENS, SOUTER, and GINSBURG, JJ., joined.
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NOTICE: This opinion is subject to formal revision before publication in the preliminary print of the United States Reports. Readers are requested to notify the Reporter of Decisions, Supreme Court of the United States, Wash ington, D. C. 20543, of any typographical or other formal errors, in order that corrections may be made before the preliminary print goes to press.
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
No. 07–290
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, ET AL., PETITIONERS v. DICK ANTHONY HELLER
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT
[June 26, 2008]
JUSTICE SCALIA delivered the opinion of the Court. We consider whether a District of Columbia prohibition
on the possession of usable handguns in the home violates the Second Amendment to the Constitution.
I The District of Columbia generally prohibits the posses
sion of handguns. It is a crime to carry an unregistered firearm, and the registration of handguns is prohibited. See D. C. Code §§7–2501.01(12), 7–2502.01(a), 7– 2502.02(a)(4) (2001). Wholly apart from that prohibition, no person may carry a handgun without a license, but the chief of police may issue licenses for 1-year periods. See §§22–4504(a), 22–4506. District of Columbia law also requires residents to keep their lawfully owned firearms, such as registered long guns, “unloaded and disassembled or bound by a trigger lock or similar device” unless they are located in a place of business or are being used for lawful recreational activities. See §7–2507.02.1
—————— 1 There are minor exceptions to all of these prohibitions, none of
which is relevant here.
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Respondent Dick Heller is a D. C. special police officer authorized to carry a handgun while on duty at the Fed eral Judicial Center. He applied for a registration certifi cate for a handgun that he wished to keep at home, but the District refused. He thereafter filed a lawsuit in the Federal District Court for the District of Columbia seek ing, on Second Amendment grounds, to enjoin the city from enforcing the bar on the registration of handguns, the licensing requirement insofar as it prohibits the carry ing of a firearm in the home without a license, and the trigger-lock requirement insofar as it prohibits the use of “functional firearms within the home.” App. 59a. The District Court dismissed respondent’s complaint, see Parker v. District of Columbia, 311 F. Supp. 2d 103, 109 (2004). The Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, construing his complaint as seeking the right to render a firearm operable and carry it about his home in that condition only when necessary for self-defense,2 re versed, see Parker v. District of Columbia, 478 F. 3d 370, 401 (2007). It held that the Second Amendment protects an individual right to possess firearms and that the city’s total ban on handguns, as well as its requirement that firearms in the home be kept nonfunctional even when necessary for self-defense, violated that right. See id., at 395, 399–401. The Court of Appeals directed the District Court to enter summary judgment for respondent.
We granted certiorari. 552 U. S. ___ (2007). II
We turn first to the meaning of the Second Amendment. A
The Second Amendment provides: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be ——————
2 That construction has not been challenged here.
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infringed.” In interpreting this text, we are guided by the principle that “[t]he Constitution was written to be under stood by the voters; its words and phrases were used in their normal and ordinary as distinguished from technical meaning.” United States v. Sprague, 282 U. S. 716, 731 (1931); see also Gibbons v. Ogden, 9 Wheat. 1, 188 (1824). Normal meaning may of course include an idiomatic meaning, but it excludes secret or technical meanings that would not have been known to ordinary citizens in the founding generation.
The two sides in this case have set out very different interpretations of the Amendment. Petitioners and to day’s dissenting Justices believe that it protects only the right to possess and carry a firearm in connection with militia service. See Brief for Petitioners 11–12; post, at 1 (STEVENS, J., dissenting). Respondent argues that it protects an individual right to possess a firearm uncon nected with service in a militia, and to use that arm for traditionally lawful purposes, such as self-defense within the home. See Brief for Respondent 2–4.
The Second Amendment is naturally divided into two parts: its prefatory clause and its operative clause. The former does not limit the latter grammatically, but rather announces a purpose. The Amendment could be re phrased, “Because a well regulated Militia is necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.” See J. Tiffany, A Treatise on Government and Constitutional Law §585, p. 394 (1867); Brief for Professors of Linguistics and Eng lish as Amici Curiae 3 (hereinafter Linguists’ Brief). Although this structure of the Second Amendment is unique in our Constitution, other legal documents of the founding era, particularly individual-rights provisions of state constitutions, commonly included a prefatory state ment of purpose. See generally Volokh, The Commonplace Second Amendment, 73 N. Y. U. L. Rev. 793, 814–821
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(1998). Logic demands that there be a link between the stated
purpose and the command. The Second Amendment would be nonsensical if it read, “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to petition for redress of grievances shall not be infringed.” That requirement of logical connection may cause a prefatory clause to resolve an ambiguity in the operative clause (“The separation of church and state being an important objective, the teachings of canons shall have no place in our jurisprudence.” The preface makes clear that the operative clause refers not to canons of interpretation but to clergymen.) But apart from that clarifying function, a prefatory clause does not limit or expand the scope of the operative clause. See F. Dwarris, A General Treatise on Statutes 268–269 (P. Potter ed. 1871) (hereinafter Dwarris); T. Sedgwick, The Interpreta tion and Construction of Statutory and Constitutional Law 42–45 (2d ed. 1874).3 “ ‘It is nothing unusual in acts . . . for the enacting part to go beyond the preamble; the remedy often extends beyond the particular act or mischief which first suggested the necessity of the law.’ ” J. Bishop, ——————
3 As Sutherland explains, the key 18th-century English case on the effect of preambles, Copeman v. Gallant, 1 P. Wms. 314, 24 Eng. Rep. 404 (1716), stated that “the preamble could not be used to restrict the effect of the words of the purview.” J. Sutherland, Statutes and Statu tory Construction, 47.04 (N. Singer ed. 5th ed. 1992). This rule was modified in England in an 1826 case to give more importance to the preamble, but in America “the settled principle of law is that the preamble cannot control the enacting part of the statute in cases where the enacting part is expressed in clear, unambiguous terms.” Ibid.
JUSTICE STEVENS says that we violate the general rule that every clause in a statute must have effect. Post, at 8. But where the text of a clause itself indicates that it does not have operative effect, such as “whereas” clauses in federal legislation or the Constitution’s preamble, a court has no license to make it do what it was not designed to do. Or to put the point differently, operative provisions should be given effect as operative provisions, and prologues as prologues.
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Commentaries on Written Laws and Their Interpretation §51, p. 49 (1882) (quoting Rex v. Marks, 3 East, 157, 165 (K. B. 1802)). Therefore, while we will begin our textual analysis with the operative clause, we will return to the prefatory clause to ensure that our reading of the opera tive clause is consistent with the announced purpose.4
1. Operative Clause. a. “Right of the People.” The first salient feature of
the operative clause is that it codifies a “right of the peo ple.” The unamended Constitution and the Bill of Rights use the phrase “right of the people” two other times, in the First Amendment’s Assembly-and-Petition Clause and in the Fourth Amendment’s Search-and-Seizure Clause. The Ninth Amendment uses very similar terminology (“The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people”). All three of these instances unambiguously refer to individual rights, not “collective” rights, or rights that may be exercised only through participation in some corporate body.5
—————— 4 JUSTICE STEVENS criticizes us for discussing the prologue last. Post,
at 8. But if a prologue can be used only to clarify an ambiguous opera tive provision, surely the first step must be to determine whether the operative provision is ambiguous. It might be argued, we suppose, that the prologue itself should be one of the factors that go into the determi nation of whether the operative provision is ambiguous—but that would cause the prologue to be used to produce ambiguity rather than just to resolve it. In any event, even if we considered the prologue along with the operative provision we would reach the same result we do today, since (as we explain) our interpretation of “the right of the people to keep and bear arms” furthers the purpose of an effective militia no less than (indeed, more than) the dissent’s interpretation. See infra, at 26–27.
5 JUSTICE STEVENS is of course correct, post, at 10, that the right to assemble cannot be exercised alone, but it is still an individual right, and not one conditioned upon membership in some defined “assembly,” as he contends the right to bear arms is conditioned upon membership
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Three provisions of the Constitution refer to “the people” in a context other than “rights”—the famous preamble (“We the people”), §2 of Article I (providing that “the peo ple” will choose members of the House), and the Tenth Amendment (providing that those powers not given the Federal Government remain with “the States” or “the people”). Those provisions arguably refer to “the people” acting collectively—but they deal with the exercise or reservation of powers, not rights. Nowhere else in the Constitution does a “right” attributed to “the people” refer to anything other than an individual right.6
What is more, in all six other provisions of the Constitu tion that mention “the people,” the term unambiguously refers to all members of the political community, not an unspecified subset. As we said in United States v. Ver- dugo-Urquidez, 494 U. S. 259, 265 (1990):
“ ‘[T]he people’ seems to have been a term of art em ployed in select parts of the Constitution. . . . [Its uses] sugges[t] that ‘the people’ protected by the
—————— in a defined militia. And JUSTICE STEVENS is dead wrong to think that the right to petition is “primarily collective in nature.” Ibid. See McDonald v. Smith, 472 U. S. 479, 482–484 (1985) (describing histori cal origins of right to petition).
6 If we look to other founding-era documents, we find that some state constitutions used the term “the people” to refer to the people collec tively, in contrast to “citizen,” which was used to invoke individual rights. See Heyman, Natural Rights and the Second Amendment, in The Second Amendment in Law and History 179, 193–195 (C. Bogus ed. 2000) (hereinafter Bogus). But that usage was not remotely uni form. See, e.g., N. C. Declaration of Rights §XIV (1776), in 5 The Federal and State Constitutions, Colonial Charters, and Other Organic Laws 2787, 2788 (F. Thorpe ed. 1909) (hereinafter Thorpe) (jury trial); Md. Declaration of Rights §XVIII (1776), in 3 id., at 1686, 1688 (vici nage requirement); Vt. Declaration of Rights ch. 1, §XI (1777), in 6 id., at 3737, 3741 (searches and seizures); Pa. Declaration of Rights §XII (1776), in 5 id., at 3081, 3083 (free speech). And, most importantly, it was clearly not the terminology used in the Federal Constitution, given the First, Fourth, and Ninth Amendments.
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Fourth Amendment, and by the First and Second Amendments, and to whom rights and powers are re served in the Ninth and Tenth Amendments, refers to a class of persons who are part of a national commu nity or who have otherwise developed sufficient con nection with this country to be considered part of that community.”
This contrasts markedly with the phrase “the militia” in the prefatory clause. As we will describe below, the “mili tia” in colonial America consisted of a subset of “the peo ple”—those who were male, able bodied, and within a certain age range. Reading the Second Amendment as protecting only the right to “keep and bear Arms” in an organized militia therefore fits poorly with the operative clause’s description of the holder of that right as “the people.”
We start therefore with a strong presumption that the Second Amendment right is exercised individually and belongs to all Americans.
b. “Keep and bear Arms.” We move now from the holder of the right—“the people”—to the substance of the right: “to keep and bear Arms.”
Before addressing the verbs “keep” and “bear,” we inter pret their object: “Arms.” The 18th-century meaning is no different from the meaning today. The 1773 edition of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary defined “arms” as “weapons of offence, or armour of defence.” 1 Dictionary of the English Language 107 (4th ed.) (hereinafter Johnson). Timothy Cunningham’s important 1771 legal dictionary defined “arms” as “any thing that a man wears for his defence, or takes into his hands, or useth in wrath to cast at or strike another.” 1 A New and Complete Law Dic tionary (1771); see also N. Webster, American Dictionary of the English Language (1828) (reprinted 1989) (hereinaf ter Webster) (similar).
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The term was applied, then as now, to weapons that were not specifically designed for military use and were not employed in a military capacity. For instance, Cun ningham’s legal dictionary gave as an example of usage: “Servants and labourers shall use bows and arrows on Sundays, &c. and not bear other arms.” See also, e.g., An Act for the trial of Negroes, 1797 Del. Laws ch. XLIII, §6, p. 104, in 1 First Laws of the State of Delaware 102, 104 (J. Cushing ed. 1981 (pt. 1)); see generally State v. Duke, 42 Tex. 455, 458 (1874) (citing decisions of state courts construing “arms”). Although one founding-era thesaurus limited “arms” (as opposed to “weapons”) to “instruments of offence generally made use of in war,” even that source stated that all firearms constituted “arms.” 1 J. Trusler, The Distinction Between Words Esteemed Synonymous in the English Language 37 (1794) (emphasis added).
Some have made the argument, bordering on the frivo lous, that only those arms in existence in the 18th century are protected by the Second Amendment. We do not in terpret constitutional rights that way. Just as the First Amendment protects modern forms of communications, e.g., Reno v. American Civil Liberties Union, 521 U. S. 844, 849 (1997), and the Fourth Amendment applies to modern forms of search, e.g., Kyllo v. United States, 533 U. S. 27, 35–36 (2001), the Second Amendment extends, prima facie, to all instruments that constitute bearable arms, even those that were not in existence at the time of the founding.
We turn to the phrases “keep arms” and “bear arms.” Johnson defined “keep” as, most relevantly, “[t]o retain; not to lose,” and “[t]o have in custody.” Johnson 1095. Webster defined it as “[t]o hold; to retain in one’s power or possession.” No party has apprised us of an idiomatic meaning of “keep Arms.” Thus, the most natural reading of “keep Arms” in the Second Amendment is to “have weapons.”
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The phrase “keep arms” was not prevalent in the writ ten documents of the founding period that we have found, but there are a few examples, all of which favor viewing the right to “keep Arms” as an individual right uncon nected with militia service. William Blackstone, for ex ample, wrote that Catholics convicted of not attending service in the Church of England suffered certain penal ties, one of which was that they were not permitted to “keep arms in their houses.” 4 Commentaries on the Laws of England 55 (1769) (hereinafter Blackstone); see also 1 W. & M., c. 15, §4, in 3 Eng. Stat. at Large 422 (1689) (“[N]o Papist . . . shall or may have or keep in his House . . . any Arms . . . ”); 1 Hawkins, Treatise on the Pleas of the Crown 26 (1771) (similar). Petitioners point to militia laws of the founding period that required militia members to “keep” arms in connection with militia service, and they conclude from this that the phrase “keep Arms” has a militia-related connotation. See Brief for Petitioners 16– 17 (citing laws of Delaware, New Jersey, and Virginia). This is rather like saying that, since there are many stat utes that authorize aggrieved employees to “file com plaints” with federal agencies, the phrase “file complaints” has an employment-related connotation. “Keep arms” was simply a common way of referring to possessing arms, for militiamen and everyone else.7
—————— 7 See, e.g., 3 A Compleat Collection of State-Tryals 185 (1719) (“Hath
not every Subject power to keep Arms, as well as Servants in his House for defence of his Person?”); T. Wood, A New Institute of the Imperial or Civil Law 282 (1730) (“Those are guilty of publick Force, who keep Arms in their Houses, and make use of them otherwise than upon Journeys or Hunting, or for Sale . . .”); A Collection of All the Acts of Assembly, Now in Force, in the Colony of Virginia 596 (1733) (“Free Negros, Mulattos, or Indians, and Owners of Slaves, seated at Frontier Plantations, may obtain Licence from a Justice of Peace, for keeping Arms, &c.”); J. Ayliffe, A New Pandect of Roman Civil Law 195 (1734) (“Yet a Person might keep Arms in his House, or on his Estate, on the Account of Hunting, Navigation, Travelling, and on the Score of Selling
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At the time of the founding, as now, to “bear” meant to “carry.” See Johnson 161; Webster; T. Sheridan, A Com plete Dictionary of the English Language (1796); 2 Oxford English Dictionary 20 (2d ed. 1989) (hereinafter Oxford). When used with “arms,” however, the term has a meaning that refers to carrying for a particular purpose— confrontation. In Muscarello v. United States, 524 U. S. 125 (1998), in the course of analyzing the meaning of “carries a firearm” in a federal criminal statute, JUSTICE GINSBURG wrote that “[s]urely a most familiar meaning is, as the Constitution’s Second Amendment . . . indicate[s]: ‘wear, bear, or carry . . . upon the person or in the clothing or in a pocket, for the purpose . . . of being armed and ready for offensive or defensive action in a case of conflict with another person.’ ” Id., at 143 (dissenting opinion) —————— them in the way of Trade or Commerce, or such Arms as accrued to him by way of Inheritance”); J. Trusler, A Concise View of the Common Law and Statute Law of England 270 (1781) (“if [papists] keep arms in their houses, such arms may be seized by a justice of the peace”); Some Considerations on the Game Laws 54 (1796) (“Who has been deprived by [the law] of keeping arms for his own defence? What law forbids the veriest pauper, if he can raise a sum sufficient for the purchase of it, from mounting his Gun on his Chimney Piece . . . ?”); 3 B. Wilson, The Works of the Honourable James Wilson 84 (1804) (with reference to state constitutional right: “This is one of our many renewals of the Saxon regulations. ‘They were bound,’ says Mr. Selden, ‘to keep arms for the preservation of the kingdom, and of their own person’ ”); W. Duer, Outlines of the Constitutional Jurisprudence of the United States 31–32 (1833) (with reference to colonists’ English rights: “The right of every individual to keep arms for his defence, suitable to his condition and degree; which was the public allowance, under due restrictions of the natural right of resistance and self-preservation”); 3 R. Burn, Justice of the Peace and the Parish Officer 88 (1815) (“It is, however, laid down by Serjeant Hawkins, . . . that if a lessee, after the end of the term, keep arms in his house to oppose the entry of the lessor, . . .”); State v. Dempsey, 31 N. C. 384, 385 (1849) (citing 1840 state law making it a misdemeanor for a member of certain racial groups “to carry about his person or keep in his house any shot gun or other arms”).
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(quoting Black’s Law Dictionary 214 (6th ed. 1998)). We think that JUSTICE GINSBURG accurately captured the natural meaning of “bear arms.” Although the phrase implies that the carrying of the weapon is for the purpose of “offensive or defensive action,” it in no way connotes participation in a structured military organization.
From our review of founding-era sources, we conclude that this natural meaning was also the meaning that “bear arms” had in the 18th century. In numerous in stances, “bear arms” was unambiguously used to refer to the carrying of weapons outside of an organized militia. The most prominent examples are those most relevant to the Second Amendment: Nine state constitutional provi sions written in the 18th century or the first two decades of the 19th, which enshrined a right of citizens to “bear arms in defense of themselves and the state” or “bear arms in defense of himself and the state.” 8 It is clear from those formulations that “bear arms” did not refer only to carry ——————
8 See Pa. Declaration of Rights §XIII, in 5 Thorpe 3083 (“That the people have a right to bear arms for the defence of themselves and the state. . . ”); Vt. Declaration of Rights §XV, in 6 id., at 3741 (“That the people have a right to bear arms for the defence of themselves and the State. . .”); Ky. Const., Art. XII, cl. 23 (1792), in 3 id., at 1264, 1275 (“That the right of the citizens to bear arms in defence of themselves and the State shall not be questioned”); Ohio Const., Art. VIII, §20 (1802), in 5 id., at 2901, 2911 (“That the people have a right to bear arms for the defence of themselves and the State . . . ”); Ind. Const., Art. I, §20 (1816), in 2 id., at 1057, 1059 (“That the people have a right to bear arms for the defense of themselves and the State. . . ”); Miss. Const., Art. I, §23 (1817), in 4 id., at 2032, 2034 (“Every citizen has a right to bear arms, in defence of himself and the State”); Conn. Const., Art. I, §17 (1818), in 1 id., at 536, 538 (“Every citizen has a right to bear arms in defence of himself and the state”); Ala. Const., Art. I, §23 (1819), in 1 id., at 96, 98 (“Every citizen has a right to bear arms in defence of himself and the State”); Mo. Const., Art. XIII, §3 (1820), in 4 id., at 2150, 2163 (“[T]hat their right to bear arms in defence of them selves and of the State cannot be questioned”). See generally Volokh, State Constitutional Rights to Keep and Bear Arms, 11 Tex. Rev. L. & Politics 191 (2006).
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ing a weapon in an organized military unit. Justice James Wilson interpreted the Pennsylvania Constitution’s arms- bearing right, for example, as a recognition of the natural right of defense “of one’s person or house”—what he called the law of “self preservation.” 2 Collected Works of James Wilson 1142, and n. x (K. Hall & M. Hall eds. 2007) (citing Pa. Const., Art. IX, §21 (1790)); see also T. Walker, Intro duction to American Law 198 (1837) (“Thus the right of self-defence [is] guaranteed by the [Ohio] constitution”); see also id., at 157 (equating Second Amendment with that provision of the Ohio Constitution). That was also the interpretation of those state constitutional provisions adopted by pre-Civil War state courts.9 These provisions demonstrate—again, in the most analogous linguistic context—that “bear arms” was not limited to the carrying of arms in a militia.
The phrase “bear Arms” also had at the time of the founding an idiomatic meaning that was significantly different from its natural meaning: “to serve as a soldier, do military service, fight” or “to wage war.” See Linguists’ Brief 18; post, at 11 (STEVENS, J., dissenting). But it unequivocally bore that idiomatic meaning only when followed by the preposition “against,” which was in turn followed by the target of the hostilities. See 2 Oxford 21. (That is how, for example, our Declaration of Independ ence ¶28, used the phrase: “He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country . . . .”) Every example given by petitioners’ amici for the idiomatic meaning of “bear arms” ——————
9 See Bliss v. Commonwealth, 2 Litt. 90, 91–92 (Ky. 1822); State v. Reid, 1 Ala. 612, 616–617 (1840); State v. Schoultz, 25 Mo. 128, 155 (1857); see also Simpson v. State, 5 Yer. 356, 360 (Tenn. 1833) (inter preting similar provision with “common defence” purpose); State v. Huntly, 25 N. C. 418, 422–423 (1843) (same); cf. Nunn v. State, 1 Ga. 243, 250–251 (1846) (construing Second Amendment); State v. Chan- dler, 5 La. Ann. 489, 489–490 (1850) (same).
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from the founding period either includes the preposition “against” or is not clearly idiomatic. See Linguists’ Brief 18–23. Without the preposition, “bear arms” normally meant (as it continues to mean today) what JUSTICE GINSBURG’s opinion in Muscarello said.
In any event, the meaning of “bear arms” that petition ers and JUSTICE STEVENS propose is not even the (some times) idiomatic meaning. Rather, they manufacture a hybrid definition, whereby “bear arms” connotes the actual carrying of arms (and therefore is not really an idiom) but only in the service of an organized militia. No dictionary has ever adopted that definition, and we have been apprised of no source that indicates that it carried that meaning at the time of the founding. But it is easy to see why petitioners and the dissent are driven to the hybrid definition. Giving “bear Arms” its idiomatic mean ing would cause the protected right to consist of the right to be a soldier or to wage war—an absurdity that no commentator has ever endorsed. See L. Levy, Origins of the Bill of Rights 135 (1999). Worse still, the phrase “keep and bear Arms” would be incoherent. The word “Arms” would have two different meanings at once: “weapons” (as the object of “keep”) and (as the object of “bear”) one-half of an idiom. It would be rather like say ing “He filled and kicked the bucket” to mean “He filled the bucket and died.” Grotesque.
Petitioners justify their limitation of “bear arms” to the military context by pointing out the unremarkable fact that it was often used in that context—the same mistake they made with respect to “keep arms.” It is especially unremarkable that the phrase was often used in a military context in the federal legal sources (such as records of congressional debate) that have been the focus of petition ers’ inquiry. Those sources would have had little occasion to use it except in discussions about the standing army and the militia. And the phrases used primarily in those
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military discussions include not only “bear arms” but also “carry arms,” “possess arms,” and “have arms”—though no one thinks that those other phrases also had special mili tary meanings. See Barnett, Was the Right to Keep and Bear Arms Conditioned on Service in an Organized Mili tia?, 83 Tex. L. Rev. 237, 261 (2004). The common refer ences to those “fit to bear arms” in congressional discus sions about the militia are matched by use of the same phrase in the few nonmilitary federal contexts where the concept would be relevant. See, e.g., 30 Journals of Conti nental Congress 349–351 (J. Fitzpatrick ed. 1934). Other legal sources frequently used “bear arms” in nonmilitary contexts.10 Cunningham’s legal dictionary, cited above,
—————— 10 See J. Brydall, Privilegia Magnatud apud Anglos 14 (1704) (Privi
lege XXXIII) (“In the 21st Year of King Edward the Third, a Proclama tion Issued, that no Person should bear any Arms within London, and the Suburbs”); J. Bond, A Compleat Guide to Justices of the Peace 43 (1707) (“Sheriffs, and all other Officers in executing their Offices, and all other persons pursuing Hu[e] and Cry may lawfully bear arms”); 1 An Abridgment of the Public Statutes in Force and Use Relative to Scotland (1755) (entry for “Arms”: “And if any person above described shall have in his custody, use, or bear arms, being thereof convicted before one justice of peace, or other judge competent, summarily, he shall for the first offense forfeit all such arms” (quoting 1 Geo. 1, c. 54, §1)); Statute Law of Scotland Abridged 132–133 (2d ed. 1769) (“Acts for disarming the highlands” but “exempting those who have particular licenses to bear arms”); E. de Vattel, The Law of Nations, or, Principles of the Law of Nature 144 (1792) (“Since custom has allowed persons of rank and gentlemen of the army to bear arms in time of peace, strict care should be taken that none but these should be allowed to wear swords”); E. Roche, Proceedings of a Court-Martial, Held at the Coun cil-Chamber, in the City of Cork 3 (1798) (charge VI: “With having held traitorous conferences, and with having conspired, with the like intent, for the purpose of attacking and despoiling of the arms of several of the King’s subjects, qualified by law to bear arms”); C. Humphreys, A Compendium of the Common Law in force in Kentucky 482 (1822) (“[I]n this country the constitution guaranties to all persons the right to bear arms; then it can only be a crime to exercise this right in such a man ner, as to terrify people unnecessarily”).
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gave as an example of its usage a sentence unrelated to military affairs (“Servants and labourers shall use bows and arrows on Sundays, &c. and not bear other arms”). And if one looks beyond legal sources, “bear arms” was frequently used in nonmilitary contexts. See Cramer & Olson, What Did “Bear Arms” Mean in the Second Amend ment?, 6 Georgetown J. L. & Pub. Pol’y (forthcoming Sept. 2008), online at http://papers.ssrn.com/abstract=1086176 (as visited June 24, 2008, and available in Clerk of Court’s case file) (identifying numerous nonmilitary uses of “bear arms” from the founding period).
JUSTICE STEVENS points to a study by amici supposedly showing that the phrase “bear arms” was most frequently used in the military context. See post, at 12–13, n. 9; Linguists’ Brief 24. Of course, as we have said, the fact that the phrase was commonly used in a particular context does not show that it is limited to that context, and, in any event, we have given many sources where the phrase was used in nonmilitary contexts. Moreover, the study’s collec tion appears to include (who knows how many times) the idiomatic phrase “bear arms against,” which is irrelevant. The amici also dismiss examples such as “ ‘bear arms . . . for the purpose of killing game’ ” because those uses are “expressly qualified.” Linguists’ Brief 24. (JUSTICE STEVENS uses the same excuse for dismissing the state constitutional provisions analogous to the Second Amend ment that identify private-use purposes for which the individual right can be asserted. See post, at 12.) That analysis is faulty. A purposive qualifying phrase that contradicts the word or phrase it modifies is unknown this side of the looking glass (except, apparently, in some courses on Linguistics). If “bear arms” means, as we think, simply the carrying of arms, a modifier can limit the purpose of the carriage (“for the purpose of self- defense” or “to make war against the King”). But if “bear arms” means, as the petitioners and the dissent think, the
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carrying of arms only for military purposes, one simply cannot add “for the purpose of killing game.” The right “to carry arms in the militia for the purpose of killing game” is worthy of the mad hatter. Thus, these purposive quali fying phrases positively establish that “to bear arms” is not limited to military use.11
JUSTICE STEVENS places great weight on James Madi son’s inclusion of a conscientious-objector clause in his original draft of the Second Amendment: “but no person religiously scrupulous of bearing arms, shall be compelled to render military service in person.” Creating the Bill of Rights 12 (H. Veit, K. Bowling, & C. Bickford eds. 1991) (hereinafter Veit). He argues that this clause establishes that the drafters of the Second Amendment intended “bear Arms” to refer only to military service. See post, at 26. It is always perilous to derive the meaning of an adopted provision from another provision deleted in the drafting process.12 In any case, what JUSTICE STEVENS would conclude from the deleted provision does not follow. It was not meant to exempt from military service those who ——————
11 JUSTICE STEVENS contends, post, at 15, that since we assert that adding “against” to “bear arms” gives it a military meaning we must concede that adding a purposive qualifying phrase to “bear arms” can alter its meaning. But the difference is that we do not maintain that “against” alters the meaning of “bear arms” but merely that it clarifies which of various meanings (one of which is military) is intended. JUSTICE STEVENS, however, argues that “[t]he term ‘bear arms’ is a familiar idiom; when used unadorned by any additional words, its meaning is ‘to serve as a soldier, do military service, fight.’ ” Post, at 11. He therefore must establish that adding a contradictory purposive phrase can alter a word’s meaning.
12 JUSTICE STEVENS finds support for his legislative history inference from the recorded views of one Antifederalist member of the House. Post, at 26 n. 25. “The claim that the best or most representative reading of the [language of the] amendments would conform to the understanding and concerns of [the Antifederalists] is . . . highly problematic.” Rakove, The Second Amendment: The Highest Stage of Originalism, Bogus 74, 81.
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objected to going to war but had no scruples about per sonal gunfights. Quakers opposed the use of arms not just for militia service, but for any violent purpose whatso ever—so much so that Quaker frontiersmen were forbid den to use arms to defend their families, even though “[i]n such circumstances the temptation to seize a hunting rifle or knife in self-defense . . . must sometimes have been almost overwhelming.” P. Brock, Pacifism in the United States 359 (1968); see M. Hirst, The Quakers in Peace and War 336–339 (1923); 3 T. Clarkson, Portraiture of Quaker ism 103–104 (3d ed. 1807). The Pennsylvania Militia Act of 1757 exempted from service those “scrupling the use of arms”—a phrase that no one contends had an idiomatic meaning. See 5 Stat. at Large of Pa. 613 (J. Mitchell & H. Flanders eds. 1898) (emphasis added). Thus, the most natural interpretation of Madison’s deleted text is that those opposed to carrying weapons for potential violent confrontation would not be “compelled to render military service,” in which such carrying would be required.13 Finally, JUSTICE STEVENS suggests that “keep and bear Arms” was some sort of term of art, presumably akin to “hue and cry” or “cease and desist.” (This suggestion usefully evades the problem that there is no evidence whatsoever to support a military reading of “keep arms.”) JUSTICE STEVENS believes that the unitary meaning of ——————
13 The same applies to the conscientious-objector amendments pro posed by Virginia and North Carolina, which said: “That any person religiously scrupulous of bearing arms ought to be exempted upon payment of an equivalent to employ another to bear arms in his stead.” See Veit 19; 4 J. Eliot, The Debates in the Several State Constitutions on the Adoption of the Federal Constitution 243, 244 (2d ed. 1836) (reprinted 1941). Certainly their second use of the phrase (“bear arms in his stead”) refers, by reason of context, to compulsory bearing of arms for military duty. But their first use of the phrase (“any person religiously scrupulous of bearing arms”) assuredly did not refer to people whose God allowed them to bear arms for defense of themselves but not for defense of their country.
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“keep and bear Arms” is established by the Second Amendment’s calling it a “right” (singular) rather than “rights” (plural). See post, at 16. There is nothing to this. State constitutions of the founding period routinely grouped multiple (related) guarantees under a singular “right,” and the First Amendment protects the “right [singular] of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” See, e.g., Pa. Declaration of Rights §§IX, XII, XVI, in 5 Thorpe 3083–3084; Ohio Const., Arts. VIII, §§11, 19 (1802), in id., at 2910–2911.14 And even if “keep and bear Arms” were a unitary phrase, we find no evidence that it bore a military meaning. Although the phrase was not at all common (which would be unusual for a term of art), we have found instances of its use with a clearly nonmilitary connotation. In a 1780 debate in the House of Lords, for example, Lord Richmond described an order to disarm private citizens (not militia members) as “a violation of the constitutional right of Protestant subjects to keep and bear arms for their own defense.” 49 The London Magazine or Gentle man’s Monthly Intelligencer 467 (1780). In response, another member of Parliament referred to “the right of bearing arms for personal defence,” making clear that no special military meaning for “keep and bear arms” was intended in the discussion. Id., at 467–468.15
—————— 14 Faced with this clear historical usage, JUSTICE STEVENS resorts to
the bizarre argument that because the word “to” is not included before “bear” (whereas it is included before “petition” in the First Amend ment), the unitary meaning of “to keep and bear” is established. Post, at 16, n. 13. We have never heard of the proposition that omitting repetition of the “to” causes two verbs with different meanings to become one. A promise “to support and to defend the Constitution of the United States” is not a whit different from a promise “to support and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
15 Cf. 3 Geo., 34, §3, in 7 Eng. Stat. at Large 126 (1748) (“That the Prohibition contained . . . in this Act, of having, keeping, bearing, or wearing any Arms or Warlike Weapons . . . shall not extend . . . to any
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c. Meaning of the Operative Clause. Putting all of these textual elements together, we find that they guaran tee the individual right to possess and carry weapons in case of confrontation. This meaning is strongly confirmed by the historical background of the Second Amendment. We look to this because it has always been widely under stood that the Second Amendment, like the First and Fourth Amendments, codified a pre-existing right. The very text of the Second Amendment implicitly recognizes the pre-existence of the right and declares only that it “shall not be infringed.” As we said in United States v. Cruikshank, 92 U. S. 542, 553 (1876), “[t]his is not a right granted by the Constitution. Neither is it in any manner dependent upon that instrument for its existence. The Second amendment declares that it shall not be infringed . . . .”16
Between the Restoration and the Glorious Revolution, the Stuart Kings Charles II and James II succeeded in using select militias loyal to them to suppress political dissidents, in part by disarming their opponents. See J. Malcolm, To Keep and Bear Arms 31–53 (1994) (hereinaf ter Malcolm); L. Schwoerer, The Declaration of Rights, 1689, p. 76 (1981). Under the auspices of the 1671 Game Act, for example, the Catholic James II had ordered gen eral disarmaments of regions home to his Protestant enemies. See Malcolm 103–106. These experiences caused Englishmen to be extremely wary of concentrated military forces run by the state and to be jealous of their arms. They accordingly obtained an assurance from Wil liam and Mary, in the Declaration of Right (which was codified as the English Bill of Rights), that Protestants
—————— Officers or their Assistants, employed in the Execution of Justice . . .”).
16 Contrary to JUSTICE STEVENS’ wholly unsupported assertion, post, at 1, 17, there was no pre-existing right in English law “to use weapons for certain military purposes” or to use arms in an organized militia.
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would never be disarmed: “That the subjects which are Protestants may have arms for their defense suitable to their conditions and as allowed by law.” 1 W. & M., c. 2, §7, in 3 Eng. Stat. at Large 441 (1689). This right has long been understood to be the predecessor to our Second Amendment. See E. Dumbauld, The Bill of Rights and What It Means Today 51 (1957); W. Rawle, A View of the Constitution of the United States of America 122 (1825) (hereinafter Rawle). It was clearly an individual right, having nothing whatever to do with service in a militia. To be sure, it was an individual right not available to the whole population, given that it was restricted to Protes tants, and like all written English rights it was held only against the Crown, not Parliament. See Schwoerer, To Hold and Bear Arms: The English Perspective, in Bogus 207, 218; but see 3 J. Story, Commentaries on the Consti tution of the United States §1858 (1833) (hereinafter Story) (contending that the “right to bear arms” is a “limi tatio[n] upon the power of parliament” as well). But it was secured to them as individuals, according to “libertarian political principles,” not as members of a fighting force. Schwoerer, Declaration of Rights, at 283; see also id., at 78; G. Jellinek, The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of Citizens 49, and n. 7 (1901) (reprinted 1979).
By the time of the founding, the right to have arms had become fundamental for English subjects. See Malcolm 122–134. Blackstone, whose works, we have said, “consti tuted the preeminent authority on English law for the founding generation,” Alden v. Maine, 527 U. S. 706, 715 (1999), cited the arms provision of the Bill of Rights as one of the fundamental rights of Englishmen. See 1 Black- stone 136, 139–140 (1765). His description of it cannot possibly be thought to tie it to militia or military service. It was, he said, “the natural right of resistance and self- preservation,” id., at 139, and “the right of having and using arms for self-preservation and defence,” id., at 140;
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see also 3 id., at 2–4 (1768). Other contemporary authori ties concurred. See G. Sharp, Tracts, Concerning the Ancient and Only True Legal Means of National Defence, by a Free Militia 17–18, 27 (3d ed. 1782); 2 J. de Lolme, The Rise and Progress of the English Constitution 886– 887 (1784) (A. Stephens ed. 1838); W. Blizard, Desultory Reflections on Police 59–60 (1785). Thus, the right se cured in 1689 as a result of the Stuarts’ abuses was by the time of the founding understood to be an individual right protecting against both public and private violence.
And, of course, what the Stuarts had tried to do to their political enemies, George III had tried to do to the colo nists. In the tumultuous decades of the 1760’s and 1770’s, the Crown began to disarm the inhabitants of the most rebellious areas. That provoked polemical reactions by Americans invoking their rights as Englishmen to keep arms. A New York article of April 1769 said that “[i]t is a natural right which the people have reserved to them selves, confirmed by the Bill of Rights, to keep arms for their own defence.” A Journal of the Times: Mar. 17, New York Journal, Supp. 1, Apr. 13, 1769, in Boston Under Military Rule 79 (O. Dickerson ed. 1936); see also, e.g., Shippen, Boston Gazette, Jan. 30, 1769, in 1 The Writings of Samuel Adams 299 (H. Cushing ed. 1968). They under stood the right to enable individuals to defend themselves. As the most important early American edition of Black stone’s Commentaries (by the law professor and former Antifederalist St. George Tucker) made clear in the notes to the description of the arms right, Americans understood the “right of self-preservation” as permitting a citizen to “repe[l] force by force” when “the intervention of society in his behalf, may be too late to prevent an injury.” 1 Black stone’s Commentaries 145–146, n. 42 (1803) (hereinafter Tucker’s Blackstone). See also W. Duer, Outlines of the Constitutional Jurisprudence of the United States 31–32 (1833).
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There seems to us no doubt, on the basis of both text and history, that the Second Amendment conferred an individual right to keep and bear arms. Of course the right was not unlimited, just as the First Amendment’s right of free speech was not, see, e.g., United States v. Williams, 553 U. S. ___ (2008). Thus, we do not read the Second Amendment to protect the right of citizens to carry arms for any sort of confrontation, just as we do not read the First Amendment to protect the right of citizens to speak for any purpose. Before turning to limitations upon the individual right, however, we must determine whether the prefatory clause of the Second Amendment comports with our interpretation of the operative clause.
2. Prefatory Clause. The prefatory clause reads: “A well regulated Militia,
being necessary to the security of a free State . . . .” a. “Well-Regulated Militia.” In United States v.
Miller, 307 U. S. 174, 179 (1939), we explained that “the Militia comprised all males physically capable of acting in concert for the common defense.” That definition comports with founding-era sources. See, e.g., Webster (“The militia of a country are the able bodied men organized into com panies, regiments and brigades . . . and required by law to attend military exercises on certain days only, but at other times left to pursue their usual occupations”); The Feder alist No. 46, pp. 329, 334 (B. Wright ed. 1961) (J. Madison) (“near half a million of citizens with arms in their hands”); Letter to Destutt de Tracy (Jan. 26, 1811), in The Portable Thomas Jefferson 520, 524 (M. Peterson ed. 1975) (“[T]he militia of the State, that is to say, of every man in it able to bear arms”).
Petitioners take a seemingly narrower view of the mili tia, stating that “[m]ilitias are the state- and congression ally-regulated military forces described in the Militia Clauses (art. I, §8, cls. 15–16).” Brief for Petitioners 12.
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Although we agree with petitioners’ interpretive assump tion that “militia” means the same thing in Article I and the Second Amendment, we believe that petitioners iden tify the wrong thing, namely, the organized militia. Unlike armies and navies, which Congress is given the power to create (“to raise . . . Armies”; “to provide . . . a Navy,” Art. I, §8, cls. 12–13), the militia is assumed by Article I already to be in existence. Congress is given the power to “provide for calling forth the militia,” §8, cl. 15; and the power not to create, but to “organiz[e]” it—and not to organize “a” militia, which is what one would expect if the militia were to be a federal creation, but to organize “the” militia, connoting a body already in existence, ibid., cl. 16. This is fully consistent with the ordinary definition of the militia as all able-bodied men. From that pool, Congress has plenary power to organize the units that will make up an effective fighting force. That is what Con gress did in the first militia Act, which specified that “each and every free able-bodied white male citizen of the re spective states, resident therein, who is or shall be of the age of eighteen years, and under the age of forty-five years (except as is herein after excepted) shall severally and respectively be enrolled in the militia.” Act of May 8, 1792, 1 Stat. 271. To be sure, Congress need not conscript every able-bodied man into the militia, because nothing in Article I suggests that in exercising its power to organize, discipline, and arm the militia, Congress must focus upon the entire body. Although the militia consists of all able- bodied men, the federally organized militia may consist of a subset of them.
Finally, the adjective “well-regulated” implies nothing more than the imposition of proper discipline and training. See Johnson 1619 (“Regulate”: “To adjust by rule or method”); Rawle 121–122; cf. Va. Declaration of Rights §13 (1776), in 7 Thorpe 3812, 3814 (referring to “a well- regulated militia, composed of the body of the people,
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trained to arms”). b. “Security of a Free State.” The phrase “security of
a free state” meant “security of a free polity,” not security of each of the several States as the dissent below argued, see 478 F. 3d, at 405, and n. 10. Joseph Story wrote in his treatise on the Constitution that “the word ‘state’ is used in various senses [and in] its most enlarged sense, it means the people composing a particular nation or com munity.” 1 Story §208; see also 3 id., §1890 (in reference to the Second Amendment’s prefatory clause: “The militia is the natural defence of a free country”). It is true that the term “State” elsewhere in the Constitution refers to individual States, but the phrase “security of a free state” and close variations seem to have been terms of art in 18th-century political discourse, meaning a “ ‘free coun try’ ” or free polity. See Volokh, “Necessary to the Security of a Free State,” 83 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1, 5 (2007); see, e.g., 4 Blackstone 151 (1769); Brutus Essay III (Nov. 15, 1787), in The Essential Antifederalist 251, 253 (W. Allen & G. Lloyd eds., 2d ed. 2002). Moreover, the other in stances of “state” in the Constitution are typically accom panied by modifiers making clear that the reference is to the several States—“each state,” “several states,” “any state,” “that state,” “particular states,” “one state,” “no state.” And the presence of the term “foreign state” in Article I and Article III shows that the word “state” did not have a single meaning in the Constitution.
There are many reasons why the militia was thought to be “necessary to the security of a free state.” See 3 Story §1890. First, of course, it is useful in repelling invasions and suppressing insurrections. Second, it renders large standing armies unnecessary—an argument that Alexan der Hamilton made in favor of federal control over the militia. The Federalist No. 29, pp. 226, 227 (B. Wright ed. 1961) (A. Hamilton). Third, when the able-bodied men of a nation are trained in arms and organized, they are
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better able to resist tyranny. 3. Relationship between Prefatory Clause and Operative Clause
We reach the question, then: Does the preface fit with an operative clause that creates an individual right to keep and bear arms? It fits perfectly, once one knows the history that the founding generation knew and that we have described above. That history showed that the way tyrants had eliminated a militia consisting of all the able- bodied men was not by banning the militia but simply by taking away the people’s arms, enabling a select militia or standing army to suppress political opponents. This is what had occurred in England that prompted codification of the right to have arms in the English Bill of Rights.
The debate with respect to the right to keep and bear arms, as with other guarantees in the Bill of Rights, was not over whether it was desirable (all agreed that it was) but over whether it needed to be codified in the Constitu tion. During the 1788 ratification debates, the fear that the federal government would disarm the people in order to impose rule through a standing army or select militia was pervasive in Antifederalist rhetoric. See, e.g., Letters from The Federal Farmer III (Oct. 10, 1787), in 2 The Complete Anti-Federalist 234, 242 (H. Storing ed. 1981). John Smilie, for example, worried not only that Congress’s “command of the militia” could be used to create a “select militia,” or to have “no militia at all,” but also, as a sepa rate concern, that “[w]hen a select militia is formed; the people in general may be disarmed.” 2 Documentary History of the Ratification of the Constitution 508–509 (M. Jensen ed. 1976) (hereinafter Documentary Hist.). Feder alists responded that because Congress was given no power to abridge the ancient right of individuals to keep and bear arms, such a force could never oppress the peo ple. See, e.g., A Pennsylvanian III (Feb. 20, 1788), in The
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Origin of the Second Amendment 275, 276 (D. Young ed., 2d ed. 2001) (hereinafter Young); White, To the Citizens of Virginia, Feb. 22, 1788, in id., at 280, 281; A Citizen of America, (Oct. 10, 1787) in id., at 38, 40; Remarks on the Amendments to the federal Constitution, Nov. 7, 1788, in id., at 556. It was understood across the political spec trum that the right helped to secure the ideal of a citizen militia, which might be necessary to oppose an oppressive military force if the constitutional order broke down.
It is therefore entirely sensible that the Second Amend ment’s prefatory clause announces the purpose for which the right was codified: to prevent elimination of the mili tia. The prefatory clause does not suggest that preserving the militia was the only reason Americans valued the ancient right; most undoubtedly thought it even more important for self-defense and hunting. But the threat that the new Federal Government would destroy the citizens’ militia by taking away their arms was the reason that right—unlike some other English rights—was codi fied in a written Constitution. JUSTICE BREYER’s asser tion that individual self-defense is merely a “subsidiary interest” of the right to keep and bear arms, see post, at 36, is profoundly mistaken. He bases that assertion solely upon the prologue—but that can only show that self- defense had little to do with the right’s codification; it was the central component of the right itself.
Besides ignoring the historical reality that the Second Amendment was not intended to lay down a “novel prin cipl[e]” but rather codified a right “inherited from our English ancestors,” Robertson v. Baldwin, 165 U. S. 275, 281 (1897), petitioners’ interpretation does not even achieve the narrower purpose that prompted codification of the right. If, as they believe, the Second Amendment right is no more than the right to keep and use weapons as a member of an organized militia, see Brief for Petitition ers 8—if, that is, the organized militia is the sole institu
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tional beneficiary of the Second Amendment’s guarantee— it does not assure the existence of a “citizens’ militia” as a safeguard against tyranny. For Congress retains plenary authority to organize the militia, which must include the authority to say who will belong to the organized force.17 That is why the first Militia Act’s requirement that only whites enroll caused States to amend their militia laws to exclude free blacks. See Siegel, The Federal Government’s Power to Enact Color-Conscious Laws, 92 Nw. U. L. Rev. 477, 521–525 (1998). Thus, if petitioners are correct, the Second Amendment protects citizens’ right to use a gun in an organization from which Congress has plenary author ity to exclude them. It guarantees a select militia of the sort the Stuart kings found useful, but not the people’s militia that was the concern of the founding generation.
B Our interpretation is confirmed by analogous arms-
bearing rights in state constitutions that preceded and immediately followed adoption of the Second Amendment. Four States adopted analogues to the Federal Second Amendment in the period between independence and the ——————
17 Article I, §8, cl. 16 of the Constitution gives Congress the power “[t]o provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and for governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the United States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment of the Officers, and the Authority of training the Militia according to the discipline prescribed by Congress.”
It could not be clearer that Congress’s “organizing” power, unlike its “governing” power, can be invoked even for that part of the militia not “employed in the Service of the United States.” JUSTICE STEVENS provides no support whatever for his contrary view, see post, at 19 n. 20. Both the Federalists and Anti-Federalists read the provision as it was written, to permit the creation of a “select” militia. See The Feder alist No. 29, pp. 226, 227 (B. Wright ed. 1961); Centinel, Revived, No. XXIX, Philadelphia Independent Gazetteer, Sept. 9, 1789, in Young 711, 712.
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ratification of the Bill of Rights. Two of them— Pennsylvania and Vermont—clearly adopted individual rights unconnected to militia service. Pennsylvania’s Declaration of Rights of 1776 said: “That the people have a right to bear arms for the defence of themselves, and the state . . . .” §XIII, in 5 Thorpe 3082, 3083 (emphasis added). In 1777, Vermont adopted the identical provision, except for inconsequential differences in punctuation and capitalization. See Vt. Const., ch. 1, §15, in 6 id., at 3741.
North Carolina also codified a right to bear arms in 1776: “That the people have a right to bear arms, for the defence of the State . . . .” Declaration of Rights §XVII, in id., at 2787, 2788. This could plausibly be read to support only a right to bear arms in a militia—but that is a pecu liar way to make the point in a constitution that elsewhere repeatedly mentions the militia explicitly. See §§14, 18, 35, in 5 id., 2789, 2791, 2793. Many colonial statutes required individual arms-bearing for public-safety rea- sons—such as the 1770 Georgia law that “for the security and defence of this province from internal dangers and insurrections” required those men who qualified for militia duty individually “to carry fire arms” “to places of public worship.” 19 Colonial Records of the State of Georgia 137– 139 (A. Candler ed. 1911 (pt. 2)) (emphasis added). That broad public-safety understanding was the connotation given to the North Carolina right by that State’s Supreme Court in 1843. See State v. Huntly, 3 Ired. 418, 422–423.
The 1780 Massachusetts Constitution presented another variation on the theme: “The people have a right to keep and to bear arms for the common defence. . . .” Pt. First, Art. XVII, in 3 Thorpe 1888, 1892. Once again, if one gives narrow meaning to the phrase “common defence” this can be thought to limit the right to the bearing of arms in a state-organized military force. But once again the State’s highest court thought otherwise. Writing for the court in an 1825 libel case, Chief Justice Parker wrote:
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“The liberty of the press was to be unrestrained, but he who used it was to be responsible in cases of its abuse; like the right to keep fire arms, which does not protect him who uses them for annoyance or destruction.” Common- wealth v. Blanding, 20 Mass. 304, 313–314. The analogy makes no sense if firearms could not be used for any indi vidual purpose at all. See also Kates, Handgun Prohibi tion and the Original Meaning of the Second Amendment, 82 Mich. L. Rev. 204, 244 (1983) (19th-century courts never read “common defence” to limit the use of weapons to militia service).
We therefore believe that the most likely reading of all four of these pre-Second Amendment state constitutional provisions is that they secured an individual right to bear arms for defensive purposes. Other States did not include rights to bear arms in their pre-1789 constitutions— although in Virginia a Second Amendment analogue was proposed (unsuccessfully) by Thomas Jefferson. (It read: “No freeman shall ever be debarred the use of arms [within his own lands or tenements].”18 1 The Papers of Thomas Jefferson 344 (J. Boyd ed. 1950)).
Between 1789 and 1820, nine States adopted Second Amendment analogues. Four of them—Kentucky, Ohio, Indiana, and Missouri—referred to the right of the people to “bear arms in defence of themselves and the State.” See n. 8, supra. Another three States—Mississippi, Connecti cut, and Alabama—used the even more individualistic phrasing that each citizen has the “right to bear arms in defence of himself and the State.” See ibid. Finally, two States—Tennessee and Maine—used the “common de fence” language of Massachusetts. See Tenn. Const., Art. ——————
18 JUSTICE STEVENS says that the drafters of the Virginia Declaration of Rights rejected this proposal and adopted “instead” a provision written by George Mason stressing the importance of the militia. See post, at 24, and n. 24. There is no evidence that the drafters regarded the Mason proposal as a substitute for the Jefferson proposal.
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XI, §26 (1796), in 6 Thorpe 3414, 3424; Me. Const., Art. I, §16 (1819), in 3 id., at 1646, 1648. That of the nine state constitutional protections for the right to bear arms en acted immediately after 1789 at least seven unequivocally protected an individual citizen’s right to self-defense is strong evidence that that is how the founding generation conceived of the right. And with one possible exception that we discuss in Part II–D–2, 19th-century courts and commentators interpreted these state constitutional provi sions to protect an individual right to use arms for self- defense. See n. 9, supra; Simpson v. State, 5 Yer. 356, 360 (Tenn. 1833).
The historical narrative that petitioners must endorse would thus treat the Federal Second Amendment as an odd outlier, protecting a right unknown in state constitu tions or at English common law, based on little more than an overreading of the prefatory clause.
C JUSTICE STEVENS relies on the drafting history of the
Second Amendment—the various proposals in the state conventions and the debates in Congress. It is dubious to rely on such history to interpret a text that was widely understood to codify a pre-existing right, rather than to fashion a new one. But even assuming that this legisla tive history is relevant, JUSTICE STEVENS flatly misreads the historical record.
It is true, as JUSTICE STEVENS says, that there was concern that the Federal Government would abolish the institution of the state militia. See post, at 20. That concern found expression, however, not in the various Second Amendment precursors proposed in the State conventions, but in separate structural provisions that would have given the States concurrent and seemingly nonpre-emptible authority to organize, discipline, and arm the militia when the Federal Government failed to do so.
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See Veit 17, 20 (Virginia proposal); 4 J. Eliot, The Debates in the Several State Conventions on the Adoption of the Federal Constitution 244, 245 (2d ed. 1836) (reprinted 1941) (North Carolina proposal); see also 2 Documentary Hist. 624 (Pennsylvania minority’s proposal). The Second Amendment precursors, by contrast, referred to the indi vidual English right already codified in two (and probably four) State constitutions. The Federalist-dominated first Congress chose to reject virtually all major structural revisions favored by the Antifederalists, including the proposed militia amendments. Rather, it adopted primar ily the popular and uncontroversial (though, in the Feder alists’ view, unnecessary) individual-rights amendments. The Second Amendment right, protecting only individuals’ liberty to keep and carry arms, did nothing to assuage Antifederalists’ concerns about federal control of the mili tia. See, e.g., Centinel, Revived, No. XXIX, Philadelphia Independent Gazetteer, Sept. 9, 1789, in Young 711, 712.
JUSTICE STEVENS thinks it significant that the Virginia, New York, and North Carolina Second Amendment pro posals were “embedded . . . within a group of principles that are distinctly military in meaning,” such as state ments about the danger of standing armies. Post, at 22. But so was the highly influential minority proposal in Pennsylvania, yet that proposal, with its reference to hunting, plainly referred to an individual right. See 2 Documentary Hist. 624. Other than that erroneous point, JUSTICE STEVENS has brought forward absolutely no evidence that those proposals conferred only a right to carry arms in a militia. By contrast, New Hampshire’s proposal, the Pennsylvania minority’s proposal, and Sam uel Adams’ proposal in Massachusetts unequivocally referred to individual rights, as did two state constitu tional provisions at the time. See Veit 16, 17 (New Hamp shire proposal); 6 Documentary Hist. 1452, 1453 (J. Kaminski & G. Saladino eds. 2000) (Samuel Adams’ pro
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posal). JUSTICE STEVENS’ view thus relies on the proposi tion, unsupported by any evidence, that different people of the founding period had vastly different conceptions of the right to keep and bear arms. That simply does not com port with our longstanding view that the Bill of Rights codified venerable, widely understood liberties.
D We now address how the Second Amendment was inter
preted from immediately after its ratification through the end of the 19th century. Before proceeding, however, we take issue with JUSTICE STEVENS’ equating of these sources with postenactment legislative history, a compari son that betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of a court’s interpretive task. See post, at 27, n. 28. “Legisla tive history,” of course, refers to the pre-enactment state ments of those who drafted or voted for a law; it is consid ered persuasive by some, not because they reflect the general understanding of the disputed terms, but because the legislators who heard or read those statements pre sumably voted with that understanding. Ibid. “Pos tenactment legislative history,” ibid., a deprecatory con tradiction in terms, refers to statements of those who drafted or voted for the law that are made after its enact ment and hence could have had no effect on the congres sional vote. It most certainly does not refer to the exami nation of a variety of legal and other sources to determine the public understanding of a legal text in the period after its enactment or ratification. That sort of inquiry is a critical tool of constitutional interpretation. As we will show, virtually all interpreters of the Second Amendment in the century after its enactment interpreted the amend ment as we do.
1. Post-ratification Commentary Three important founding-era legal scholars interpreted
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the Second Amendment in published writings. All three understood it to protect an individual right unconnected with militia service.
St. George Tucker’s version of Blackstone’s Commentar ies, as we explained above, conceived of the Blackstonian arms right as necessary for self-defense. He equated that right, absent the religious and class-based restrictions, with the Second Amendment. See 2 Tucker’s Blackstone 143. In Note D, entitled, “View of the Constitution of the United States,” Tucker elaborated on the Second Amend ment: “This may be considered as the true palladium of liberty . . . . The right to self-defence is the first law of nature: in most governments it has been the study of rulers to confine the right within the narrowest limits possible. Wherever standing armies are kept up, and the right of the people to keep and bear arms is, under any colour or pretext whatsoever, prohibited, liberty, if not already annihilated, is on the brink of destruction.” 1 id., at App. 300 (ellipsis in original). He believed that the English game laws had abridged the right by prohibiting “keeping a gun or other engine for the destruction of game.” Ibid; see also 2 id., at 143, and nn. 40 and 41. He later grouped the right with some of the individual rights included in the First Amendment and said that if “a law be passed by congress, prohibiting” any of those rights, it would “be the province of the judiciary to pronounce whether any such act were constitutional, or not; and if not, to acquit the accused . . . .” 1 id., at App. 357. It is unlikely that Tucker was referring to a person’s being “accused” of violating a law making it a crime to bear arms in a state militia.19 ——————
19 JUSTICE STEVENS quotes some of Tucker’s unpublished notes, which he claims show that Tucker had ambiguous views about the Second Amendment. See post, at 31, and n. 32. But it is clear from the notes that Tucker located the power of States to arm their militias in the Tenth Amendment, and that he cited the Second Amendment for the
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In 1825, William Rawle, a prominent lawyer who had been a member of the Pennsylvania Assembly that ratified the Bill of Rights, published an influential treatise, which analyzed the Second Amendment as follows:
“The first [principle] is a declaration that a well regulated militia is necessary to the security of a free state; a proposition from which few will dissent. . . .
“The corollary, from the first position is, that the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.
“The prohibition is general. No clause in the consti tution could by any rule of construction be conceived to give to congress a power to disarm the people. Such a flagitious attempt could only be made under some general pretence by a state legislature. But if in any blind pursuit of inordinate power, either should at tempt it, this amendment may be appealed to as a re straint on both.” Rawle 121–122.20
Like Tucker, Rawle regarded the English game laws as violating the right codified in the Second Amendment. See id., 122–123. Rawle clearly differentiated between the people’s right to bear arms and their service in a militia: “In a people permitted and accustomed to bear arms, we have the rudiments of a militia, which properly consists of armed citizens, divided into military bands, and instructed —————— proposition that such armament could not run afoul of any power of the federal government (since the amendment prohibits Congress from ordering disarmament). Nothing in the passage implies that the Second Amendment pertains only to the carrying of arms in the organ ized militia.
20 Rawle, writing before our decision in Barron ex rel. Tiernan v. Mayor of Baltimore, 7 Pet. 243 (1833), believed that the Second Amendment could be applied against the States. Such a belief would of course be nonsensical on petitioners’ view that it protected only a right to possess and carry arms when conscripted by the State itself into militia service.
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at least in part, in the use of arms for the purposes of war.” Id., at 140. Rawle further said that the Second Amendment right ought not “be abused to the disturbance of the public peace,” such as by assembling with other armed individuals “for an unlawful purpose”—statements that make no sense if the right does not extend to any individual purpose.
Joseph Story published his famous Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States in 1833. JUSTICE STEVENS suggests that “[t]here is not so much as a whis per” in Story’s explanation of the Second Amendment that favors the individual-rights view. Post, at 34. That is wrong. Story explained that the English Bill of Rights had also included a “right to bear arms,” a right that, as we have discussed, had nothing to do with militia service. 3 Story §1858. He then equated the English right with the Second Amendment:
“§1891. A similar provision [to the Second Amend ment] in favour of protestants (for to them it is con fined) is to be found in the bill of rights of 1688, it be ing declared, ‘that the subjects, which are protestants, may have arms for their defence suitable to their con dition, and as allowed by law.’ But under various pre tences the effect of this provision has been greatly narrowed; and it is at present in England more nomi nal than real, as a defensive privilege.” (Footnotes omitted.)
This comparison to the Declaration of Right would not make sense if the Second Amendment right was the right to use a gun in a militia, which was plainly not what the English right protected. As the Tennessee Supreme Court recognized 38 years after Story wrote his Commentaries, “[t]he passage from Story, shows clearly that this right was intended . . . and was guaranteed to, and to be exer cised and enjoyed by the citizen as such, and not by him as
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a soldier, or in defense solely of his political rights.” An- drews v. State, 50 Tenn. 165, 183 (1871). Story’s Commen taries also cite as support Tucker and Rawle, both of whom clearly viewed the right as unconnected to militia service. See 3 Story §1890, n. 2; §1891, n. 3. In addition, in a shorter 1840 work Story wrote: “One of the ordinary modes, by which tyrants accomplish their purposes with out resistance, is, by disarming the people, and making it an offence to keep arms, and by substituting a regular army in the stead of a resort to the militia.” A Familiar Exposition of the Constitution of the United States §450 (reprinted in 1986).
Antislavery advocates routinely invoked the right to bear arms for self-defense. Joel Tiffany, for example, citing Blackstone’s description of the right, wrote that “the right to keep and bear arms, also implies the right to use them if necessary in self defence; without this right to use the guaranty would have hardly been worth the paper it consumed.” A Treatise on the Unconstitutionality of American Slavery 117–118 (1849); see also L. Spooner, The Unconstitutionality of Slavery 116 (1845) (right enables “personal defence”). In his famous Senate speech about the 1856 “Bleeding Kansas” conflict, Charles Sumner proclaimed:
“The rifle has ever been the companion of the pioneer and, under God, his tutelary protector against the red man and the beast of the forest. Never was this effi cient weapon more needed in just self-defence, than now in Kansas, and at least one article in our Na tional Constitution must be blotted out, before the complete right to it can in any way be impeached. And yet such is the madness of the hour, that, in defi ance of the solemn guarantee, embodied in the Amendments to the Constitution, that ‘the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed,’
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the people of Kansas have been arraigned for keeping and bearing them, and the Senator from South Caro lina has had the face to say openly, on this floor, that they should be disarmed—of course, that the fanatics of Slavery, his allies and constituents, may meet no impediment.” The Crime Against Kansas, May 19–20, 1856, in American Speeches: Political Oratory from the Revolution to the Civil War 553, 606–607 (2006).
We have found only one early 19th-century commenta tor who clearly conditioned the right to keep and bear arms upon service in the militia—and he recognized that the prevailing view was to the contrary. “The provision of the constitution, declaring the right of the people to keep and bear arms, &c. was probably intended to apply to the right of the people to bear arms for such [militia-related] purposes only, and not to prevent congress or the legisla tures of the different states from enacting laws to prevent the citizens from always going armed. A different con struction however has been given to it.” B. Oliver, The Rights of an American Citizen 177 (1832).
2. Pre-Civil War Case Law The 19th-century cases that interpreted the Second
Amendment universally support an individual right un connected to militia service. In Houston v. Moore, 5 Wheat. 1, 24 (1820), this Court held that States have concurrent power over the militia, at least where not pre empted by Congress. Agreeing in dissent that States could “organize, discipline, and arm” the militia in the absence of conflicting federal regulation, Justice Story said that the Second Amendment “may not, perhaps, be thought to have any important bearing on this point. If it have, it confirms and illustrates, rather than impugns the reasoning already suggested.” Id., at 51–53. Of course, if the Amendment simply “protect[ed] the right of the people of each of the several States to maintain a well-regulated
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militia,” post, at 1 (STEVENS, J., dissenting), it would have enormous and obvious bearing on the point. But the Court and Story derived the States’ power over the militia from the nonexclusive nature of federal power, not from the Second Amendment, whose preamble merely “confirms and illustrates” the importance of the militia. Even clearer was Justice Baldwin. In the famous fugitive-slave case of Johnson v. Tompkins, 13 F. Cas. 840, 850, 852 (CC Pa. 1833), Baldwin, sitting as a circuit judge, cited both the Second Amendment and the Pennsylvania analogue for his conclusion that a citizen has “a right to carry arms in defence of his property or person, and to use them, if either were assailed with such force, numbers or violence as made it necessary for the protection or safety of either.”
Many early 19th-century state cases indicated that the Second Amendment right to bear arms was an individual right unconnected to militia service, though subject to certain restrictions. A Virginia case in 1824 holding that the Constitution did not extend to free blacks explained that “numerous restrictions imposed on [blacks] in our Statute Book, many of which are inconsistent with the letter and spirit of the Constitution, both of this State and of the United States as respects the free whites, demon strate, that, here, those instruments have not been consid ered to extend equally to both classes of our population. We will only instance the restriction upon the migration of free blacks into this State, and upon their right to bear arms.” Aldridge v. Commonwealth, 2 Va. Cas. 447, 449 (Gen. Ct.). The claim was obviously not that blacks were prevented from carrying guns in the militia.21 See also ——————
21 JUSTICE STEVENS suggests that this is not obvious because free blacks in Virginia had been required to muster without arms. See post, at 28, n. 29 (citing Siegel, The Federal Government’s Power to Enact Color-Conscious Laws, 92 Nw. U. L. Rev. 477, 497 (1998)). But that could not have been the type of law referred to in Aldridge, because that practice had stopped 30 years earlier when blacks were excluded
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Waters v. State, 1 Gill 302, 309 (Md. 1843) (because free blacks were treated as a “dangerous population,” “laws have been passed to prevent their migration into this State; to make it unlawful for them to bear arms; to guard even their religious assemblages with peculiar watchful ness”). An 1829 decision by the Supreme Court of Michi gan said: “The constitution of the United States also grants to the citizen the right to keep and bear arms. But the grant of this privilege cannot be construed into the right in him who keeps a gun to destroy his neighbor. No rights are intended to be granted by the constitution for an unlawful or unjustifiable purpose.” United States v. Sheldon, in 5 Transactions of the Supreme Court of the Territory of Michigan 337, 346 (W. Blume ed. 1940) (here inafter Blume). It is not possible to read this as discussing anything other than an individual right unconnected to militia service. If it did have to do with militia service, the limitation upon it would not be any “unlawful or unjustifi able purpose,” but any nonmilitary purpose whatsoever.
In Nunn v. State, 1 Ga. 243, 251 (1846), the Georgia Supreme Court construed the Second Amendment as protecting the “natural right of self-defence” and therefore struck down a ban on carrying pistols openly. Its opinion perfectly captured the way in which the operative clause of the Second Amendment furthers the purpose announced —————— entirely from the militia by the First Militia Act. See Siegel, supra, at 498, n. 120. JUSTICE STEVENS further suggests that laws barring blacks from militia service could have been said to violate the “right to bear arms.” But under JUSTICE STEVENS’ reading of the Second Amendment (we think), the protected right is the right to carry arms to the extent one is enrolled in the militia, not the right to be in the militia. Perhaps JUSTICE STEVENS really does adopt the full-blown idiomatic meaning of “bear arms,” in which case every man and woman in this country has a right “to be a soldier” or even “to wage war.” In any case, it is clear to us that Aldridge’s allusion to the existing Virginia “restriction” upon the right of free blacks “to bear arms” could only have referred to “laws prohibiting blacks from keeping weapons,” Siegel, supra, at 497–498.
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in the prefatory clause, in continuity with the English right:
“The right of the whole people, old and young, men, women and boys, and not militia only, to keep and bear arms of every description, and not such merely as are used by the militia, shall not be infringed, cur tailed, or broken in upon, in the smallest degree; and all this for the important end to be attained: the rear ing up and qualifying a well-regulated militia, so vi tally necessary to the security of a free State. Our opinion is, that any law, State or Federal, is repug nant to the Constitution, and void, which contravenes this right, originally belonging to our forefathers, trampled under foot by Charles I. and his two wicked sons and successors, re-established by the revolution of 1688, conveyed to this land of liberty by the colo nists, and finally incorporated conspicuously in our own Magna Charta!”
Likewise, in State v. Chandler, 5 La. Ann. 489, 490 (1850), the Louisiana Supreme Court held that citizens had a right to carry arms openly: “This is the right guar anteed by the Constitution of the United States, and which is calculated to incite men to a manly and noble defence of themselves, if necessary, and of their country, without any tendency to secret advantages and unmanly assassinations.”
Those who believe that the Second Amendment pre serves only a militia-centered right place great reliance on the Tennessee Supreme Court’s 1840 decision in Aymette v. State, 21 Tenn. 154. The case does not stand for that broad proposition; in fact, the case does not mention the word “militia” at all, except in its quoting of the Second Amendment. Aymette held that the state constitutional guarantee of the right to “bear” arms did not prohibit the banning of concealed weapons. The opinion first recog
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nized that both the state right and the federal right were descendents of the 1689 English right, but (erroneously, and contrary to virtually all other authorities) read that right to refer only to “protect[ion of] the public liberty” and “keep[ing] in awe those in power,” id., at 158. The court then adopted a sort of middle position, whereby citizens were permitted to carry arms openly, unconnected with any service in a formal militia, but were given the right to use them only for the military purpose of banding together to oppose tyranny. This odd reading of the right is, to be sure, not the one we adopt—but it is not petitioners’ read ing either. More importantly, seven years earlier the Tennessee Supreme Court had treated the state constitu tional provision as conferring a right “of all the free citi zens of the State to keep and bear arms for their defence,” Simpson, 5 Yer., at 360; and 21 years later the court held that the “keep” portion of the state constitutional right included the right to personal self-defense: “[T]he right to keep arms involves, necessarily, the right to use such arms for all the ordinary purposes, and in all the ordinary modes usual in the country, and to which arms are adapted, limited by the duties of a good citizen in times of peace.” Andrews, 50 Tenn., at 178; see also ibid. (equating state provision with Second Amendment).
3. Post-Civil War Legislation. In the aftermath of the Civil War, there was an outpour
ing of discussion of the Second Amendment in Congress and in public discourse, as people debated whether and how to secure constitutional rights for newly free slaves. See generally S. Halbrook, Freedmen, the Fourteenth Amendment, and the Right to Bear Arms, 1866–1876 (1998) (hereinafter Halbrook); Brief for Institute for Jus tice as Amicus Curiae. Since those discussions took place 75 years after the ratification of the Second Amendment, they do not provide as much insight into its original mean
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ing as earlier sources. Yet those born and educated in the early 19th century faced a widespread effort to limit arms ownership by a large number of citizens; their understand ing of the origins and continuing significance of the Amendment is instructive.
Blacks were routinely disarmed by Southern States after the Civil War. Those who opposed these injustices frequently stated that they infringed blacks’ constitutional right to keep and bear arms. Needless to say, the claim was not that blacks were being prohibited from carrying arms in an organized state militia. A Report of the Com mission of the Freedmen’s Bureau in 1866 stated plainly: “[T]he civil law [of Kentucky] prohibits the colored man from bearing arms. . . . Their arms are taken from them by the civil authorities. . . . Thus, the right of the people to keep and bear arms as provided in the Constitution is infringed.” H. R. Exec. Doc. No. 70, 39th Cong., 1st Sess., 233, 236. A joint congressional Report decried:
“in some parts of [South Carolina], armed parties are, without proper authority, engaged in seizing all fire arms found in the hands of the freemen. Such con duct is in clear and direct violation of their personal rights as guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States, which declares that ‘the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ The freedmen of South Carolina have shown by their peaceful and orderly conduct that they can safely be trusted with fire-arms, and they need them to kill game for subsistence, and to protect their crops from destruction by birds and animals.” Joint Comm. on Reconstruction, H. R. Rep. No. 30, 39th Cong., 1st Sess., pt. 2, p. 229 (1866) (Proposed Circular of Briga dier General R. Saxton).
The view expressed in these statements was widely reported and was apparently widely held. For example,
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an editorial in The Loyal Georgian (Augusta) on February 3, 1866, assured blacks that “[a]ll men, without distinction of color, have the right to keep and bear arms to defend their homes, families or themselves.” Halbrook 19.
Congress enacted the Freedmen’s Bureau Act on July 16, 1866. Section 14 stated:
“[T]he right . . . to have full and equal benefit of all laws and proceedings concerning personal liberty, personal security, and the acquisition, enjoyment, and disposition of estate, real and personal, including the constitutional right to bear arms, shall be secured to and enjoyed by all the citizens . . . without respect to race or color, or previous condition of slavery. . . . ” 14 Stat. 176–177.
The understanding that the Second Amendment gave freed blacks the right to keep and bear arms was reflected in congressional discussion of the bill, with even an oppo nent of it saying that the founding generation “were for every man bearing his arms about him and keeping them in his house, his castle, for his own defense.” Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess., 362, 371 (1866) (Sen. Davis).
Similar discussion attended the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1871 and the Fourteenth Amendment. For example, Representative Butler said of the Act: “Section eight is intended to enforce the well-known constitutional provision guaranteeing the right of the citizen to ‘keep and bear arms,’ and provides that whoever shall take away, by force or violence, or by threats and intimidation, the arms and weapons which any person may have for his defense, shall be deemed guilty of larceny of the same.” H. R. Rep. No. 37, 41st Cong., 3d Sess., pp. 7–8 (1871). With respect to the proposed Amendment, Senator Pomeroy described as one of the three “indispensable” “safeguards of liberty . . . under the Constitution” a man’s “right to bear arms for the defense of himself and family and his homestead.”
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Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess., 1182 (1866). Repre sentative Nye thought the Fourteenth Amendment unnec essary because “[a]s citizens of the United States [blacks] have equal right to protection, and to keep and bear arms for self-defense.” Id., at 1073 (1866).
It was plainly the understanding in the post-Civil War Congress that the Second Amendment protected an indi vidual right to use arms for self-defense.
4. Post-Civil War Commentators. Every late-19th-century legal scholar that we have read
interpreted the Second Amendment to secure an individ ual right unconnected with militia service. The most famous was the judge and professor Thomas Cooley, who wrote a massively popular 1868 Treatise on Constitutional Limitations. Concerning the Second Amendment it said:
“Among the other defences to personal liberty should be mentioned the right of the people to keep and bear arms. . . . The alternative to a standing army is ‘a well-regulated militia,’ but this cannot exist unless the people are trained to bearing arms. How far it is in the power of the legislature to regulate this right, we shall not undertake to say, as happily there has been very little occasion to discuss that subject by the courts.” Id., at 350.
That Cooley understood the right not as connected to militia service, but as securing the militia by ensuring a populace familiar with arms, is made even clearer in his 1880 work, General Principles of Constitutional Law. The Second Amendment, he said, “was adopted with some modification and enlargement from the English Bill of Rights of 1688, where it stood as a protest against arbi trary action of the overturned dynasty in disarming the people.” Id., at 270. In a section entitled “The Right in General,” he continued:
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“It might be supposed from the phraseology of this provision that the right to keep and bear arms was only guaranteed to the militia; but this would be an interpretation not warranted by the intent. The mili tia, as has been elsewhere explained, consists of those persons who, under the law, are liable to the perform ance of military duty, and are officered and enrolled for service when called upon. But the law may make provision for the enrolment of all who are fit to per form military duty, or of a small number only, or it may wholly omit to make any provision at all; and if the right were limited to those enrolled, the purpose of this guaranty might be defeated altogether by the ac tion or neglect to act of the government it was meant to hold in check. The meaning of the provision un doubtedly is, that the people, from whom the militia must be taken, shall have the right to keep and bear arms; and they need no permission or regulation of law for the purpose. But this enables government to have a well-regulated militia; for to bear arms implies something more than the mere keeping; it implies the learning to handle and use them in a way that makes those who keep them ready for their efficient use; in other words, it implies the right to meet for voluntary discipline in arms, observing in doing so the laws of public order.” Id., at 271.
All other post-Civil War 19th-century sources we have found concurred with Cooley. One example from each decade will convey the general flavor:
“[The purpose of the Second Amendment is] to secure a well-armed militia. . . . But a militia would be use less unless the citizens were enabled to exercise them selves in the use of warlike weapons. To preserve this privilege, and to secure to the people the ability to op pose themselves in military force against the usurpa
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tions of government, as well as against enemies from without, that government is forbidden by any law or proceeding to invade or destroy the right to keep and bear arms. . . . The clause is analogous to the one se curing the freedom of speech and of the press. Free dom, not license, is secured; the fair use, not the libel lous abuse, is protected.” J. Pomeroy, An Introduction to the Constitutional Law of the United States 152– 153 (1868) (hereinafter Pomeroy). “As the Constitution of the United States, and the constitutions of several of the states, in terms more or less comprehensive, declare the right of the people to keep and bear arms, it has been a subject of grave dis cussion, in some of the state courts, whether a statute prohibiting persons, when not on a journey, or as travellers, from wearing or carrying concealed weap- ons, be constitutional. There has been a great differ ence of opinion on the question.” 2 J. Kent, Commen taries on American Law *340, n. 2 (O. Holmes ed., 12th ed. 1873) (hereinafter Kent). “Some general knowledge of firearms is important to the public welfare; because it would be impossible, in case of war, to organize promptly an efficient force of volunteers unless the people had some familiarity with weapons of war. The Constitution secures the right of the people to keep and bear arms. No doubt, a citizen who keeps a gun or pistol under judicious pre cautions, practices in safe places the use of it, and in due time teaches his sons to do the same, exercises his individual right. No doubt, a person whose residence or duties involve peculiar peril may keep a pistol for prudent self-defence.” B. Abbott, Judge and Jury: A Popular Explanation of the Leading Topics in the Law of the Land 333 (1880) (hereinafter Abbott).
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“The right to bear arms has always been the dis tinctive privilege of freemen. Aside from any neces sity of self-protection to the person, it represents among all nations power coupled with the exercise of a certain jurisdiction. . . . [I]t was not necessary that the right to bear arms should be granted in the Constitu tion, for it had always existed.” J. Ordronaux, Consti tutional Legislation in the United States 241–242 (1891).
E We now ask whether any of our precedents forecloses
the conclusions we have reached about the meaning of the Second Amendment.
United States v. Cruikshank, 92 U. S. 542, in the course of vacating the convictions of members of a white mob for depriving blacks of their right to keep and bear arms, held that the Second Amendment does not by its own force apply to anyone other than the Federal Government. The opinion explained that the right “is not a right granted by the Constitution [or] in any manner dependent upon that instrument for its existence. The second amendment . . . means no more than that it shall not be infringed by Con gress.” 92 U. S., at 553. States, we said, were free to restrict or protect the right under their police powers. The limited discussion of the Second Amendment in Cruik- shank supports, if anything, the individual-rights inter pretation. There was no claim in Cruikshank that the victims had been deprived of their right to carry arms in a militia; indeed, the Governor had disbanded the local militia unit the year before the mob’s attack, see C. Lane, The Day Freedom Died 62 (2008). We described the right protected by the Second Amendment as “ ‘bearing arms for a lawful purpose’ ”22 and said that “the people [must] look
—————— 22 JUSTICE STEVENS’ accusation that this is “not accurate,” post, at 39,
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for their protection against any violation by their fellow- citizens of the rights it recognizes” to the States’ police power. 92 U. S., at 553. That discussion makes little sense if it is only a right to bear arms in a state militia.23
Presser v. Illinois, 116 U. S. 252 (1886), held that the right to keep and bear arms was not violated by a law that forbade “bodies of men to associate together as military organizations, or to drill or parade with arms in cities and towns unless authorized by law.” Id., at 264–265. This does not refute the individual-rights interpretation of the Amendment; no one supporting that interpretation has contended that States may not ban such groups. JUSTICE STEVENS presses Presser into service to support his view that the right to bear arms is limited to service in the militia by joining Presser’s brief discussion of the Second Amendment with a later portion of the opinion making the seemingly relevant (to the Second Amendment) point that the plaintiff was not a member of the state militia. Unfor tunately for JUSTICE STEVENS’ argument, that later por tion deals with the Fourteenth Amendment; it was the Fourteenth Amendment to which the plaintiff’s nonmem bership in the militia was relevant. Thus, JUSTICE STEVENS’ statement that Presser “suggested that. . . noth ing in the Constitution protected the use of arms outside the context of a militia,” post, at 40, is simply wrong. —————— is wrong. It is true it was the indictment that described the right as “bearing arms for a lawful purpose.” But, in explicit reference to the right described in the indictment, the Court stated that “The second amendment declares that it [i.e., the right of bearing arms for a lawful purpose] shall not be infringed.” 92 U. S., at 553.
23 With respect to Cruikshank’s continuing validity on incorporation, a question not presented by this case, we note that Cruikshank also said that the First Amendment did not apply against the States and did not engage in the sort of Fourteenth Amendment inquiry required by our later cases. Our later decisions in Presser v. Illinois, 116 U. S. 252, 265 (1886) and Miller v. Texas, 153 U. S. 535, 538 (1894), reaffirmed that the Second Amendment applies only to the Federal Government.
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Presser said nothing about the Second Amendment’s meaning or scope, beyond the fact that it does not prevent the prohibition of private paramilitary organizations.
JUSTICE STEVENS places overwhelming reliance upon this Court’s decision in United States v. Miller, 307 U. S. 174 (1939). “[H]undreds of judges,” we are told, “have relied on the view of the amendment we endorsed there,” post, at 2, and “[e]ven if the textual and historical argu ments on both sides of the issue were evenly balanced, respect for the well-settled views of all of our predecessors on this Court, and for the rule of law itself . . . would prevent most jurists from endorsing such a dramatic upheaval in the law,” post, at 4. And what is, according to JUSTICE STEVENS, the holding of Miller that demands such obeisance? That the Second Amendment “protects the right to keep and bear arms for certain military pur poses, but that it does not curtail the legislature’s power to regulate the nonmilitary use and ownership of weapons.” Post, at 2.
Nothing so clearly demonstrates the weakness of JUSTICE STEVENS’ case. Miller did not hold that and cannot possibly be read to have held that. The judgment in the case upheld against a Second Amendment challenge two men’s federal indictment for transporting an unregis tered short-barreled shotgun in interstate commerce, in violation of the National Firearms Act, 48 Stat. 1236. It is entirely clear that the Court’s basis for saying that the Second Amendment did not apply was not that the defen dants were “bear[ing] arms” not “for . . . military purposes” but for “nonmilitary use,” post, at 2. Rather, it was that the type of weapon at issue was not eligible for Second Amendment protection: “In the absence of any evidence tending to show that the possession or use of a [short barreled shotgun] at this time has some reasonable rela tionship to the preservation or efficiency of a well regu lated militia, we cannot say that the Second Amendment
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guarantees the right to keep and bear such an instru- ment.” 307 U. S., at 178 (emphasis added). “Certainly,” the Court continued, “it is not within judicial notice that this weapon is any part of the ordinary military equip ment or that its use could contribute to the common de fense.” Ibid. Beyond that, the opinion provided no expla nation of the content of the right.
This holding is not only consistent with, but positively suggests, that the Second Amendment confers an individ ual right to keep and bear arms (though only arms that “have some reasonable relationship to the preservation or efficiency of a well regulated militia”). Had the Court believed that the Second Amendment protects only those serving in the militia, it would have been odd to examine the character of the weapon rather than simply note that the two crooks were not militiamen. JUSTICE STEVENS can say again and again that Miller did “not turn on the dif ference between muskets and sawed-off shotguns, it turned, rather, on the basic difference between the mili tary and nonmilitary use and possession of guns,” post, at 42–43, but the words of the opinion prove otherwise. The most JUSTICE STEVENS can plausibly claim for Miller is that it declined to decide the nature of the Second Amendment right, despite the Solicitor General’s argu ment (made in the alternative) that the right was collec tive, see Brief for United States, O. T. 1938, No. 696, pp. 4–5. Miller stands only for the proposition that the Second Amendment right, whatever its nature, extends only to certain types of weapons.
It is particularly wrongheaded to read Miller for more than what it said, because the case did not even purport to be a thorough examination of the Second Amendment. JUSTICE STEVENS claims, post, at 42, that the opinion reached its conclusion “[a]fter reviewing many of the same sources that are discussed at greater length by the Court today.” Not many, which was not entirely the Court’s
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fault. The defendants made no appearance in the case, neither filing a brief nor appearing at oral argument; the Court heard from no one but the Government (reason enough, one would think, not to make that case the begin ning and the end of this Court’s consideration of the Sec ond Amendment). See Frye, The Peculiar Story of United States v. Miller, 3 N. Y. U. J. L. & Liberty 48, 65–68 (2008). The Government’s brief spent two pages discuss ing English legal sources, concluding “that at least the carrying of weapons without lawful occasion or excuse was always a crime” and that (because of the class-based re strictions and the prohibition on terrorizing people with dangerous or unusual weapons) “the early English law did not guarantee an unrestricted right to bear arms.” Brief for United States, O. T. 1938, No. 696, at 9–11. It then went on to rely primarily on the discussion of the English right to bear arms in Aymette v. State, 21 Tenn. 154, for the proposition that the only uses of arms protected by the Second Amendment are those that relate to the militia, not self-defense. See Brief for United States, O. T. 1938, No. 696, at 12–18. The final section of the brief recognized that “some courts have said that the right to bear arms includes the right of the individual to have them for the protection of his person and property,” and launched an alternative argument that “weapons which are commonly used by criminals,” such as sawed-off shotguns, are not protected. See id., at 18–21. The Government’s Miller brief thus provided scant discussion of the history of the Second Amendment—and the Court was presented with no counterdiscussion. As for the text of the Court’s opin ion itself, that discusses none of the history of the Second Amendment. It assumes from the prologue that the Amendment was designed to preserve the militia, 307 U. S., at 178 (which we do not dispute), and then reviews some historical materials dealing with the nature of the militia, and in particular with the nature of the arms their
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members were expected to possess, id., at 178–182. Not a word (not a word) about the history of the Second Amend ment. This is the mighty rock upon which the dissent rests its case.24
We may as well consider at this point (for we will have to consider eventually) what types of weapons Miller permits. Read in isolation, Miller’s phrase “part of ordi nary military equipment” could mean that only those weapons useful in warfare are protected. That would be a startling reading of the opinion, since it would mean that the National Firearms Act’s restrictions on machineguns (not challenged in Miller) might be unconstitutional, machineguns being useful in warfare in 1939. We think that Miller’s “ordinary military equipment” language must be read in tandem with what comes after: “[O]rdinarily when called for [militia] service [able-bodied] men were expected to appear bearing arms supplied by themselves and of the kind in common use at the time.” 307 U. S., at 179. The traditional militia was formed from a pool of men bringing arms “in common use at the time” for lawful purposes like self-defense. “In the colonial and revolu tionary war era, [small-arms] weapons used by militiamen and weapons used in defense of person and home were one and the same.” State v. Kessler, 289 Ore. 359, 368, 614 P. 2d 94, 98 (1980) (citing G. Neumann, Swords and Blades of the American Revolution 6–15, 252–254 (1973)). Indeed, that is precisely the way in which the Second
—————— 24 As for the “hundreds of judges,” post, at 2, who have relied on the
view of the Second Amendment JUSTICE STEVENS claims we endorsed in Miller: If so, they overread Miller. And their erroneous reliance upon an uncontested and virtually unreasoned case cannot nullify the reliance of millions of Americans (as our historical analysis has shown) upon the true meaning of the right to keep and bear arms. In any event, it should not be thought that the cases decided by these judges would necessarily have come out differently under a proper interpreta tion of the right.
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Amendment’s operative clause furthers the purpose an nounced in its preface. We therefore read Miller to say only that the Second Amendment does not protect those weapons not typically possessed by law-abiding citizens for lawful purposes, such as short-barreled shotguns. That accords with the historical understanding of the scope of the right, see Part III, infra.25
We conclude that nothing in our precedents forecloses our adoption of the original understanding of the Second Amendment. It should be unsurprising that such a sig nificant matter has been for so long judicially unresolved. For most of our history, the Bill of Rights was not thought applicable to the States, and the Federal Government did not significantly regulate the possession of firearms by law-abiding citizens. Other provisions of the Bill of Rights have similarly remained unilluminated for lengthy peri ods. This Court first held a law to violate the First Amendment’s guarantee of freedom of speech in 1931, almost 150 years after the Amendment was ratified, see Near v. Minnesota ex rel. Olson, 283 U. S. 697 (1931), and it was not until after World War II that we held a law ——————
25 Miller was briefly mentioned in our decision in Lewis v. United States, 445 U. S. 55 (1980), an appeal from a conviction for being a felon in possession of a firearm. The challenge was based on the contention that the prior felony conviction had been unconstitutional. No Second Amendment claim was raised or briefed by any party. In the course of rejecting the asserted challenge, the Court commented gratuitously, in a footnote, that “[t]hese legislative restrictions on the use of firearms are neither based upon constitutionally suspect criteria, nor do they trench upon any constitutionally protected liberties. See United States v. Miller . . . (the Second Amendment guarantees no right to keep and bear a firearm that does not have ‘some reasonable relationship to the preservation or efficiency of a well regulated militia’).” Id., at 65–66, n. 8. The footnote then cites several Court of Appeals cases to the same effect. It is inconceivable that we would rest our interpretation of the basic meaning of any guarantee of the Bill of Rights upon such a footnoted dictum in a case where the point was not at issue and was not argued.
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invalid under the Establishment Clause, see Illinois ex rel. McCollum v. Board of Ed. of School Dist. No. 71, Cham- paign Cty., 333 U. S. 203 (1948). Even a question as basic as the scope of proscribable libel was not addressed by this Court until 1964, nearly two centuries after the founding. See New York Times Co. v. Sullivan, 376 U. S. 254 (1964). It is demonstrably not true that, as JUSTICE STEVENS claims, post, at 41–42, “for most of our history, the invalid ity of Second-Amendment-based objections to firearms regulations has been well settled and uncontroversial.” For most of our history the question did not present itself.
III Like most rights, the right secured by the Second
Amendment is not unlimited. From Blackstone through the 19th-century cases, commentators and courts rou tinely explained that the right was not a right to keep and carry any weapon whatsoever in any manner whatsoever and for whatever purpose. See, e.g., Sheldon, in 5 Blume 346; Rawle 123; Pomeroy 152–153; Abbott 333. For exam ple, the majority of the 19th-century courts to consider the question held that prohibitions on carrying concealed weapons were lawful under the Second Amendment or state analogues. See, e.g., State v. Chandler, 5 La. Ann., at 489–490; Nunn v. State, 1 Ga., at 251; see generally 2 Kent *340, n. 2; The American Students’ Blackstone 84, n. 11 (G. Chase ed. 1884). Although we do not undertake an exhaustive historical analysis today of the full scope of the Second Amendment, nothing in our opinion should be taken to cast doubt on longstanding prohibitions on the possession of firearms by felons and the mentally ill, or laws forbidding the carrying of firearms in sensitive places such as schools and government buildings, or laws impos ing conditions and qualifications on the commercial sale of
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arms.26 We also recognize another important limitation on the
right to keep and carry arms. Miller said, as we have explained, that the sorts of weapons protected were those “in common use at the time.” 307 U. S., at 179. We think that limitation is fairly supported by the historical tradi tion of prohibiting the carrying of “dangerous and unusual weapons.” See 4 Blackstone 148–149 (1769); 3 B. Wilson, Works of the Honourable James Wilson 79 (1804); J. Dunlap, The New-York Justice 8 (1815); C. Humphreys, A Compendium of the Common Law in Force in Kentucky 482 (1822); 1 W. Russell, A Treatise on Crimes and Indict able Misdemeanors 271–272 (1831); H. Stephen, Summary of the Criminal Law 48 (1840); E. Lewis, An Abridgment of the Criminal Law of the United States 64 (1847); F. Wharton, A Treatise on the Criminal Law of the United States 726 (1852). See also State v. Langford, 10 N. C. 381, 383–384 (1824); O’Neill v. State, 16 Ala. 65, 67 (1849); English v. State, 35 Tex. 473, 476 (1871); State v. Lanier, 71 N. C. 288, 289 (1874).
It may be objected that if weapons that are most useful in military service—M-16 rifles and the like—may be banned, then the Second Amendment right is completely detached from the prefatory clause. But as we have said, the conception of the militia at the time of the Second Amendment’s ratification was the body of all citizens capable of military service, who would bring the sorts of lawful weapons that they possessed at home to militia duty. It may well be true today that a militia, to be as effective as militias in the 18th century, would require sophisticated arms that are highly unusual in society at large. Indeed, it may be true that no amount of small arms could be useful against modern-day bombers and ——————
26 We identify these presumptively lawful regulatory measures only as examples; our list does not purport to be exhaustive.
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tanks. But the fact that modern developments have lim ited the degree of fit between the prefatory clause and the protected right cannot change our interpretation of the right.
IV We turn finally to the law at issue here. As we have
said, the law totally bans handgun possession in the home. It also requires that any lawful firearm in the home be disassembled or bound by a trigger lock at all times, ren dering it inoperable.
As the quotations earlier in this opinion demonstrate, the inherent right of self-defense has been central to the Second Amendment right. The handgun ban amounts to a prohibition of an entire class of “arms” that is overwhelm ingly chosen by American society for that lawful purpose. The prohibition extends, moreover, to the home, where the need for defense of self, family, and property is most acute. Under any of the standards of scrutiny that we have ap plied to enumerated constitutional rights,27 banning from ——————
27 JUSTICE BREYER correctly notes that this law, like almost all laws, would pass rational-basis scrutiny. Post, at 8. But rational-basis scrutiny is a mode of analysis we have used when evaluating laws under constitutional commands that are themselves prohibitions on irrational laws. See, e.g., Engquist v. Oregon Dept. of Agriculture, 553 U. S. ___, ___ (2008) (slip op., at 9–10). In those cases, “rational basis” is not just the standard of scrutiny, but the very substance of the constitutional guarantee. Obviously, the same test could not be used to evaluate the extent to which a legislature may regulate a specific, enumerated right, be it the freedom of speech, the guarantee against double jeopardy, the right to counsel, or the right to keep and bear arms. See United States v. Carolene Products Co., 304 U. S. 144, 152, n. 4 (1938) (“There may be narrower scope for operation of the pre sumption of constitutionality [i.e., narrower than that provided by rational-basis review] when legislation appears on its face to be within a specific prohibition of the Constitution, such as those of the first ten amendments. . .”). If all that was required to overcome the right to keep and bear arms was a rational basis, the Second Amendment would be redundant with the separate constitutional prohibitions on irra
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the home “the most preferred firearm in the nation to ‘keep’ and use for protection of one’s home and family,” 478 F. 3d, at 400, would fail constitutional muster.
Few laws in the history of our Nation have come close to the severe restriction of the District’s handgun ban. And some of those few have been struck down. In Nunn v. State, the Georgia Supreme Court struck down a prohibi tion on carrying pistols openly (even though it upheld a prohibition on carrying concealed weapons). See 1 Ga., at 251. In Andrews v. State, the Tennessee Supreme Court likewise held that a statute that forbade openly carrying a pistol “publicly or privately, without regard to time or place, or circumstances,” 50 Tenn., at 187, violated the state constitutional provision (which the court equated with the Second Amendment). That was so even though the statute did not restrict the carrying of long guns. Ibid. See also State v. Reid, 1 Ala. 612, 616–617 (1840) (“A statute which, under the pretence of regulating, amounts to a destruction of the right, or which requires arms to be so borne as to render them wholly useless for the purpose of defence, would be clearly unconstitutional”).
It is no answer to say, as petitioners do, that it is per missible to ban the possession of handguns so long as the possession of other firearms (i.e., long guns) is allowed. It is enough to note, as we have observed, that the American people have considered the handgun to be the quintessen tial self-defense weapon. There are many reasons that a citizen may prefer a handgun for home defense: It is easier to store in a location that is readily accessible in an emer gency; it cannot easily be redirected or wrestled away by an attacker; it is easier to use for those without the upper- body strength to lift and aim a long gun; it can be pointed at a burglar with one hand while the other hand dials the police. Whatever the reason, handguns are the most popu —————— tional laws, and would have no effect.
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lar weapon chosen by Americans for self-defense in the home, and a complete prohibition of their use is invalid.
We must also address the District’s requirement (as applied to respondent’s handgun) that firearms in the home be rendered and kept inoperable at all times. This makes it impossible for citizens to use them for the core lawful purpose of self-defense and is hence unconstitu tional. The District argues that we should interpret this element of the statute to contain an exception for self- defense. See Brief for Petitioners 56–57. But we think that is precluded by the unequivocal text, and by the presence of certain other enumerated exceptions: “Except for law enforcement personnel . . . , each registrant shall keep any firearm in his possession unloaded and disas sembled or bound by a trigger lock or similar device unless such firearm is kept at his place of business, or while being used for lawful recreational purposes within the District of Columbia.” D. C. Code §7–2507.02. The non existence of a self-defense exception is also suggested by the D. C. Court of Appeals’ statement that the statute forbids residents to use firearms to stop intruders, see McIntosh v. Washington, 395 A. 2d 744, 755–756 (1978).28
Apart from his challenge to the handgun ban and the trigger-lock requirement respondent asked the District Court to enjoin petitioners from enforcing the separate licensing requirement “in such a manner as to forbid the carrying of a firearm within one’s home or possessed land without a license.” App. 59a. The Court of Appeals did not invalidate the licensing requirement, but held only ——————
28 McIntosh upheld the law against a claim that it violated the Equal Protection Clause by arbitrarily distinguishing between residences and businesses. See 395 A. 2d, at 755. One of the rational bases listed for that distinction was the legislative finding “that for each intruder stopped by a firearm there are four gun-related accidents within the home.” Ibid. That tradeoff would not bear mention if the statute did not prevent stopping intruders by firearms.
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that the District “may not prevent [a handgun] from being moved throughout one’s house.” 478 F. 3d, at 400. It then ordered the District Court to enter summary judgment “consistent with [respondent’s] prayer for relief.” Id., at 401. Before this Court petitioners have stated that “if the handgun ban is struck down and respondent registers a handgun, he could obtain a license, assuming he is not otherwise disqualified,” by which they apparently mean if he is not a felon and is not insane. Brief for Petitioners 58. Respondent conceded at oral argument that he does not “have a problem with . . . licensing” and that the Dis trict’s law is permissible so long as it is “not enforced in an arbitrary and capricious manner.” Tr. of Oral Arg. 74–75. We therefore assume that petitioners’ issuance of a license will satisfy respondent’s prayer for relief and do not ad dress the licensing requirement.
JUSTICE BREYER has devoted most of his separate dis sent to the handgun ban. He says that, even assuming the Second Amendment is a personal guarantee of the right to bear arms, the District’s prohibition is valid. He first tries to establish this by founding-era historical precedent, pointing to various restrictive laws in the colonial period. These demonstrate, in his view, that the District’s law “imposes a burden upon gun owners that seems propor tionately no greater than restrictions in existence at the time the Second Amendment was adopted.” Post, at 2. Of the laws he cites, only one offers even marginal support for his assertion. A 1783 Massachusetts law forbade the residents of Boston to “take into” or “receive into” “any Dwelling House, Stable, Barn, Out-house, Ware-house, Store, Shop or other Building” loaded firearms, and per mitted the seizure of any loaded firearms that “shall be found” there. Act of Mar. 1, 1783, ch. 13, 1783 Mass. Acts p. 218. That statute’s text and its prologue, which makes clear that the purpose of the prohibition was to eliminate the danger to firefighters posed by the “depositing of
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loaded Arms” in buildings, give reason to doubt that colo nial Boston authorities would have enforced that general prohibition against someone who temporarily loaded a firearm to confront an intruder (despite the law’s applica tion in that case). In any case, we would not stake our interpretation of the Second Amendment upon a single law, in effect in a single city, that contradicts the over whelming weight of other evidence regarding the right to keep and bear arms for defense of the home. The other laws JUSTICE BREYER cites are gunpowder-storage laws that he concedes did not clearly prohibit loaded weapons, but required only that excess gunpowder be kept in a special container or on the top floor of the home. Post, at 6–7. Nothing about those fire-safety laws undermines our analysis; they do not remotely burden the right of self- defense as much as an absolute ban on handguns. Nor, correspondingly, does our analysis suggest the invalidity of laws regulating the storage of firearms to prevent accidents.
JUSTICE BREYER points to other founding-era laws that he says “restricted the firing of guns within the city limits to at least some degree” in Boston, Philadelphia and New York. Post, at 4 (citing Churchill, Gun Regulation, the Police Power, and the Right to Keep Arms in Early Amer ica, 25 Law & Hist. Rev. 139, 162 (2007)). Those laws provide no support for the severe restriction in the present case. The New York law levied a fine of 20 shillings on anyone who fired a gun in certain places (including houses) on New Year’s Eve and the first two days of Janu ary, and was aimed at preventing the “great Damages . . . frequently done on [those days] by persons going House to House, with Guns and other Firearms and being often intoxicated with Liquor.” 5 Colonial Laws of New York 244–246 (1894). It is inconceivable that this law would have been enforced against a person exercising his right to self-defense on New Year’s Day against such drunken
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hooligans. The Pennsylvania law to which JUSTICE BREYER refers levied a fine of 5 shillings on one who fired a gun or set off fireworks in Philadelphia without first obtaining a license from the governor. See Act of Aug. 26, 1721, §4, in 3 Stat. at Large 253–254. Given Justice Wil son’s explanation that the right to self-defense with arms was protected by the Pennsylvania Constitution, it is unlikely that this law (which in any event amounted to at most a licensing regime) would have been enforced against a person who used firearms for self-defense. JUSTICE BREYER cites a Rhode Island law that simply levied a 5 shilling fine on those who fired guns in streets and taverns, a law obviously inapplicable to this case. See An Act for preventing Mischief being done in the town of Newport, or in any other town in this Government, 1731, Rhode Island Session Laws. Finally, JUSTICE BREYER points to a Mas sachusetts law similar to the Pennsylvania law, prohibit ing “discharg[ing] any Gun or Pistol charged with Shot or Ball in the Town of Boston.” Act of May 28, 1746, ch. X, Acts and Laws of Mass. Bay 208. It is again implausible that this would have been enforced against a citizen acting in self-defense, particularly given its preambulatory refer ence to “the indiscreet firing of Guns.” Ibid. (preamble) (emphasis added).
A broader point about the laws that JUSTICE BREYER cites: All of them punished the discharge (or loading) of guns with a small fine and forfeiture of the weapon (or in a few cases a very brief stay in the local jail), not with sig nificant criminal penalties.29 They are akin to modern penalties for minor public-safety infractions like speeding ——————
29 The Supreme Court of Pennsylvania described the amount of five shillings in a contract matter in 1792 as “nominal consideration.” Morris’s Lessee v. Smith, 4 Dall. 119, 120 (Pa. 1792). Many of the laws cited punished violation with fine in a similar amount; the 1783 Massa chusetts gunpowder-storage law carried a somewhat larger fine of £10 (200 shillings) and forfeiture of the weapon.
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or jaywalking. And although such public-safety laws may not contain exceptions for self-defense, it is inconceivable that the threat of a jaywalking ticket would deter someone from disregarding a “Do Not Walk” sign in order to flee an attacker, or that the Government would enforce those laws under such circumstances. Likewise, we do not think that a law imposing a 5-shilling fine and forfeiture of the gun would have prevented a person in the founding era from using a gun to protect himself or his family from violence, or that if he did so the law would be enforced against him. The District law, by contrast, far from imposing a minor fine, threatens citizens with a year in prison (five years for a second violation) for even obtaining a gun in the first place. See D. C. Code §7–2507.06.
JUSTICE BREYER moves on to make a broad jurispruden tial point: He criticizes us for declining to establish a level of scrutiny for evaluating Second Amendment restrictions. He proposes, explicitly at least, none of the traditionally expressed levels (strict scrutiny, intermediate scrutiny, rational basis), but rather a judge-empowering “interest balancing inquiry” that “asks whether the statute burdens a protected interest in a way or to an extent that is out of proportion to the statute’s salutary effects upon other important governmental interests.” Post, at 10. After an exhaustive discussion of the arguments for and against gun control, JUSTICE BREYER arrives at his interest- balanced answer: because handgun violence is a problem, because the law is limited to an urban area, and because there were somewhat similar restrictions in the founding period (a false proposition that we have already dis cussed), the interest-balancing inquiry results in the constitutionality of the handgun ban. QED.
We know of no other enumerated constitutional right whose core protection has been subjected to a freestanding “interest-balancing” approach. The very enumeration of the right takes out of the hands of government—even the
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Third Branch of Government—the power to decide on a case-by-case basis whether the right is really worth insist ing upon. A constitutional guarantee subject to future judges’ assessments of its usefulness is no constitutional guarantee at all. Constitutional rights are enshrined with the scope they were understood to have when the people adopted them, whether or not future legislatures or (yes) even future judges think that scope too broad. We would not apply an “interest-balancing” approach to the prohibi tion of a peaceful neo-Nazi march through Skokie. See National Socialist Party of America v. Skokie, 432 U. S. 43 (1977) (per curiam). The First Amendment contains the freedom-of-speech guarantee that the people ratified, which included exceptions for obscenity, libel, and disclo sure of state secrets, but not for the expression of ex tremely unpopular and wrong-headed views. The Second Amendment is no different. Like the First, it is the very product of an interest-balancing by the people—which JUSTICE BREYER would now conduct for them anew. And whatever else it leaves to future evaluation, it surely elevates above all other interests the right of law-abiding, responsible citizens to use arms in defense of hearth and home.
JUSTICE BREYER chides us for leaving so many applica tions of the right to keep and bear arms in doubt, and for not providing extensive historical justification for those regulations of the right that we describe as permissible. See post, at 42–43. But since this case represents this Court’s first in-depth examination of the Second Amend ment, one should not expect it to clarify the entire field, any more than Reynolds v. United States, 98 U. S. 145 (1879), our first in-depth Free Exercise Clause case, left that area in a state of utter certainty. And there will be time enough to expound upon the historical justifications for the exceptions we have mentioned if and when those exceptions come before us.
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In sum, we hold that the District’s ban on handgun possession in the home violates the Second Amendment, as does its prohibition against rendering any lawful fire arm in the home operable for the purpose of immediate self-defense. Assuming that Heller is not disqualified from the exercise of Second Amendment rights, the Dis trict must permit him to register his handgun and must issue him a license to carry it in the home.
* * * We are aware of the problem of handgun violence in this
country, and we take seriously the concerns raised by the many amici who believe that prohibition of handgun ownership is a solution. The Constitution leaves the District of Columbia a variety of tools for combating that problem, including some measures regulating handguns, see supra, at 54–55, and n. 26. But the enshrinement of constitutional rights necessarily takes certain policy choices off the table. These include the absolute prohibi tion of handguns held and used for self-defense in the home. Undoubtedly some think that the Second Amend ment is outmoded in a society where our standing army is the pride of our Nation, where well-trained police forces provide personal security, and where gun violence is a serious problem. That is perhaps debatable, but what is not debatable is that it is not the role of this Court to pronounce the Second Amendment extinct.
We affirm the judgment of the Court of Appeals.
It is so ordered.
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SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
No. 07–290
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, ET AL., PETITIONERS v. DICK ANTHONY HELLER
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT
[June 26, 2008]
JUSTICE STEVENS, with whom JUSTICE SOUTER, JUSTICE GINSBURG, and JUSTICE BREYER join, dissenting.
The question presented by this case is not whether the Second Amendment protects a “collective right” or an “individual right.” Surely it protects a right that can be enforced by individuals. But a conclusion that the Second Amendment protects an individual right does not tell us anything about the scope of that right.
Guns are used to hunt, for self-defense, to commit crimes, for sporting activities, and to perform military duties. The Second Amendment plainly does not protect the right to use a gun to rob a bank; it is equally clear that it does encompass the right to use weapons for certain military purposes. Whether it also protects the right to possess and use guns for nonmilitary purposes like hunt ing and personal self-defense is the question presented by this case. The text of the Amendment, its history, and our decision in United States v. Miller, 307 U. S. 174 (1939), provide a clear answer to that question.
The Second Amendment was adopted to protect the right of the people of each of the several States to main tain a well-regulated militia. It was a response to con cerns raised during the ratification of the Constitution that the power of Congress to disarm the state militias and create a national standing army posed an intolerable
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threat to the sovereignty of the several States. Neither the text of the Amendment nor the arguments advanced by its proponents evidenced the slightest interest in limit ing any legislature’s authority to regulate private civilian uses of firearms. Specifically, there is no indication that the Framers of the Amendment intended to enshrine the common-law right of self-defense in the Constitution.
In 1934, Congress enacted the National Firearms Act, the first major federal firearms law.1 Sustaining an in dictment under the Act, this Court held that, “[i]n the absence of any evidence tending to show that possession or use of a ‘shotgun having a barrel of less than eighteen inches in length’ at this time has some reasonable rela tionship to the preservation or efficiency of a well regu lated militia, we cannot say that the Second Amendment guarantees the right to keep and bear such an instru ment.” Miller, 307 U. S., at 178. The view of the Amend ment we took in Miller—that it protects the right to keep and bear arms for certain military purposes, but that it does not curtail the Legislature’s power to regulate the nonmilitary use and ownership of weapons—is both the most natural reading of the Amendment’s text and the interpretation most faithful to the history of its adoption.
Since our decision in Miller, hundreds of judges have relied on the view of the Amendment we endorsed there;2
—————— 1 There was some limited congressional activity earlier: A 10% federal
excise tax on firearms was passed as part of the Revenue Act of 1918, 40 Stat. 1057, and in 1927 a statute was enacted prohibiting the shipment of handguns, revolvers, and other concealable weapons through the United States mails. Ch. 75, 44 Stat. 1059–1060 (hereinaf ter 1927 Act).
2 Until the Fifth Circuit’s decision in United States v. Emerson, 270 F. 3d 203 (2001), every Court of Appeals to consider the question had understood Miller to hold that the Second Amendment does not protect the right to possess and use guns for purely private, civilian purposes. See, e.g., United States v. Haney, 264 F. 3d 1161, 1164–1166 (CA10 2001); United States v. Napier, 233 F. 3d 394, 402–404 (CA6 2000);
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we ourselves affirmed it in 1980. See Lewis v. United States, 445 U. S. 55, 65–66, n. 8 (1980).3 No new evidence has surfaced since 1980 supporting the view that the Amendment was intended to curtail the power of Congress to regulate civilian use or misuse of weapons. Indeed, a review of the drafting history of the Amendment demon strates that its Framers rejected proposals that would have broadened its coverage to include such uses.
The opinion the Court announces today fails to identify any new evidence supporting the view that the Amend ment was intended to limit the power of Congress to regu late civilian uses of weapons. Unable to point to any such evidence, the Court stakes its holding on a strained and —————— Gillespie v. Indianapolis, 185 F. 3d 693, 710–711 (CA7 1999); United States v. Scanio, No. 97–1584, 1998 WL 802060, *2 (CA2, Nov. 12, 1998) (unpublished opinion); United States v. Wright, 117 F. 3d 1265, 1271–1274 (CA11 1997); United States v. Rybar, 103 F. 3d 273, 285–286 (CA3 1996); Hickman v. Block, 81 F. 3d 98, 100–103 (CA9 1996); United States v. Hale, 978 F. 2d 1016, 1018–1020 (CA8 1992); Thomas v. City Council of Portland, 730 F. 2d 41, 42 (CA1 1984) (per curiam); United States v. Johnson, 497 F. 2d 548, 550 (CA4 1974) (per curiam); United States v. Johnson, 441 F. 2d 1134, 1136 (CA5 1971); see also Sandidge v. United States, 520 A. 2d 1057, 1058–1059 (DC App. 1987). And a number of courts have remained firm in their prior positions, even after considering Emerson. See, e.g., United States v. Lippman, 369 F. 3d 1039, 1043–1045 (CA8 2004); United States v. Parker, 362 F. 3d 1279, 1282–1284 (CA10 2004); United States v. Jackubowski, 63 Fed. Appx. 959, 961 (CA7 2003) (unpublished opinion); Silveira v. Lockyer, 312 F. 3d 1052, 1060–1066 (CA9 2002); United States v. Milheron, 231 F. Supp. 2d 376, 378 (Me. 2002); Bach v. Pataki, 289 F. Supp. 2d 217, 224–226 (NDNY 2003); United States v. Smith, 56 M. J. 711, 716 (C. A. Armed Forces 2001).
3 Our discussion in Lewis was brief but significant. Upholding a con viction for receipt of a firearm by a felon, we wrote: “These legislative restrictions on the use of firearms are neither based upon constitution ally suspect criteria, nor do they entrench upon any constitutionally protected liberties. See United States v. Miller, 307 U. S. 174, 178 (1939) (the Second Amendment guarantees no right to keep and bear a firearm that does not have ‘some reasonable relationship to the preser vation or efficiency of a well regulated militia’).” 445 U. S., at 65, n. 8.
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unpersuasive reading of the Amendment’s text; signifi cantly different provisions in the 1689 English Bill of Rights, and in various 19th-century State Constitutions; postenactment commentary that was available to the Court when it decided Miller; and, ultimately, a feeble attempt to distinguish Miller that places more emphasis on the Court’s decisional process than on the reasoning in the opinion itself.
Even if the textual and historical arguments on both sides of the issue were evenly balanced, respect for the well-settled views of all of our predecessors on this Court, and for the rule of law itself, see Mitchell v. W. T. Grant Co., 416 U. S. 600, 636 (1974) (Stewart, J., dissenting), would prevent most jurists from endorsing such a dra matic upheaval in the law.4 As Justice Cardozo observed years ago, the “labor of judges would be increased almost to the breaking point if every past decision could be re opened in every case, and one could not lay one’s own
—————— 4 See Vasquez v. Hillery, 474 U. S. 254, 265, 266 (1986) (“[Stare de-
cisis] permits society to presume that bedrock principles are founded in the law rather than in the proclivities of individuals, and thereby contributes to the integrity of our constitutional system of government, both in appearance and in fact. While stare decisis is not an inexorable command, the careful observer will discern that any detours from the straight path of stare decisis in our past have occurred for articulable reasons, and only when the Court has felt obliged ‘to bring its opinions into agreement with experience and with facts newly ascertained.’ Burnet v. Coronado Oil & Gas Co., 285 U. S. 393, 412 (1932) (Brandeis, J., dissenting)”); Pollock v. Farmers’ Loan & Trust Co., 157 U. S. 429, 652 (1895) (White, J., dissenting) (“The fundamental conception of a judicial body is that of one hedged about by precedents which are binding on the court without regard to the personality of its members. Break down this belief in judicial continuity and let it be felt that on great constitutional questions this Court is to depart from the settled conclusions of its predecessors, and to determine them all according to the mere opinion of those who temporarily fill its bench, and our Constitution will, in my judgment, be bereft of value and become a most dangerous instrument to the rights and liberties of the people”).
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course of bricks on the secure foundation of the courses laid by others who had gone before him.” The Nature of the Judicial Process 149 (1921).
In this dissent I shall first explain why our decision in Miller was faithful to the text of the Second Amendment and the purposes revealed in its drafting history. I shall then comment on the postratification history of the Amendment, which makes abundantly clear that the Amendment should not be interpreted as limiting the authority of Congress to regulate the use or possession of firearms for purely civilian purposes.
I The text of the Second Amendment is brief. It provides:
“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”
Three portions of that text merit special focus: the in troductory language defining the Amendment’s purpose, the class of persons encompassed within its reach, and the unitary nature of the right that it protects. “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of
a free State” The preamble to the Second Amendment makes three
important points. It identifies the preservation of the militia as the Amendment’s purpose; it explains that the militia is necessary to the security of a free State; and it recognizes that the militia must be “well regulated.” In all three respects it is comparable to provisions in several State Declarations of Rights that were adopted roughly contemporaneously with the Declaration of Independence.5
—————— 5 The Virginia Declaration of Rights ¶13 (1776), provided: “That a
well-regulated militia, composed of the body of the people, trained to arms, is the proper, natural, and safe defence of a free State; that Standing Armies, in time of peace, should be avoided, as dangerous to
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Those state provisions highlight the importance members of the founding generation attached to the maintenance of state militias; they also underscore the profound fear shared by many in that era of the dangers posed by stand ing armies.6 While the need for state militias has not been
—————— liberty; and that, in all cases, the military should be under strict subordination to, and governed by, the civil power.” 1 B. Schwartz, The Bill of Rights 235 (1971) (hereinafter Schwartz).
Maryland’s Declaration of Rights, Arts. XXV–XXVII (1776), provided: “That a well-regulated militia is the proper and natural defence of a free government”; “That standing armies are dangerous to liberty, and ought not to be raised or kept up, without consent of the Legislature”; “That in all cases, and at all times, the military ought to be under strict subordination to and control of the civil power.” 1 Schwartz 282.
Delaware’s Declaration of Rights, §§18–20 (1776), provided: “That a well regulated militia is the proper, natural, and safe defence of a free government”; “That standing armies are dangerous to liberty, and ought not to be raised or kept up without the consent of the Legisla ture”; “That in all cases and at all times the military ought to be under strict subordination to and governed by the civil power.” 1 Schwartz 278.
Finally, New Hampshire’s Bill of Rights, Arts. XXIV–XXVI (1783), read: “A well regulated militia is the proper, natural, and sure defence of a state”; “Standing armies are dangerous to liberty, and ought not to be raised or kept up without consent of the legislature”; “In all cases, and at all times, the military ought to be under strict subordination to, and governed by the civil power.” 1 Schwartz 378. It elsewhere pro vided: “No person who is conscientiously scrupulous about the lawful ness of bearing arms, shall be compelled thereto, provided he will pay an equivalent.” Id., at 377 (Art. XIII).
6 The language of the Amendment’s preamble also closely tracks the language of a number of contemporaneous state militia statutes, many of which began with nearly identical statements. Georgia’s 1778 militia statute, for example, began, “[w]hereas a well ordered and disciplined Militia, is essentially necessary, to the Safety, peace and prosperity, of this State.” Act of Nov. 15, 1778, 19 Colonial Records of the State of Georgia 103 (Candler ed. 1911 (pt. 2)). North Carolina’s 1777 militia statute started with this language: “Whereas a well regulated Militia is absolutely necessary for the defending and securing the Liberties of a free State.” N. C. Sess. Laws ch. 1, §I, p. 1. And Connecticut’s 1782 “Acts and Laws Regulating the Militia” began, “Whereas the Defence
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a matter of significant public interest for almost two cen turies, that fact should not obscure the contemporary concerns that animated the Framers.
The parallels between the Second Amendment and these state declarations, and the Second Amendment’s omission of any statement of purpose related to the right to use firearms for hunting or personal self-defense, is especially striking in light of the fact that the Declarations of Rights of Pennsylvania and Vermont did expressly protect such civilian uses at the time. Article XIII of Pennsylvania’s 1776 Declaration of Rights announced that “the people have a right to bear arms for the defence of themselves and the state,” 1 Schwartz 266 (emphasis added); §43 of the Declaration assured that “the inhabi tants of this state shall have the liberty to fowl and hunt in seasonable times on the lands they hold, and on all other lands therein not inclosed,” id., at 274. And Article XV of the 1777 Vermont Declaration of Rights guaranteed “[t]hat the people have a right to bear arms for the defence of themselves and the State.” Id., at 324 (emphasis added). The contrast between those two declarations and the Second Amendment reinforces the clear statement of purpose announced in the Amendment’s preamble. It
—————— and Security of all free States depends (under God) upon the Exertions of a well regulated Militia, and the Laws heretofore enacted have proved inadequate to the End designed.” Conn. Acts and Laws p. 585 (hereinafter 1782 Conn. Acts).
These state militia statutes give content to the notion of a “well regulated militia.” They identify those persons who compose the State’s militia; they create regiments, brigades, and divisions; they set forth command structures and provide for the appointment of officers; they describe how the militia will be assembled when necessary and provide for training; and they prescribe penalties for nonappearance, delin quency, and failure to keep the required weapons, ammunition, and other necessary equipment. The obligation of militia members to “keep” certain specified arms is detailed further, n. 14, infra, and accompanying text.
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confirms that the Framers’ single-minded focus in crafting the constitutional guarantee “to keep and bear arms” was on military uses of firearms, which they viewed in the context of service in state militias.
The preamble thus both sets forth the object of the Amendment and informs the meaning of the remainder of its text. Such text should not be treated as mere surplu sage, for “[i]t cannot be presumed that any clause in the constitution is intended to be without effect.” Marbury v. Madison, 1 Cranch 137, 174 (1803).
The Court today tries to denigrate the importance of this clause of the Amendment by beginning its analysis with the Amendment’s operative provision and returning to the preamble merely “to ensure that our reading of the operative clause is consistent with the announced pur pose.” Ante, at 5. That is not how this Court ordinarily reads such texts, and it is not how the preamble would have been viewed at the time the Amendment was adopted. While the Court makes the novel suggestion that it need only find some “logical connection” between the preamble and the operative provision, it does acknowledge that a prefatory clause may resolve an ambiguity in the text. Ante, at 4.7 Without identifying any language in the
—————— 7 The sources the Court cites simply do not support the proposition
that some “logical connection” between the two clauses is all that is required. The Dwarris treatise, for example, merely explains that “[t]he general purview of a statute is not . . . necessarily to be restrained by any words introductory to the enacting clauses.” F. Dwarris, A General Treatise on Statutes 268 (P. Potter ed. 1871) (emphasis added). The treatise proceeds to caution that “the preamble cannot control the enacting part of a statute, which is expressed in clear and unambiguous terms, yet, if any doubt arise on the words of the enacting part, the preamble may be resorted to, to explain it.” Id., at 269. Sutherland makes the same point. Explaining that “[i]n the United States pream bles are not as important as they are in England,” the treatise notes that in the United States “the settled principle of law is that the pre amble cannot control the enacting part of the statute in cases where the
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text that even mentions civilian uses of firearms, the Court proceeds to “find” its preferred reading in what is at best an ambiguous text, and then concludes that its read ing is not foreclosed by the preamble. Perhaps the Court’s approach to the text is acceptable advocacy, but it is surely an unusual approach for judges to follow.
“The right of the people” The centerpiece of the Court’s textual argument is its
insistence that the words “the people” as used in the Sec ond Amendment must have the same meaning, and pro tect the same class of individuals, as when they are used in the First and Fourth Amendments. According to the Court, in all three provisions—as well as the Constitu tion’s preamble, section 2 of Article I, and the Tenth Amendment—“the term unambiguously refers to all mem bers of the political community, not an unspecified sub set.” Ante, at 6. But the Court itself reads the Second Amendment to protect a “subset” significantly narrower than the class of persons protected by the First and Fourth Amendments; when it finally drills down on the substan tive meaning of the Second Amendment, the Court limits the protected class to “law-abiding, responsible citizens,” ante, at 63. But the class of persons protected by the First and Fourth Amendments is not so limited; for even felons (and presumably irresponsible citizens as well) may in voke the protections of those constitutional provisions. The Court offers no way to harmonize its conflicting pro nouncements.
The Court also overlooks the significance of the way the
—————— enacting part is expressed in clear, unambiguous terms.” 2A N. Singer, Sutherland on Statutory Construction §47.04, p. 146 (rev. 5th ed. 1992) (emphasis added). Surely not even the Court believes that the Amendment’s operative provision, which, though only 14 words in length, takes the Court the better part of 18 pages to parse, is perfectly “clear and unambiguous.”
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Framers used the phrase “the people” in these constitu tional provisions. In the First Amendment, no words define the class of individuals entitled to speak, to publish, or to worship; in that Amendment it is only the right peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances, that is described as a right of “the people.” These rights contemplate collective action. While the right peaceably to assemble protects the individual rights of those persons participating in the assembly, its concern is with action engaged in by members of a group, rather than any single individual. Likewise, although the act of petitioning the Government is a right that can be exercised by individuals, it is primarily collective in na ture. For if they are to be effective, petitions must involve groups of individuals acting in concert.
Similarly, the words “the people” in the Second Amend ment refer back to the object announced in the Amend ment’s preamble. They remind us that it is the collective action of individuals having a duty to serve in the militia that the text directly protects and, perhaps more impor tantly, that the ultimate purpose of the Amendment was to protect the States’ share of the divided sovereignty created by the Constitution.
As used in the Fourth Amendment, “the people” de scribes the class of persons protected from unreasonable searches and seizures by Government officials. It is true that the Fourth Amendment describes a right that need not be exercised in any collective sense. But that observa tion does not settle the meaning of the phrase “the people” when used in the Second Amendment. For, as we have seen, the phrase means something quite different in the Petition and Assembly Clauses of the First Amendment. Although the abstract definition of the phrase “the people” could carry the same meaning in the Second Amendment as in the Fourth Amendment, the preamble of the Second Amendment suggests that the uses of the phrase in the
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First and Second Amendments are the same in referring to a collective activity. By way of contrast, the Fourth Amendment describes a right against governmental inter ference rather than an affirmative right to engage in protected conduct, and so refers to a right to protect a purely individual interest. As used in the Second Amendment, the words “the people” do not enlarge the right to keep and bear arms to encompass use or owner ship of weapons outside the context of service in a well- regulated militia.
“To keep and bear Arms” Although the Court’s discussion of these words treats
them as two “phrases”—as if they read “to keep” and “to bear”—they describe a unitary right: to possess arms if needed for military purposes and to use them in conjunc tion with military activities.
As a threshold matter, it is worth pausing to note an oddity in the Court’s interpretation of “to keep and bear arms.” Unlike the Court of Appeals, the Court does not read that phrase to create a right to possess arms for “lawful, private purposes.” Parker v. District of Columbia, 478 F. 3d 370, 382 (CADC 2007). Instead, the Court limits the Amendment’s protection to the right “to possess and carry weapons in case of confrontation.” Ante, at 19. No party or amicus urged this interpretation; the Court ap pears to have fashioned it out of whole cloth. But al though this novel limitation lacks support in the text of the Amendment, the Amendment’s text does justify a different limitation: the “right to keep and bear arms” protects only a right to possess and use firearms in con nection with service in a state-organized militia.
The term “bear arms” is a familiar idiom; when used unadorned by any additional words, its meaning is “to serve as a soldier, do military service, fight.” 1 Oxford English Dictionary 634 (2d ed. 1989). It is derived from
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the Latin arma ferre, which, translated literally, means “to bear [ferre] war equipment [arma].” Brief for Professors of Linguistics and English as Amici Curiae 19. One 18th century dictionary defined “arms” as “weapons of offence, or armour of defence,” 1 S. Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language (1755), and another contemporaneous source explained that “[b]y arms, we understand those instruments of offence generally made use of in war; such as firearms, swords, & c. By weapons, we more particu larly mean instruments of other kinds (exclusive of fire arms), made use of as offensive, on special occasions.” 1 J. Trusler, The Distinction Between Words Esteemed Syn onymous in the English Language 37 (1794).8 Had the Framers wished to expand the meaning of the phrase “bear arms” to encompass civilian possession and use, they could have done so by the addition of phrases such as “for the defense of themselves,” as was done in the Pennsyl vania and Vermont Declarations of Rights. The unmodi- fied use of “bear arms,” by contrast, refers most naturally to a military purpose, as evidenced by its use in literally dozens of contemporary texts.9 The absence of any refer ——————
8 The Court’s repeated citation to the dissenting opinion in Muscarello v. United States, 524 U. S. 125 (1998), ante, at 10, 13, as illuminating the meaning of “bear arms,” borders on the risible. At issue in Mus- carello was the proper construction of the word “carries” in 18 U. S. C. §924(c) (2000 ed. and Supp. V); the dissent in that case made passing reference to the Second Amendment only in the course of observing that both the Constitution and Black’s Law Dictionary suggested that something more active than placement of a gun in a glove compartment might be meant by the phrase “ ‘carries a firearm.’ ” 524 U. S., at 143.
9 Amici professors of Linguistics and English reviewed uses of the term “bear arms” in a compilation of books, pamphlets, and other sources disseminated in the period between the Declaration of Inde pendence and the adoption of the Second Amendment. See Brief for Professors of Linguistics and English as Amici Curiae 23–25. Amici determined that of 115 texts that employed the term, all but five usages were in a clearly military context, and in four of the remaining five instances, further qualifying language conveyed a different meaning.
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ence to civilian uses of weapons tailors the text of the Amendment to the purpose identified in its preamble.10
—————— The Court allows that the phrase “bear Arms” did have as an idiomatic meaning, “ ‘to serve as a soldier, do military service, fight,’ ” ante, at 12, but asserts that it “unequivocally bore that idiomatic meaning only when followed by the preposition ‘against,’ which was in turn followed by the target of the hostilities,” ante, at 12–13. But contemporary sources make clear that the phrase “bear arms” was often used to convey a military meaning without those additional words. See, e.g., To The Printer, Providence Gazette, (May 27, 1775) (“By the common estimate of three millions of people in America, allowing one in five to bear arms, there will be found 600,000 fighting men”); Letter of Henry Laurens to the Mass. Council (Jan. 21, 1778), in Letters of Delegates to Congress 1774–1789, p. 622 (P. Smith ed. 1981) (“Congress were yesterday informed . . . that those Canadians who returned from Saratoga . . . had been compelled by Sir Guy Carleton to bear Arms”); Of the Manner of Making War among the Indians of North-America, Connecticut Courant (May 23, 1785) (“The Indians begin to bear arms at the age of fifteen, and lay them aside when they arrive at the age of sixty. Some nations to the southward, I have been informed, do not continue their military exercises after they are fifty”); 28 Journals of the Continental Congress 1030 (G. Hunt ed. 1910) (“That hostages be mutually given as a security that the Convention troops and those received in exchange for them do not bear arms prior to the first day of May next”); H. R. J., 9th Cong., 1st Sess., 217 (Feb. 12, 1806) (“Whereas the commanders of British armed vessels have impressed many Ameri can seamen, and compelled them to bear arms on board said vessels, and assist in fighting their battles with nations in amity and peace with the United States”); H. R. J., 15th Cong., 2d Sess., 182–183 (Jan. 14, 1819) (“[The petitioners] state that they were residing in the British province of Canada, at the commencement of the late war, and that owing to their attachment to the United States, they refused to bear arms, when called upon by the British authorities . . .”).
10 Aymette v. State, 21 Tenn. 154, 156 (1840), a case we cited in Miller, further confirms this reading of the phrase. In Aymette, the Tennessee Supreme Court construed the guarantee in Tennessee’s 1834 Constitu tion that “ ‘the free white men of this State, have a right to keep and bear arms for their common defence.’ ” Explaining that the provision was adopted with the same goals as the Federal Constitution’s Second Amendment, the court wrote: “The words ‘bear arms’ . . . have reference to their military use, and were not employed to mean wearing them about the person as part of the dress. As the object for which the right
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But when discussing these words, the Court simply ig nores the preamble.
The Court argues that a “qualifying phrase that contra dicts the word or phrase it modifies is unknown this side of the looking glass.” Ante, at 15. But this fundamentally fails to grasp the point. The stand-alone phrase “bear arms” most naturally conveys a military meaning unless the addition of a qualifying phrase signals that a different meaning is intended. When, as in this case, there is no such qualifier, the most natural meaning is the military one; and, in the absence of any qualifier, it is all the more appropriate to look to the preamble to confirm the natural meaning of the text.11 The Court’s objection is particularly —————— to keep and bear arms is secured, is of general and public nature, to be exercised by the people in a body, for their common defence, so the arms, the right to keep which is secured, are such as are usually employed in civilized warfare, and that constitute the ordinary military equipment.” 21 Tenn., at 158. The court elaborated: “[W]e may re mark, that the phrase ‘bear arms’ is used in the Kentucky Constitution as well as our own, and implies, as has already been suggested, their military use. . . . A man in the pursuit of deer, elk, and buffaloes, might carry his rifle every day, for forty years, and, yet, it would never be said of him, that he had borne arms, much less could it be said, that a private citizen bears arms, because he has a dirk or pistol concealed under his clothes, or a spear in a cane.” Id., at 161.
11 As lucidly explained in the context of a statute mandating a sen tencing enhancement for any person who “uses” a firearm during a crime of violence or drug trafficking crime:
“To use an instrumentality ordinarily means to use it for its intended purpose. When someone asks, ‘Do you use a cane?,’ he is not inquiring whether you have your grandfather’s silver-handled walking stick on display in the hall; he wants to know whether you walk with a cane. Similarly, to speak of ‘using a firearm’ is to speak of using it for its distinctive purpose, i.e., as a weapon. To be sure, one can use a firearm in a number of ways, including as an article of exchange, just as one can ‘use’ a cane as a hall decoration—but that is not the ordinary meaning of ‘using’ the one or the other. The Court does not appear to grasp the distinction between how a word can be used and how it ordinarily is used.” Smith v. United States, 508 U. S. 223, 242 (1993) (SCALIA, J., dissenting) (some internal marks, footnotes, and citations
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puzzling in light of its own contention that the addition of the modifier “against” changes the meaning of “bear arms.” Compare ante, at 10 (defining “bear arms” to mean “carrying [a weapon] for a particular purpose— confrontation”), with ante, at 12 (“The phrase ‘bear Arms’ also had at the time of the founding an idiomatic meaning that was significantly different from its natural meaning: to serve as a soldier, do military service, fight or to wage war. But it unequivocally bore that idiomatic meaning only when followed by the preposition ‘against.’ ” (citations and some internal quotation marks omitted)).
The Amendment’s use of the term “keep” in no way contradicts the military meaning conveyed by the phrase “bear arms” and the Amendment’s preamble. To the contrary, a number of state militia laws in effect at the time of the Second Amendment’s drafting used the term “keep” to describe the requirement that militia members store their arms at their homes, ready to be used for ser vice when necessary. The Virginia military law, for exam ple, ordered that “every one of the said officers, non commissioned officers, and privates, shall constantly keep the aforesaid arms, accoutrements, and ammunition, ready to be produced whenever called for by his command ing officer.” Act for Regulating and Disciplining the Mili tia, 1785 Va. Acts ch. 1, §3, p. 2 (emphasis added).12
—————— omitted).
12 See also Act for the regulating, training, and arraying of the Mili tia, . . . of the State, 1781 N. J. Laws, ch. XIII, §12, p. 43 (“And be it Enacted, That each Person enrolled as aforesaid, shall also keep at his Place of Abode one Pound of good merchantable Gunpowder and three Pounds of Ball sized to his Musket or Rifle” (emphasis added)); An Act for establishing a Militia, 1785 Del. Laws §7, p. 59 (“And be it enacted, That every person between the ages of eighteen and fifty . . . shall at his own expense, provide himself . . . with a musket or firelock, with a bayonet, a cartouch box to contain twenty three cartridges, a priming wire, a brush and six flints, all in good order, on or before the first day of April next, under the penalty of forty shillings, and shall keep the
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“[K]eep and bear arms” thus perfectly describes the re sponsibilities of a framing-era militia member.
This reading is confirmed by the fact that the clause protects only one right, rather than two. It does not de scribe a right “to keep arms” and a separate right “to bear arms.” Rather, the single right that it does describe is both a duty and a right to have arms available and ready for military service, and to use them for military purposes when necessary.13 Different language surely would have been used to protect nonmilitary use and possession of weapons from regulation if such an intent had played any role in the drafting of the Amendment.
* * * When each word in the text is given full effect, the
Amendment is most naturally read to secure to the people a right to use and possess arms in conjunction with service in a well-regulated militia. So far as appears, no more than that was contemplated by its drafters or is encom passed within its terms. Even if the meaning of the text were genuinely susceptible to more than one interpreta tion, the burden would remain on those advocating a departure from the purpose identified in the preamble and —————— same by him at all times, ready and fit for service, under the penalty of two shillings and six pence for each neglect or default thereof on every muster day” (second emphasis added)); 1782 Conn. Acts 590 (“And it shall be the duty of the Regional Quarter-Master to provide and keep a sufficient quantity of Ammunition and warlike stores for the use of their respective regiments, to be kept in such place or places as shall be ordered by the Field Officers” (emphasis added)).
13 The Court notes that the First Amendment protects two separate rights with the phrase “the ‘right [singular] of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’ ” Ante, at 18. But this only proves the point: In contrast to the language quoted by the Court, the Second Amendment does not protect a “right to keep and to bear arms,” but rather a “right to keep and bear arms.” The state constitutions cited by the Court are distinguishable on the same ground.
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from settled law to come forward with persuasive new arguments or evidence. The textual analysis offered by respondent and embraced by the Court falls far short of sustaining that heavy burden.14 And the Court’s emphatic reliance on the claim “that the Second Amendment . . . codified a pre-existing right,” ante, at 19, is of course be side the point because the right to keep and bear arms for service in a state militia was also a pre-existing right.
Indeed, not a word in the constitutional text even ar guably supports the Court’s overwrought and novel de scription of the Second Amendment as “elevat[ing] above all other interests” “the right of law-abiding, responsible citizens to use arms in defense of hearth and home.” Ante, at 63.
II The proper allocation of military power in the new
Nation was an issue of central concern for the Framers. The compromises they ultimately reached, reflected in Article I’s Militia Clauses and the Second Amendment, represent quintessential examples of the Framers’ “split ting the atom of sovereignty.” 15
—————— 14 The Court’s atomistic, word-by-word approach to construing the
Amendment calls to mind the parable of the six blind men and the elephant, famously set in verse by John Godfrey Saxe. The Poems of John Godfrey Saxe 135–136 (1873). In the parable, each blind man approaches a single elephant; touching a different part of the elephant’s body in isolation, each concludes that he has learned its true nature. One touches the animal’s leg, and concludes that the elephant is like a tree; another touches the trunk and decides that the elephant is like a snake; and so on. Each of them, of course, has fundamentally failed to grasp the nature of the creature.
15 By “ ‘split[ting] the atom of sovereignty,’ ” the Framers created “ ‘two political capacities, one state and one federal, each protected from incursion by the other. The resulting Constitution created a legal system unprecedented in form and design, establishing two orders of government, each with its own direct relationship, its own privity, its own set of mutual rights and obligations to the people who sustain it
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Two themes relevant to our current interpretive task ran through the debates on the original Constitution. “On the one hand, there was a widespread fear that a national standing Army posed an intolerable threat to individual liberty and to the sovereignty of the separate States.” Perpich v. Department of Defense, 496 U. S. 334, 340 (1990).16 Governor Edmund Randolph, reporting on the Constitutional Convention to the Virginia Ratification Convention, explained: “With respect to a standing army, I believe there was not a member in the federal Convention, who did not feel indignation at such an institution.” 3 J. Elliot, Debates in the Several State Conventions on the Adoption of the Federal Constitution 401 (2d ed. 1863) (hereinafter Elliot). On the other hand, the Framers recognized the dangers inherent in relying on inade quately trained militia members “as the primary means of providing for the common defense,” Perpich, 496 U. S., at 340; during the Revolutionary War, “[t]his force, though armed, was largely untrained, and its deficiencies were the subject of bitter complaint.” Wiener, The Militia Clause of the Constitution, 54 Harv. L. Rev. 181, 182 (1940).17 In order to respond to those twin concerns, a —————— and are governed by it.’ ” Saenz v. Roe, 526 U. S. 489, 504, n. 17 (1999) (quoting U. S. Term Limits, Inc. v. Thornton, 514 U. S. 779, 838 (1995) (KENNEDY, J., concurring)).
16 Indeed, this was one of the grievances voiced by the colonists: Para graph 13 of the Declaration of Independence charged of King George, “He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.”
17 George Washington, writing to Congress on September 24, 1776, warned that for Congress “[t]o place any dependance upon Militia, is, assuredly, resting upon a broken staff.” 6 Writings of George Washing ton 106, 110 (J. Fitzpatrick ed. 1932). Several years later he reiterated this view in another letter to Congress: “Regular Troops alone are equal to the exigencies of modern war, as well for defence as offence . . . . No Militia will ever acquire the habits necessary to resist a regular force. . . . The firmness requisite for the real business of fighting is only to be attained by a constant course of discipline and service.” 20 id., at
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compromise was reached: Congress would be authorized to raise and support a national Army18 and Navy, and also to organize, arm, discipline, and provide for the calling forth of “the Militia.” U. S. Const., Art. I, §8, cls. 12–16. The President, at the same time, was empowered as the “Com mander in Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States, when called into the actual Service of the United States.” Art. II, §2. But, with respect to the militia, a significant reser vation was made to the States: Although Congress would have the power to call forth,19 organize, arm, and disci pline the militia, as well as to govern “such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the United States,” the States respectively would retain the right to appoint the officers and to train the militia in accordance with the discipline prescribed by Congress. Art. I, §8, cl. 16.20
—————— 49, 49–50 (Sept. 15, 1780). And Alexander Hamilton argued this view in many debates. In 1787, he wrote:
“Here I expect we shall be told that the militia of the country is its natural bulwark, and would be at all times equal to the national defense. This doctrine, in substance, had like to have lost us our independence. . . . War, like most other things, is a science to be acquired and perfected by diligence, by perseverance, by time, and by practice.” The Federalist No. 25, p. 166 (C. Rossiter ed. 1961).
18 “[B]ut no Appropriation of Money to that Use [raising and support ing Armies] shall be for a longer Term than two Years.” U. S. Const., Art I, §8, cl. 12
19 This “calling forth” power was only permitted in order for the mili tia “to execute the Laws of the Union, suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions.” Id., Art. I, §8, cl. 15.
20 The Court assumes—incorrectly, in my view—that even when a state militia was not called into service, Congress would have had the power to exclude individuals from enlistment in that state militia. See ante, at 27. That assumption is not supported by the text of the Militia Clauses of the original Constitution, which confer upon Congress the power to “organiz[e], ar[m], and disciplin[e], the Militia,” Art. I, §8, cl. 16, but not the power to say who will be members of a state militia. It is also flatly inconsistent with the Second Amendment. The States’ power to create their own militias provides an easy answer to the
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But the original Constitution’s retention of the militia and its creation of divided authority over that body did not prove sufficient to allay fears about the dangers posed by a standing army. For it was perceived by some that Article I contained a significant gap: While it empowered Con gress to organize, arm, and discipline the militia, it did not prevent Congress from providing for the militia’s disar mament. As George Mason argued during the debates in Virginia on the ratification of the original Constitution:
“The militia may be here destroyed by that method which has been practiced in other parts of the world before; that is, by rendering them useless—by disarm ing them. Under various pretences, Congress may neglect to provide for arming and disciplining the mi litia; and the state governments cannot do it, for Con gress has the exclusive right to arm them.” Elliot 379.
This sentiment was echoed at a number of state ratifica tion conventions; indeed, it was one of the primary objec tions to the original Constitution voiced by its opponents. The Anti-Federalists were ultimately unsuccessful in persuading state ratification conventions to condition their approval of the Constitution upon the eventual inclusion of any particular amendment. But a number of States did propose to the first Federal Congress amendments reflect ing a desire to ensure that the institution of the militia would remain protected under the new Government. The proposed amendments sent by the States of Virginia, North Carolina, and New York focused on the importance of preserving the state militias and reiterated the dangers posed by standing armies. New Hampshire sent a pro posal that differed significantly from the others; while also —————— Court’s complaint that the right as I have described it is empty because it merely guarantees “citizens’ right to use a gun in an organization from which Congress has plenary authority to exclude them.” Ante, at 28.
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invoking the dangers of a standing army, it suggested that the Constitution should more broadly protect the use and possession of weapons, without tying such a guarantee expressly to the maintenance of the militia. The States of Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts sent no relevant proposed amendments to Congress, but in each of those States a minority of the delegates advocated related amendments. While the Maryland minority proposals were exclusively concerned with standing armies and conscientious objectors, the unsuccessful proposals in both Massachusetts and Pennsylvania would have protected a more broadly worded right, less clearly tied to service in a state militia. Faced with all of these options, it is telling that James Madison chose to craft the Second Amendment as he did.
The relevant proposals sent by the Virginia Ratifying Convention read as follows:
“17th, That the people have a right to keep and bear arms; that a well regulated Militia composed of the body of the people trained to arms is the proper, natu ral and safe defence of a free State. That standing armies are dangerous to liberty, and therefore ought to be avoided, as far as the circumstances and protec tion of the Community will admit; and that in all cases the military should be under strict subordina tion to and be governed by the civil power.” Elliot 659.
“19th. That any person religiously scrupulous of bearing arms ought to be exempted, upon payment of an equivalent to employ another to bear arms in his stead.” Ibid.
North Carolina adopted Virginia’s proposals and sent them to Congress as its own, although it did not actually ratify the original Constitution until Congress had sent the proposed Bill of Rights to the States for ratification. 2
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Schwartz 932–933; see The Complete Bill of Rights 182– 183 (N. Cogan ed. 1997) (hereinafter Cogan).
New York produced a proposal with nearly identical language. It read:
“That the people have a right to keep and bear Arms; that a well regulated Militia, including the body of the People capable of bearing Arms, is the proper, natural, and safe defence of a free State. . . . That standing Armies, in time of Peace, are dangerous to Liberty, and ought not to be kept up, except in Cases of necessity; and that at all times, the Military should be kept under strict Subordination to the civil Power.” 2 Schwartz 912.
Notably, each of these proposals used the phrase “keep and bear arms,” which was eventually adopted by Madi son. And each proposal embedded the phrase within a group of principles that are distinctly military in meaning.21
By contrast, New Hampshire’s proposal, although it followed another proposed amendment that echoed the familiar concern about standing armies,22 described the protection involved in more clearly personal terms. Its ——————
21 In addition to the cautionary references to standing armies and to the importance of civil authority over the military, each of the proposals contained a guarantee that closely resembled the language of what later became the Third Amendment. The 18th proposal from Virginia and North Carolina read “That no soldier in time of peace ought to be quartered in any house without the consent of the owner, and in time of war in such manner only as the law directs.” Elliott 659. And New York’s language read: “That in time of Peace no Soldier ought to be quartered in any House without the consent of the Owner, and in time of War only by the Civil Magistrate in such manner as the Laws may direct.” 2 Schwartz 912.
22 “Tenth, That no standing Army shall be Kept up in time of Peace unless with the consent of three fourths of the Members of each branch of Congress, nor shall Soldiers in Time of Peace be quartered upon private Houses with out the consent of the Owners.”
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proposal read: “Twelfth, Congress shall never disarm any Citizen
unless such as are or have been in Actual Rebellion.” Id., at 758, 761.
The proposals considered in the other three States, although ultimately rejected by their respective ratifica tion conventions, are also relevant to our historical in quiry. First, the Maryland proposal, endorsed by a minor ity of the delegates and later circulated in pamphlet form, read:
“4. That no standing army shall be kept up in time of peace, unless with the consent of two thirds of the members present of each branch of Congress.
. . . . . “10. That no person conscientiously scrupulous of
bearing arms in any case, shall be compelled person ally to serve as a soldier.” Id., at 729, 735.
The rejected Pennsylvania proposal, which was later incorporated into a critique of the Constitution titled “The Address and Reasons of Dissent of the Pennsylvania Mi nority of the Convention of the State of Pennsylvania to Their Constituents (1787),” signed by a minority of the State’s delegates (those who had voted against ratification of the Constitution), id., at 628, 662, read:
7. “That the people have a right to bear arms for the defense of themselves and their own State, or the United States, or for the purpose of killing game; and no law shall be passed for disarming the people or any of them unless for crimes committed, or real danger of public injury from individuals; and as standing armies in the time of peace are dangerous to liberty, they ought not to be kept up; and that the military shall be kept under strict subordination to, and be governed by the civil powers.” Id., at 665.
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Finally, after the delegates at the Massachusetts Ratifi cation Convention had compiled a list of proposed amend ments and alterations, a motion was made to add to the list the following language: “[T]hat the said Constitution never be construed to authorize Congress to . . . prevent the people of the United States, who are peaceable citi zens, from keeping their own arms.” Cogan 181. This motion, however, failed to achieve the necessary support, and the proposal was excluded from the list of amend ments the State sent to Congress. 2 Schwartz 674–675.
Madison, charged with the task of assembling the pro posals for amendments sent by the ratifying States, was the principal draftsman of the Second Amendment.23 He had before him, or at the very least would have been aware of, all of these proposed formulations. In addition, Madison had been a member, some years earlier, of the committee tasked with drafting the Virginia Declaration of Rights. That committee considered a proposal by Tho mas Jefferson that would have included within the Vir ginia Declaration the following language: “No freeman shall ever be debarred the use of arms [within his own lands or tenements].” 1 Papers of Thomas Jefferson 363 (J. Boyd ed. 1950). But the committee rejected that lan guage, adopting instead the provision drafted by George Mason.24
—————— 23 Madison explained in a letter to Richard Peters, Aug. 19, 1789, the
paramount importance of preparing a list of amendments to placate those States that had ratified the Constitution in reliance on a com mitment that amendments would follow: “In many States the [Consti tution] was adopted under a tacit compact in [favor] of some subsequent provisions on this head. In [Virginia]. It would have been certainly rejected, had no assurances been given by its advocates that such provisions would be pursued. As an honest man I feel my self bound by this consideration.” Creating the Bill of Rights 281, 282 (H. Veit, K. Bowling, & C. Bickford eds. 1991) (hereinafter Veit).
24 The adopted language, Virginia Declaration of Rights ¶13 (1776), read as follows: “That a well-regulated Militia, composed of the body of
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With all of these sources upon which to draw, it is strik ingly significant that Madison’s first draft omitted any mention of nonmilitary use or possession of weapons. Rather, his original draft repeated the essence of the two proposed amendments sent by Virginia, combining the substance of the two provisions succinctly into one, which read: “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed; a well armed, and well regulated militia being the best security of a free country; but no person religiously scrupulous of bearing arms, shall be compelled to render military service in person.” Cogan 169.
Madison’s decision to model the Second Amendment on the distinctly military Virginia proposal is therefore re vealing, since it is clear that he considered and rejected formulations that would have unambiguously protected civilian uses of firearms. When Madison prepared his first draft, and when that draft was debated and modified, it is reasonable to assume that all participants in the drafting process were fully aware of the other formulations that would have protected civilian use and possession of weap ons and that their choice to craft the Amendment as they did represented a rejection of those alternative formula tions.
Madison’s initial inclusion of an exemption for conscien tious objectors sheds revelatory light on the purpose of the Amendment. It confirms an intent to describe a duty as well as a right, and it unequivocally identifies the military character of both. The objections voiced to the conscien tious-objector clause only confirm the central meaning of the text. Although records of the debate in the Senate, which is where the conscientious-objector clause was —————— the people, trained to arms, is the proper, natural, and safe defence of a free State; that Standing Armies, in time of peace, should be avoided as dangerous to liberty; and that, in all cases, the military should be under strict subordination to, and governed by, the civil power.” 1 Schwartz 234.
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removed, do not survive, the arguments raised in the House illuminate the perceived problems with the clause: Specifically, there was concern that Congress “can declare who are those religiously scrupulous, and prevent them from bearing arms.”25 The ultimate removal of the clause, therefore, only serves to confirm the purpose of the Amendment—to protect against congressional disarma ment, by whatever means, of the States’ militias.
The Court also contends that because “Quakers opposed the use of arms not just for militia service, but for any violent purpose whatsoever,” ante, at 17, the inclusion of a conscientious-objector clause in the original draft of the Amendment does not support the conclusion that the phrase “bear arms” was military in meaning. But that claim cannot be squared with the record. In the proposals cited supra, at 21–22, both Virginia and North Carolina included the following language: “That any person relig iously scrupulous of bearing arms ought to be exempted, upon payment of an equivalent to employ another to bear arms in his stead” (emphasis added).26 There is no plausi ble argument that the use of “bear arms” in those provi sions was not unequivocally and exclusively military: The State simply does not compel its citizens to carry arms for the purpose of private “confrontation,” ante, at 10, or for self-defense.
The history of the adoption of the Amendment thus describes an overriding concern about the potential threat to state sovereignty that a federal standing army would
—————— 25 Veit 182. This was the objection voiced by Elbridge Gerry, who
went on to remark, in the next breath: “What, sir, is the use of a mili tia? It is to prevent the establishment of a standing army, the bane of liberty. . .. Whenever government mean to invade the rights and liberties of the people, they always attempt to destroy the militia, in order to raise an army upon their ruins.” Ibid.
26 The failed Maryland proposals contained similar language. See supra, at 23.
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pose, and a desire to protect the States’ militias as the means by which to guard against that danger. But state militias could not effectively check the prospect of a fed eral standing army so long as Congress retained the power to disarm them, and so a guarantee against such disar mament was needed.27 As we explained in Miller: “With obvious purpose to assure the continuation and render possible the effectiveness of such forces the declaration and guarantee of the Second Amendment were made. It must be interpreted and applied with that end in view.” 307 U. S., at 178. The evidence plainly refutes the claim that the Amendment was motivated by the Framers’ fears that Congress might act to regulate any civilian uses of weapons. And even if the historical record were genuinely ambiguous, the burden would remain on the parties advo cating a change in the law to introduce facts or arguments “ ‘newly ascertained,’ ” Vasquez, 474 U. S., at 266; the Court is unable to identify any such facts or arguments.
III Although it gives short shrift to the drafting history of
the Second Amendment, the Court dwells at length on four other sources: the 17th-century English Bill of Rights; Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England; postenactment commentary on the Second Amendment; and post-Civil War legislative history.28 All of these ——————
27 The Court suggests that this historical analysis casts the Second Amendment as an “odd outlier,” ante, at 30; if by “outlier,” the Court means that the Second Amendment was enacted in a unique and novel context, and responded to the particular challenges presented by the Framers’ federalism experiment, I have no quarrel with the Court’s characterization.
28 The Court’s fixation on the last two types of sources is particularly puzzling, since both have the same characteristics as postenactment legislative history, which is generally viewed as the least reliable source of authority for ascertaining the intent of any provision’s draft ers. As has been explained:
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sources shed only indirect light on the question before us, and in any event offer little support for the Court’s conclusion.29 ——————
“The legislative history of a statute is the history of its consideration and enactment. ‘Subsequent legislative history’—which presumably means the post-enactment history of a statute’s consideration and enactment—is a contradiction in terms. The phrase is used to smuggle into judicial consideration legislators’ expression not of what a bill currently under consideration means (which, the theory goes, reflects what their colleagues understood they were voting for), but of what a law previously enacted means. . . . In my opinion, the views of a legisla tor concerning a statute already enacted are entitled to no more weight than the views of a judge concerning a statute not yet passed.” Sulli- van v. Finkelstein, 496 U. S. 617, 631–632 (1990) (SCALIA, J., concurring in part).
29 The Court stretches to derive additional support from scattered state-court cases primarily concerned with state constitutional provi sions. See ante, at 38–41. To the extent that those state courts as sumed that the Second Amendment was coterminous with their differ ently worded state constitutional arms provisions, their discussions were of course dicta. Moreover, the cases on which the Court relies were decided between 30 and 60 years after the ratification of the Second Amendment, and there is no indication that any of them en gaged in a careful textual or historical analysis of the federal constitu tional provision. Finally, the interpretation of the Second Amendment advanced in those cases is not as clear as the Court apparently believes. In Aldridge v. Commonwealth, 2 Va. Cas. 447 (Gen. Ct. 1824), for example, a Virginia court pointed to the restriction on free blacks’ “right to bear arms” as evidence that the protections of the State and Federal Constitutions did not extend to free blacks. The Court asserts that “[t]he claim was obviously not that blacks were prevented from carrying guns in the militia.” Ante, at 39. But it is not obvious at all. For in many States, including Virginia, free blacks during the colonial period were prohibited from carrying guns in the militia, instead being required to “muste[r] without arms”; they were later barred from serving in the militia altogether. See Siegel, The Federal Government’s Power to Enact Color-Conscious Laws: An Originalist Inquiry, 92 Nw. U. L. Rev. 477, 497–498, and n. 120 (1998). But my point is not that the Aldridge court endorsed my view of the Amendment—plainly it did not, as the premise of the relevant passage was that the Second Amendment applied to the States. Rather, my point is simply that the court could have understood the Second Amendment to protect a
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The English Bill of Rights The Court’s reliance on Article VII of the 1689 English
Bill of Rights—which, like most of the evidence offered by the Court today, was considered in Miller30—is misguided both because Article VII was enacted in response to differ ent concerns from those that motivated the Framers of the Second Amendment, and because the guarantees of the two provisions were by no means coextensive. Moreover, the English text contained no preamble or other provision identifying a narrow, militia-related purpose.
The English Bill of Rights responded to abuses by the Stuart monarchs; among the grievances set forth in the Bill of Rights was that the King had violated the law “[b]y causing several good Subjects being Protestants to be disarmed at the same time when Papists were both armed and Employed contrary to Law.” Article VII of the Bill of Rights was a response to that selective disarmament; it guaranteed that “the Subjects which are Protestants may have Armes for their defence, Suitable to their condition and as allowed by Law.” L. Schwoerer, The Declaration of Rights, 1689 (App. 1, pp. 295, 297) (1981). This grant did
—————— militia-focused right, and thus that its passing mention of the right to bear arms provides scant support for the Court’s position.
30 The Government argued in its brief that: “[I]t would seem that the early English law did not guarantee an unrestricted right to bear arms. Such recognition as existed of a right in the people to keep and bear arms appears to have resulted from oppression by rulers who disarmed their political opponents and who organized large standing armies which were obnoxious and burden some to the people. This right, however, it is clear, gave sanction only to the arming of the people as a body to defend their rights against tyrannical and unprincipled rulers. It did not permit the keeping of arms for purposes of private defense.” Brief for United States in United States v. Miller, O. T. 1938, No. 696, pp. 11–12 (citations omitted). The Government then cited at length the Tennessee Supreme Court’s opinion in Aymette, 21 Tenn. 154, which further situated the English Bill of Rights in its historical context. See n. 10, supra.
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not establish a general right of all persons, or even of all Protestants, to possess weapons. Rather, the right was qualified in two distinct ways: First, it was restricted to those of adequate social and economic status (“suitable to their Condition”); second, it was only available subject to regulation by Parliament (“as allowed by Law”).31
The Court may well be correct that the English Bill of Rights protected the right of some English subjects to use some arms for personal self-defense free from restrictions by the Crown (but not Parliament). But that right— adopted in a different historical and political context and framed in markedly different language—tells us little about the meaning of the Second Amendment.
Blackstone’s Commentaries The Court’s reliance on Blackstone’s Commentaries on
the Laws of England is unpersuasive for the same reason as its reliance on the English Bill of Rights. Blackstone’s invocation of “ ‘the natural right of resistance and self- preservation,’ ” ante, at 20, and “ ‘the right of having and using arms for self-preservation and defence’ ” ibid., re ferred specifically to Article VII in the English Bill of Rights. The excerpt from Blackstone offered by the Court, therefore, is, like Article VII itself, of limited use in inter preting the very differently worded, and differently his torically situated, Second Amendment. What is important about Blackstone is the instruction he provided on reading the sort of text before us today. Blackstone described an interpretive approach that gave far more weight to preambles than the Court allows.
—————— 31 Moreover, it was the Crown, not Parliament, that was bound by the
English provision; indeed, according to some prominent historians, Article VII is best understood not as announcing any individual right to unregulated firearm ownership (after all, such a reading would fly in the face of the text), but as an assertion of the concept of parliamentary supremacy. See Brief for Jack N. Rakove et al. as Amici Curiae 6–9.
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Counseling that “[t]he fairest and most rational method to interpret the will of the legislator, is by exploring his intentions at the time when the law was made, by signs the most natural and probable,” Blackstone explained that “[i]f words happen to be still dubious, we may establish their meaning from the context; with which it may be of singular use to compare a word, or a sentence, whenever they are ambiguous, equivocal, or intricate. Thus, the proeme, or preamble, is often called in to help the con struction of an act of parliament.” 1 Commentaries on the Laws of England 59–60 (1765) (hereinafter Blackstone). In light of the Court’s invocation of Blackstone as “ ‘the preeminent authority on English law for the founding generation,’ ” ante, at 20 (quoting Alden v. Maine, 527 U. S. 706, 715 (1999)), its disregard for his guidance on matters of interpretation is striking.
Postenactment Commentary The Court also excerpts, without any real analysis,
commentary by a number of additional scholars, some near in time to the framing and others post-dating it by close to a century. Those scholars are for the most part of limited relevance in construing the guarantee of the Sec ond Amendment: Their views are not altogether clear,32
—————— 32 For example, St. George Tucker, on whom the Court relies heavily,
did not consistently adhere to the position that the Amendment was designed to protect the “Blackstonian” self-defense right, ante, at 33. In a series of unpublished lectures, Tucker suggested that the Amendment should be understood in the context of the compromise over military power represented by the original Constitution and the Second and Tenth Amendments: “If a State chooses to incur the expense of putting arms into the Hands of its own Citizens for their defense, it would require no small ingenuity to prove that they have no right to do it, or that it could by any means contravene the Authority of the federal Govt. It may be alleged indeed that this might be done for the purpose of resisting the laws of the federal Government, or of shaking off the union: to which the plainest
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they tended to collapse the Second Amendment with Article VII of the English Bill of Rights, and they appear to have been unfamiliar with the drafting history of the Second Amendment.33
The most significant of these commentators was Joseph Story. Contrary to the Court’s assertions, however, Story actually supports the view that the Amendment was designed to protect the right of each of the States to main tain a well-regulated militia. When Story used the term “palladium” in discussions of the Second Amendment, he merely echoed the concerns that animated the Framers of the Amendment and led to its adoption. An excerpt from —————— answer seems to be, that whenever the States think proper to adopt either of these measures, they will not be with-held by the fear of infringing any of the powers of the federal Government. But to contend that such a power would be dangerous for the reasons above main tained would be subversive of every principle of Freedom in our Gov ernment; of which the first Congress appears to have been sensible by proposing an Amendment to the Constitution, which has since been ratified and has become part of it, viz., ‘That a well regulated militia being necessary to the Security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ To this we may add that this power of arming the militia, is not one of those prohibited to the States by the Constitution, and, consequently, is reserved to them under the twelfth Article of the ratified aments.” S. Tucker, Ten Notebooks of Law Lectures, 1790’s, Tucker-Coleman Papers, pp. 127– 128 (College of William and Mary).
See also Cornell, St. George Tucker and the Second Amendment: Original Understandings and Modern Misunderstandings, 47 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 1123 (2006).
33 The Court does acknowledge that at least one early commentator described the Second Amendment as creating a right conditioned upon service in a state militia. See ante, at 37–38 (citing B. Oliver, The Rights of an American Citizen (1832)). Apart from the fact that Oliver is the only commentator in the Court’s exhaustive survey who appears to have inquired into the intent of the drafters of the Amendment, what is striking about the Court’s discussion is its failure to refute Oliver’s description of the meaning of the Amendment or the intent of its drafters; rather, the Court adverts to simple nose-counting to dismiss his view.
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his 1833 Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States—the same passage cited by the Court in Miller34— merits reproducing at some length:
“The importance of [the Second Amendment] will scarcely be doubted by any persons who have duly re flected upon the subject. The militia is the natural de fence of a free country against sudden foreign invasions, domestic insurrections, and domestic usurpations of power by rulers. It is against sound policy for a free people to keep up large military establishments and standing armies in time of peace, both from the enor mous expenses with which they are attended and the facile means which they afford to ambitious and un principled rulers to subvert the government, or tram ple upon the rights of the people. The right of the citi zens to keep and bear arms has justly been considered as the palladium of the liberties of a republic, since it offers a strong moral check against the usurpation and arbitrary power of rulers, and will generally, even if these are successful in the first instance, enable the people to resist and triumph over them. And yet, though this truth would seem so clear, and the impor tance of a well-regulated militia would seem so unde niable, it cannot be disguised that, among the Ameri can people, there is a growing indifference to any system of militia discipline, and a strong disposition, from a sense of its burdens, to be rid of all regulations. How it is practicable to keep the people duly armed without some organization, it is difficult to see. There is certainly no small danger that indifference may lead to disgust, and disgust to contempt; and thus gradually undermine all the protection intended by the clause of our national bill of rights.” 2 J. Story, Commentaries on the Constitution of the United
—————— 34 Miller, 307 U. S., at 182, n. 3.
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States §1897, pp. 620–621 (4th ed. 1873) (footnote omitted).
Story thus began by tying the significance of the Amendment directly to the paramount importance of the militia. He then invoked the fear that drove the Framers of the Second Amendment—specifically, the threat to liberty posed by a standing army. An important check on that danger, he suggested, was a “well-regulated militia,” id., at 621, for which he assumed that arms would have to be kept and, when necessary, borne. There is not so much as a whisper in the passage above that Story believed that the right secured by the Amendment bore any relation to private use or possession of weapons for activities like hunting or personal self-defense.
After extolling the virtues of the militia as a bulwark against tyranny, Story went on to decry the “growing indifference to any system of militia discipline.” Ibid. When he wrote, “[h]ow it is practicable to keep the people duly armed without some organization it is difficult to see,” ibid., he underscored the degree to which he viewed the arming of the people and the militia as indissolubly linked. Story warned that the “growing indifference” he perceived would “gradually undermine all the protection intended by this clause of our national bill of rights,” ibid. In his view, the importance of the Amendment was di rectly related to the continuing vitality of an institution in the process of apparently becoming obsolete.
In an attempt to downplay the absence of any reference to nonmilitary uses of weapons in Story’s commentary, the Court relies on the fact that Story characterized Article VII of the English Declaration of Rights as a “ ‘similar provision,’ ” ante, at 36. The two provisions were indeed similar, in that both protected some uses of firearms. But Story’s characterization in no way suggests that he be lieved that the provisions had the same scope. To the
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contrary, Story’s exclusive focus on the militia in his dis cussion of the Second Amendment confirms his under standing of the right protected by the Second Amendment as limited to military uses of arms.
Story’s writings as a Justice of this Court, to the extent that they shed light on this question, only confirm that Justice Story did not view the Amendment as conferring upon individuals any “self-defense” right disconnected from service in a state militia. Justice Story dissented from the Court’s decision in Houston v. Moore, 5 Wheat. 1, 24 (1820), which held that a state court “had a concurrent jurisdiction” with the federal courts “to try a militia man who had disobeyed the call of the President, and to enforce the laws of Congress against such delinquent.” Id., at 31– 32. Justice Story believed that Congress’ power to provide for the organizing, arming, and disciplining of the militia was, when Congress acted, plenary; but he explained that in the absence of congressional action, “I am certainly not prepared to deny the legitimacy of such an exercise of [state] authority.” Id., at 52. As to the Second Amend ment, he wrote that it “may not, perhaps, be thought to have any important bearing on this point. If it have, it confirms and illustrates, rather than impugns the reason ing already suggested.” Id., at 52–53. The Court contends that had Justice Story understood the Amendment to have a militia purpose, the Amendment would have had “enor mous and obvious bearing on the point.” Ante, at 38. But the Court has it quite backwards: If Story had believed that the purpose of the Amendment was to permit civil ians to keep firearms for activities like personal self- defense, what “confirm[ation] and illustrat[ion],” Houston, 5 Wheat., at 53, could the Amendment possibly have provided for the point that States retained the power to organize, arm, and discipline their own militias?
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Post-Civil War Legislative History The Court suggests that by the post-Civil War period,
the Second Amendment was understood to secure a right to firearm use and ownership for purely private purposes like personal self-defense. While it is true that some of the legislative history on which the Court relies supports that contention, see ante, at 41–44, such sources are entitled to limited, if any, weight. All of the statements the Court cites were made long after the framing of the Amendment and cannot possibly supply any insight into the intent of the Framers; and all were made during pitched political debates, so that they are better characterized as advocacy than good-faith attempts at constitutional interpretation.
What is more, much of the evidence the Court offers is decidedly less clear than its discussion allows. The Court notes that “[b]lacks were routinely disarmed by Southern States after the Civil War. Those who opposed these injustices frequently stated that they infringed blacks’ constitutional right to keep and bear arms.” Ante, at 42. The Court hastily concludes that “[n]eedless to say, the claim was not that blacks were being prohibited from carrying arms in an organized state militia,” ibid. But some of the claims of the sort the Court cites may have been just that. In some Southern States, Reconstruction- era Republican governments created state militias in which both blacks and whites were permitted to serve. Because “[t]he decision to allow blacks to serve alongside whites meant that most southerners refused to join the new militia,” the bodies were dubbed “Negro militia[s].” S. Cornell, A Well-Regulated Militia 176–177 (2006). The “arming of the Negro militias met with especially fierce resistance in South Carolina. . . . The sight of organized, armed freedmen incensed opponents of Reconstruction and led to an intensified campaign of Klan terror. Leading members of the Negro militia were beaten or lynched and their weapons stolen.” Id., at 177.
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One particularly chilling account of Reconstruction-era Klan violence directed at a black militia member is re counted in the memoir of Louis F. Post, A “Carpetbagger” in South Carolina, 10 Journal of Negro History 10 (1925). Post describes the murder by local Klan members of Jim Williams, the captain of a “Negro militia company,” id., at 59, this way:
“[A] cavalcade of sixty cowardly white men, com pletely disguised with face masks and body gowns, rode up one night in March, 1871, to the house of Cap tain Williams . . . in the wood [they] hanged [and shot] him . . . [and on his body they] then pinned a slip of paper inscribed, as I remember it, with these grim words: ‘Jim Williams gone to his last muster.’ ” Id., at 61.
In light of this evidence, it is quite possible that at least some of the statements on which the Court relies actually did mean to refer to the disarmament of black militia members.
IV The brilliance of the debates that resulted in the Second
Amendment faded into oblivion during the ensuing years, for the concerns about Article I’s Militia Clauses that generated such pitched debate during the ratification process and led to the adoption of the Second Amendment were short lived.
In 1792, the year after the Amendment was ratified, Congress passed a statute that purported to establish “an Uniform Militia throughout the United States.” 1 Stat. 271. The statute commanded every able-bodied white male citizen between the ages of 18 and 45 to be enrolled therein and to “provide himself with a good musket or
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firelock” and other specified weaponry.35 Ibid. The stat ute is significant, for it confirmed the way those in the founding generation viewed firearm ownership: as a duty linked to military service. The statute they enacted, however, “was virtually ignored for more than a century,” and was finally repealed in 1901. See Perpich, 496 U. S., at 341.
The postratification history of the Second Amendment is strikingly similar. The Amendment played little role in any legislative debate about the civilian use of firearms for most of the 19th century, and it made few appearances in the decisions of this Court. Two 19th-century cases, how ever, bear mentioning.
In United States v. Cruikshank, 92 U. S. 542 (1876), the Court sustained a challenge to respondents’ convictions under the Enforcement Act of 1870 for conspiring to de prive any individual of “ ‘any right or privilege granted or secured to him by the constitution or laws of the United States.’ ” Id., at 548. The Court wrote, as to counts 2 and 10 of respondents’ indictment:
“The right there specified is that of ‘bearing arms for a lawful purpose.’ This is not a right granted by the Constitution. Neither is it in any manner dependent on that instrument for its existence. The second amendment declares that it shall not be infringed; but this, as has been seen, means no more than that it shall not be infringed by Congress. This is one of the amendments that has no other effect than to restrict the powers of the national government.” Id., at 553.
—————— 35 The additional specified weaponry included: “a sufficient bayonet
and belt, two spare flints, and a knapsack, a pouch with a box therein to contain not less than twenty-four cartridges, suited to the bore of his musket or firelock, each cartridge to contain a proper quantity of powder and ball: or with a good rifle, knapsack, shot-pouch and powder- horn, twenty balls suited to the bore of his rifle and a quarter of a pound of powder.” 1 Stat. 271.
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The majority’s assertion that the Court in Cruikshank “described the right protected by the Second Amendment as ‘ “bearing arms for a lawful purpose,” ’ ” ante, at 47 (quoting Cruikshank, 92 U. S., at 553), is not accurate. The Cruikshank Court explained that the defective in- dictment contained such language, but the Court did not itself describe the right, or endorse the indictment’s de scription of the right.
Moreover, it is entirely possible that the basis for the indictment’s counts 2 and 10, which charged respondents with depriving the victims of rights secured by the Second Amendment, was the prosecutor’s belief that the victims— members of a group of citizens, mostly black but also white, who were rounded up by the Sheriff, sworn in as a posse to defend the local courthouse, and attacked by a white mob—bore sufficient resemblance to members of a state militia that they were brought within the reach of the Second Amendment. See generally C. Lane, The Day Freedom Died: The Colfax Massacre, The Supreme Court, and the Betrayal of Reconstruction (2008).
Only one other 19th-century case in this Court, Presser v. Illinois, 116 U. S. 252 (1886), engaged in any significant discussion of the Second Amendment. The petitioner in Presser was convicted of violating a state statute that prohibited organizations other than the Illinois National Guard from associating together as military companies or parading with arms. Presser challenged his conviction, asserting, as relevant, that the statute violated both the Second and the Fourteenth Amendments. With respect to the Second Amendment, the Court wrote:
“We think it clear that the sections under considera tion, which only forbid bodies of men to associate to gether as military organizations, or to drill or parade with arms in cities and towns unless authorized by law, do not infringe the right of the people to keep and
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bear arms. But a conclusive answer to the contention that this amendment prohibits the legislation in ques tion lies in the fact that the amendment is a limitation only upon the power of Congress and the National government, and not upon that of the States.” Id., at 264–265.
And in discussing the Fourteenth Amendment, the Court explained:
“The plaintiff in error was not a member of the organ ized volunteer militia of the State of Illinois, nor did he belong to the troops of the United States or to any organization under the militia law of the United States. On the contrary, the fact that he did not be long to the organized militia or the troops of the United States was an ingredient in the offence for which he was convicted and sentenced. The question is, therefore, had he a right as a citizen of the United States, in disobedience of the State law, to associate with others as a military company, and to drill and parade with arms in the towns and cities of the State? If the plaintiff in error has any such privilege he must be able to point to the provision of the Constitution or statutes of the United States by which it is conferred.” Id., at 266.
Presser, therefore, both affirmed Cruikshank’s holding that the Second Amendment posed no obstacle to regula tion by state governments, and suggested that in any event nothing in the Constitution protected the use of arms outside the context of a militia “authorized by law” and organized by the State or Federal Government.36
—————— 36 In another case the Court endorsed, albeit indirectly, the reading of
Miller that has been well settled until today. In Burton v. Sills, 394 U. S. 812 (1969) (per curiam), the Court dismissed for want of a sub stantial federal question an appeal from a decision of the New Jersey
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In 1901 the President revitalized the militia by creating “ ‘the National Guard of the several States,’ ” Perpich, 496 U. S., at 341, and nn. 9–10; meanwhile, the dominant understanding of the Second Amendment’s inapplicability to private gun ownership continued well into the 20th century. The first two federal laws directly restricting civilian use and possession of firearms—the 1927 Act prohibiting mail delivery of “pistols, revolvers, and other firearms capable of being concealed on the person,” Ch. 75, 44 Stat. 1059, and the 1934 Act prohibiting the possession of sawed-off shotguns and machine guns—were enacted over minor Second Amendment objections dismissed by the vast majority of the legislators who participated in the debates.37 Members of Congress clashed over the wisdom and efficacy of such laws as crime-control measures. But since the statutes did not infringe upon the military use or possession of weapons, for most legislators they did not even raise the specter of possible conflict with the Second Amendment.
Thus, for most of our history, the invalidity of Second Amendment-based objections to firearms regulations has —————— Supreme Court upholding, against a Second Amendment challenge, New Jersey’s gun control law. Although much of the analysis in the New Jersey court’s opinion turned on the inapplicability of the Second Amendment as a constraint on the States, the court also quite correctly read Miller to hold that “Congress, though admittedly governed by the second amendment, may regulate interstate firearms so long as the regulation does not impair the maintenance of the active, organized militia of the states.” Burton v. Sills, 53 N. J. 86, 98, 248 A. 2d 521, 527 (1968).
37 The 1927 statute was enacted with no mention of the Second Amendment as a potential obstacle, although an earlier version of the bill had generated some limited objections on Second Amendment grounds; see 66 Cong. Rec. 725–735 (1924). And the 1934 Act featured just one colloquy, during the course of lengthy Committee debates, on whether the Second Amendment constrained Congress’ ability to legislate in this sphere; see Hearings on House Committee on Ways and Means H. R. 9006, before the 73d Cong., 2d Sess., p. 19 (1934).
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been well settled and uncontroversial.38 Indeed, the Sec ond Amendment was not even mentioned in either full House of Congress during the legislative proceedings that led to the passage of the 1934 Act. Yet enforcement of that law produced the judicial decision that confirmed the status of the Amendment as limited in reach to military usage. After reviewing many of the same sources that are discussed at greater length by the Court today, the Miller Court unanimously concluded that the Second Amend ment did not apply to the possession of a firearm that did not have “some reasonable relationship to the preservation or efficiency of a well regulated militia.” 307 U. S., at 178.
The key to that decision did not, as the Court belatedly suggests, ante, at 49–51, turn on the difference between
—————— 38 The majority appears to suggest that even if the meaning of the
Second Amendment has been considered settled by courts and legisla tures for over two centuries, that settled meaning is overcome by the “reliance of millions of Americans” “upon the true meaning of the right to keep and bear arms.” Ante, at 52, n. 24. Presumably by this the Court means that many Americans own guns for self-defense, recrea tion, and other lawful purposes, and object to government interference with their gun ownership. I do not dispute the correctness of this observation. But it is hard to see how Americans have “relied,” in the usual sense of the word, on the existence of a constitutional right that, until 2001, had been rejected by every federal court to take up the question. Rather, gun owners have “relied” on the laws passed by democratically elected legislatures, which have generally adopted only limited gun-control measures.
Indeed, reliance interests surely cut the other way: Even apart from the reliance of judges and legislators who properly believed, until today, that the Second Amendment did not reach possession of firearms for purely private activities, “millions of Americans,” have relied on the power of government to protect their safety and well-being, and that of their families. With respect to the case before us, the legislature of the District of Columbia has relied on its ability to act to “reduce the potentiality for gun-related crimes and gun-related deaths from occur ring within the District of Columbia,” H. Con. Res. 694, 94th Cong., 2d Sess., 25 (1976); see post, at 14–17 (BREYER, J., dissenting); so, too have the residents of the District.
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muskets and sawed-off shotguns; it turned, rather, on the basic difference between the military and nonmilitary use and possession of guns. Indeed, if the Second Amendment were not limited in its coverage to military uses of weap ons, why should the Court in Miller have suggested that some weapons but not others were eligible for Second Amendment protection? If use for self-defense were the relevant standard, why did the Court not inquire into the suitability of a particular weapon for self-defense purposes?
Perhaps in recognition of the weakness of its attempt to distinguish Miller, the Court argues in the alternative that Miller should be discounted because of its decisional history. It is true that the appellees in Miller did not file a brief or make an appearance, although the court below had held that the relevant provision of the National Fire arms Act violated the Second Amendment (albeit without any reasoned opinion). But, as our decision in Marbury v. Madison, 1 Cranch 137, in which only one side appeared and presented arguments, demonstrates, the absence of adversarial presentation alone is not a basis for refusing to accord stare decisis effect to a decision of this Court. See Bloch, Marbury Redux, in Arguing Marbury v. Madi- son 59, 63 (M. Tushnet ed. 2005). Of course, if it can be demonstrated that new evidence or arguments were genu inely not available to an earlier Court, that fact should be given special weight as we consider whether to overrule a prior case. But the Court does not make that claim, be cause it cannot. Although it is true that the drafting history of the Amendment was not discussed in the Gov ernment’s brief, see ante, at 51, it is certainly not the drafting history that the Court’s decision today turns on. And those sources upon which the Court today relies most heavily were available to the Miller Court. The Govern ment cited the English Bill of Rights and quoted a lengthy passage from Aymette detailing the history leading to the
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English guarantee, Brief for United States in United States v. Miller, O. T. 1938, No. 696, pp 12–13; it also cited Blackstone, id., at 9, n. 2, Cooley, id., at 12, 15, and Story, id., at 15. The Court is reduced to critiquing the number of pages the Government devoted to exploring the English legal sources. Only two (in a brief 21 pages in length)! Would the Court be satisfied with four? Ten?
The Court is simply wrong when it intones that Miller contained “not a word” about the Amendment’s history. Ante, at 52. The Court plainly looked to history to con strue the term “Militia,” and, on the best reading of Miller, the entire guarantee of the Second Amendment. After noting the original Constitution’s grant of power to Con gress and to the States over the militia, the Court ex plained:
“With obvious purpose to assure the continuation and render possible the effectiveness of such forces the declaration and guarantee of the Second Amendment were made. It must be interpreted and applied with that end in view.
“The Militia which the States were expected to maintain and train is set in contrast with Troops which they were forbidden to keep without the con sent of Congress. The sentiment of the time strongly disfavored standing armies; the common view was that adequate defense of country and laws could be secured through the Militia—civilians primarily, sol diers on occasion.
“The signification attributed to the term Militia ap pears from the debates in the Convention, the history and legislation of Colonies and States, and the writ ings of approved commentators.” Miller, 307 U. S., at 178–179.
The majority cannot seriously believe that the Miller Court did not consider any relevant evidence; the majority
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simply does not approve of the conclusion the Miller Court reached on that evidence. Standing alone, that is insuffi cient reason to disregard a unanimous opinion of this Court, upon which substantial reliance has been placed by legislators and citizens for nearly 70 years.
V The Court concludes its opinion by declaring that it is
not the proper role of this Court to change the meaning of rights “enshrine[d]” in the Constitution. Ante, at 64. But the right the Court announces was not “enshrined” in the Second Amendment by the Framers; it is the product of today’s law-changing decision. The majority’s exegesis has utterly failed to establish that as a matter of text or his tory, “the right of law-abiding, responsible citizens to use arms in defense of hearth and home” is “elevate[d] above all other interests” by the Second Amendment. Ante, at 64.
Until today, it has been understood that legislatures may regulate the civilian use and misuse of firearms so long as they do not interfere with the preservation of a well-regulated militia. The Court’s announcement of a new constitutional right to own and use firearms for pri vate purposes upsets that settled understanding, but leaves for future cases the formidable task of defining the scope of permissible regulations. Today judicial craftsmen have confidently asserted that a policy choice that denies a “law-abiding, responsible citize[n]” the right to keep and use weapons in the home for self-defense is “off the table.” Ante, at 64. Given the presumption that most citizens are law abiding, and the reality that the need to defend one self may suddenly arise in a host of locations outside the home, I fear that the District’s policy choice may well be just the first of an unknown number of dominoes to be
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knocked off the table.39 I do not know whether today’s decision will increase the
labor of federal judges to the “breaking point” envisioned by Justice Cardozo, but it will surely give rise to a far more active judicial role in making vitally important national policy decisions than was envisioned at any time in the 18th, 19th, or 20th centuries.
The Court properly disclaims any interest in evaluating the wisdom of the specific policy choice challenged in this case, but it fails to pay heed to a far more important policy choice—the choice made by the Framers themselves. The Court would have us believe that over 200 years ago, the Framers made a choice to limit the tools available to elected officials wishing to regulate civilian uses of weap ons, and to authorize this Court to use the common-law process of case-by-case judicial lawmaking to define the contours of acceptable gun control policy. Absent compel ling evidence that is nowhere to be found in the Court’s opinion, I could not possibly conclude that the Framers made such a choice.
For these reasons, I respectfully dissent. ——————
39 It was just a few years after the decision in Miller that Justice Frankfurter (by any measure a true judicial conservative) warned of the perils that would attend this Court’s entry into the “political thicket” of legislative districting. Colegrove v. Green, 328 U. S. 549, 556 (1946) (plurality opinion). The equally controversial political thicket that the Court has decided to enter today is qualitatively different from the one that concerned Justice Frankfurter: While our entry into that thicket was justified because the political process was manifestly unable to solve the problem of unequal districts, no one has suggested that the political process is not working exactly as it should in mediat ing the debate between the advocates and opponents of gun control. What impact the Court’s unjustified entry into this thicket will have on that ongoing debate—or indeed on the Court itself—is a matter that future historians will no doubt discuss at length. It is, however, clear to me that adherence to a policy of judicial restraint would be far wiser than the bold decision announced today.
_________________
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SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
No. 07–290
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, ET AL., PETITIONERS v. DICK ANTHONY HELLER
ON WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT
[June 26, 2008]
JUSTICE BREYER, with whom JUSTICE STEVENS, JUSTICE SOUTER, and JUSTICE GINSBURG join, dissenting.
We must decide whether a District of Columbia law that prohibits the possession of handguns in the home violates the Second Amendment. The majority, relying upon its view that the Second Amendment seeks to protect a right of personal self-defense, holds that this law violates that Amendment. In my view, it does not.
I The majority’s conclusion is wrong for two independent
reasons. The first reason is that set forth by JUSTICE STEVENS—namely, that the Second Amendment protects militia-related, not self-defense-related, interests. These two interests are sometimes intertwined. To assure 18th- century citizens that they could keep arms for militia purposes would necessarily have allowed them to keep arms that they could have used for self-defense as well. But self-defense alone, detached from any militia-related objective, is not the Amendment’s concern.
The second independent reason is that the protection the Amendment provides is not absolute. The Amendment permits government to regulate the interests that it serves. Thus, irrespective of what those interests are— whether they do or do not include an independent interest
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in self-defense—the majority’s view cannot be correct unless it can show that the District’s regulation is unrea- sonable or inappropriate in Second Amendment terms. This the majority cannot do.
In respect to the first independent reason, I agree with JUSTICE STEVENS, and I join his opinion. In this opinion I shall focus upon the second reason. I shall show that the District’s law is consistent with the Second Amendment even if that Amendment is interpreted as protecting a wholly separate interest in individual self-defense. That is so because the District’s regulation, which focuses upon the presence of handguns in high-crime urban areas, represents a permissible legislative response to a serious, indeed life-threatening, problem.
Thus I here assume that one objective (but, as the ma- jority concedes, ante, at 26, not the primary objective) of those who wrote the Second Amendment was to help assure citizens that they would have arms available for purposes of self-defense. Even so, a legislature could reasonably conclude that the law will advance goals of great public importance, namely, saving lives, preventing injury, and reducing crime. The law is tailored to the urban crime problem in that it is local in scope and thus affects only a geographic area both limited in size and entirely urban; the law concerns handguns, which are specially linked to urban gun deaths and injuries, and which are the overwhelmingly favorite weapon of armed criminals; and at the same time, the law imposes a burden upon gun owners that seems proportionately no greater than restrictions in existence at the time the Second Amendment was adopted. In these circumstances, the District’s law falls within the zone that the Second Amendment leaves open to regulation by legislatures.
II The Second Amendment says that: “A well regulated
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Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” In interpreting and applying this Amendment, I take as a starting point the following four propositions, based on our precedent and today’s opinions, to which I believe the entire Court subscribes:
(1) The Amendment protects an “individual” right—i.e., one that is separately possessed, and may be separately enforced, by each person on whom it is conferred. See, e.g., ante, at 22 (opinion of the Court); ante, at 1 (STEVENS, J., dissenting).
(2) As evidenced by its preamble, the Amendment was adopted “[w]ith obvious purpose to assure the continuation and render possible the effectiveness of [militia] forces.” United States v. Miller, 307 U. S. 174, 178 (1939); see ante, at 26 (opinion of the Court); ante, at 1 (STEVENS, J., dissenting).
(3) The Amendment “must be interpreted and applied with that end in view.” Miller, supra, at 178.
(4) The right protected by the Second Amendment is not absolute, but instead is subject to government regulation. See Robertson v. Baldwin, 165 U. S. 275, 281–282 (1897); ante, at 22, 54 (opinion of the Court).
My approach to this case, while involving the first three points, primarily concerns the fourth. I shall, as I said, assume with the majority that the Amendment, in addi- tion to furthering a militia-related purpose, also furthers an interest in possessing guns for purposes of self-defense, at least to some degree. And I shall then ask whether the Amendment nevertheless permits the District handgun restriction at issue here.
Although I adopt for present purposes the majority’s position that the Second Amendment embodies a general concern about self-defense, I shall not assume that the Amendment contains a specific untouchable right to keep guns in the house to shoot burglars. The majority, which
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presents evidence in favor of the former proposition, does not, because it cannot, convincingly show that the Second Amendment seeks to maintain the latter in pristine, un- regulated form.
To the contrary, colonial history itself offers important examples of the kinds of gun regulation that citizens would then have thought compatible with the “right to keep and bear arms,” whether embodied in Federal or State Constitutions, or the background common law. And those examples include substantial regulation of firearms in urban areas, including regulations that imposed obsta- cles to the use of firearms for the protection of the home.
Boston, Philadelphia, and New York City, the three largest cities in America during that period, all restricted the firing of guns within city limits to at least some de- gree. See Churchill, Gun Regulation, the Police Power, and the Right to Keep Arms in Early America, 25 Law & Hist. Rev. 139, 162 (2007); Dept. of Commerce, Bureau of Census, C. Gibson, Population of the 100 Largest Cities and Other Urban Places in the United States: 1790 to 1990 (1998) (Table 2), online at http://www.census.gov/ population/documentation/twps0027/tab02.txt (all Inter- net materials as visited June 19, 2008, and available in Clerk of Court’s case file). Boston in 1746 had a law pro- hibiting the “discharge” of “any Gun or Pistol charged with Shot or Ball in the Town” on penalty of 40 shillings, a law that was later revived in 1778. See Act of May 28, 1746, ch. 10; An Act for Reviving and Continuing Sundry Laws that are Expired, and Near Expiring, 1778 Massachusetts Session Laws, ch. 5, pp. 193, 194. Philadelphia prohibited, on penalty of 5 shillings (or two days in jail if the fine were not paid), firing a gun or setting off fireworks in Philadel- phia without a “governor’s special license.” See Act of Aug. 26, 1721, §4, in 3 Mitchell, Statutes at Large of Pennsylvania 253–254. And New York City banned, on penalty of a 20-shilling fine, the firing of guns (even in
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houses) for the three days surrounding New Year’s Day. 5 Colonial Laws of New York, ch. 1501, pp. 244–246 (1894); see also An Act to Suppress the Disorderly Practice of Firing Guns, & c., on the Times Therein Mentioned, 8 Statutes at Large of Pennsylvania 1770–1776, pp. 410– 412 (1902) (similar law for all “inhabited parts” of Penn- sylvania). See also An Act for preventing Mischief being done in the Town of Newport, or in any other Town in this Government, 1731, Rhode Island Session Laws (prohibit- ing, on penalty of 5 shillings for a first offense and more for subsequent offenses, the firing of “any Gun or Pistol . . . in the Streets of any of the Towns of this Government, or in any Tavern of the same, after dark, on any Night whatsoever”).
Furthermore, several towns and cities (including Phila- delphia, New York, and Boston) regulated, for fire-safety reasons, the storage of gunpowder, a necessary component of an operational firearm. See Cornell & DeDino, A Well Regulated Right, 73 Fordham L. Rev. 487, 510–512 (2004). Boston’s law in particular impacted the use of firearms in the home very much as the District’s law does today. Boston’s gunpowder law imposed a £10 fine upon “any Person” who “shall take into any Dwelling-House, Stable, Barn, Out-house, Ware-house, Store, Shop, or other Build- ing, within the Town of Boston, any . . . Fire-Arm, loaded with, or having Gun-Powder.” An Act in Addition to the several Acts already made for the prudent Storage of Gun- Powder within the Town of Boston, ch. XIII, 1783 Mass. Acts 218–219; see also 1 S. Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language 751 (4th ed. 1773) (defining “firearms” as “[a]rms which owe their efficacy to fire; guns”). Even assuming, as the majority does, see ante, at 59–60, that this law included an implicit self-defense exception, it would nevertheless have prevented a homeowner from keeping in his home a gun that he could immediately pick up and use against an intruder. Rather, the homeowner
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would have had to get the gunpowder and load it into the gun, an operation that would have taken a fair amount of time to perform. See Hicks, United States Military Shoul- der Arms, 1795–1935, 1 Am. Military Hist. Foundation 23, 30 (1937) (experienced soldier could, with specially pre- pared cartridges as opposed to plain gunpowder and ball, load and fire musket 3-to-4 times per minute); id., at 26– 30 (describing the loading process); see also Grancsay, The Craft of the Early American Gunsmith, 6 Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 54, 60 (1947) (noting that rifles were slower to load and fire than muskets).
Moreover, the law would, as a practical matter, have prohibited the carrying of loaded firearms anywhere in the city, unless the carrier had no plans to enter any building or was willing to unload or discard his weapons before going inside. And Massachusetts residents must have believed this kind of law compatible with the provision in the Massachusetts Constitution that granted “the people . . . a right to keep and to bear arms for the common de- fence”—a provision that the majority says was interpreted as “secur[ing] an individual right to bear arms for defen- sive purposes.” Art. XVII (1780), in 3 The Federal and State Constitutions, Colonial Charters, and Other Organic Laws 1888, 1892 (F. Thorpe ed. 1909) (hereinafter Thorpe); ante, at 28–29 (opinion of the Court).
The New York City law, which required that gunpowder in the home be stored in certain sorts of containers, and laws in certain Pennsylvania towns, which required that gunpowder be stored on the highest story of the home, could well have presented similar obstacles to in-home use of firearms. See Act of April 13, 1784, ch. 28, 1784 N. Y. Laws p. 627; An Act for Erecting the Town of Carlisle, in the County of Cumberland, into a Borough, ch. XIV, §XLII, 1782 Pa. Laws p. 49; An Act for Erecting the Town of Reading, in the County of Berks, into a Borough, ch. LXXVI, §XLII, 1783 Pa. Laws p. 211. Although it is un-
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clear whether these laws, like the Boston law, would have prohibited the storage of gunpowder inside a firearm, they would at the very least have made it difficult to reload the gun to fire a second shot unless the homeowner happened to be in the portion of the house where the extra gunpow- der was required to be kept. See 7 United States Encyclo- pedia of History 1297 (P. Oehser ed. 1967) (“Until 1835 all small arms [were] single-shot weapons, requiring reload- ing by hand after every shot”). And Pennsylvania, like Massachusetts, had at the time one of the self-defense- guaranteeing state constitutional provisions on which the majority relies. See ante, at 28 (citing Pa. Declaration of Rights, Art. XIII (1776), in 5 Thorpe 3083).
The majority criticizes my citation of these colonial laws. See ante, at 59–62. But, as much as it tries, it cannot ignore their existence. I suppose it is possible that, as the majority suggests, see ante, at 59–61, they all in practice contained self-defense exceptions. But none of them ex- pressly provided one, and the majority’s assumption that such exceptions existed relies largely on the preambles to these acts—an interpretive methodology that it elsewhere roundly derides. Compare ibid. (interpreting 18th-century statutes in light of their preambles), with ante, at 4–5, and n. 3 (contending that the operative language of an 18th- century enactment may extend beyond its preamble). And in any event, as I have shown, the gunpowder-storage laws would have burdened armed self-defense, even if they did not completely prohibit it.
This historical evidence demonstrates that a self- defense assumption is the beginning, rather than the end, of any constitutional inquiry. That the District law im- pacts self-defense merely raises questions about the law’s constitutionality. But to answer the questions that are raised (that is, to see whether the statute is unconstitu- tional) requires us to focus on practicalities, the statute’s rationale, the problems that called it into being, its rela-
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tion to those objectives—in a word, the details. There are no purely logical or conceptual answers to such questions. All of which to say that to raise a self-defense question is not to answer it.
III I therefore begin by asking a process-based question:
How is a court to determine whether a particular firearm regulation (here, the District’s restriction on handguns) is consistent with the Second Amendment? What kind of constitutional standard should the court use? How high a protective hurdle does the Amendment erect?
The question matters. The majority is wrong when it says that the District’s law is unconstitutional “[u]nder any of the standards of scrutiny that we have applied to enumerated constitutional rights.” Ante, at 56. How could that be? It certainly would not be unconstitutional under, for example, a “rational basis” standard, which requires a court to uphold regulation so long as it bears a “rational relationship” to a “legitimate governmental purpose.” Heller v. Doe, 509 U. S. 312, 320 (1993). The law at issue here, which in part seeks to prevent gun-related accidents, at least bears a “rational relationship” to that “legitimate” life-saving objective. And nothing in the three 19th- century state cases to which the majority turns for support mandates the conclusion that the present District law must fall. See Andrews v. State, 50 Tenn. 165, 177, 186– 187, 192 (1871) (striking down, as violating a state consti- tutional provision adopted in 1870, a statewide ban on a carrying a broad class of weapons, insofar as it applied to revolvers); Nunn v. State, 1 Ga. 243, 246, 250–251 (1846) (striking down similarly broad ban on openly carrying weapons, based on erroneous view that the Federal Second Amendment applied to the States); State v. Reid, 1 Ala. 612, 614–615, 622 (1840) (upholding a concealed-weapon ban against a state constitutional challenge). These cases
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were decided well (80, 55, and 49 years, respectively) after the framing; they neither claim nor provide any special insight into the intent of the Framers; they involve laws much less narrowly tailored that the one before us; and state cases in any event are not determinative of federal constitutional questions, see, e.g., Garcia v. San Antonio Metropolitan Transit Authority, 469 U. S. 528, 549 (1985) (citing Martin v. Hunter’s Lessee, 1 Wheat. 304 (1816)).
Respondent proposes that the Court adopt a “strict scrutiny” test, which would require reviewing with care each gun law to determine whether it is “narrowly tailored to achieve a compelling governmental interest.” Abrams v. Johnson, 521 U. S. 74, 82 (1997); see Brief for Respondent 54–62. But the majority implicitly, and appropriately, rejects that suggestion by broadly approving a set of laws—prohibitions on concealed weapons, forfeiture by criminals of the Second Amendment right, prohibitions on firearms in certain locales, and governmental regulation of commercial firearm sales—whose constitutionality under a strict scrutiny standard would be far from clear. See ante, at 54.
Indeed, adoption of a true strict-scrutiny standard for evaluating gun regulations would be impossible. That is because almost every gun-control regulation will seek to advance (as the one here does) a “primary concern of every government—a concern for the safety and indeed the lives of its citizens.” United States v. Salerno, 481 U. S. 739, 755 (1987). The Court has deemed that interest, as well as “the Government’s general interest in preventing crime,” to be “compelling,” see id., at 750, 754, and the Court has in a wide variety of constitutional contexts found such public-safety concerns sufficiently forceful to justify restrictions on individual liberties, see e.g., Bran- denburg v. Ohio, 395 U. S. 444, 447 (1969) (per curiam) (First Amendment free speech rights); Sherbert v. Verner, 374 U. S. 398, 403 (1963) (First Amendment religious
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rights); Brigham City v. Stuart, 547 U. S. 398, 403–404 (2006) (Fourth Amendment protection of the home); New York v. Quarles, 467 U. S. 649, 655 (1984) (Fifth Amend- ment rights under Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U. S. 436 (1966)); Salerno, supra, at 755 (Eighth Amendment bail rights). Thus, any attempt in theory to apply strict scru- tiny to gun regulations will in practice turn into an inter- est-balancing inquiry, with the interests protected by the Second Amendment on one side and the governmental public-safety concerns on the other, the only question being whether the regulation at issue impermissibly bur- dens the former in the course of advancing the latter.
I would simply adopt such an interest-balancing inquiry explicitly. The fact that important interests lie on both sides of the constitutional equation suggests that review of gun-control regulation is not a context in which a court should effectively presume either constitutionality (as in rational-basis review) or unconstitutionality (as in strict scrutiny). Rather, “where a law significantly implicates competing constitutionally protected interests in complex ways,” the Court generally asks whether the statute bur- dens a protected interest in a way or to an extent that is out of proportion to the statute’s salutary effects upon other important governmental interests. See Nixon v. Shrink Missouri Government PAC, 528 U. S. 377, 402 (2000) (BREYER, J., concurring). Any answer would take account both of the statute’s effects upon the competing interests and the existence of any clearly superior less restrictive alternative. See ibid. Contrary to the major- ity’s unsupported suggestion that this sort of “proportion- ality” approach is unprecedented, see ante, at 62, the Court has applied it in various constitutional contexts, including election-law cases, speech cases, and due process cases. See 528 U. S., at 403 (citing examples where the Court has taken such an approach); see also, e.g., Thomp- son v. Western States Medical Center, 535 U. S. 357, 388
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(2002) (BREYER, J., dissenting) (commercial speech); Bur- dick v. Takushi, 504 U. S. 428, 433 (1992) (election regula- tion); Mathews v. Eldridge, 424 U. S. 319, 339–349 (1976) (procedural due process); Pickering v. Board of Ed. of Township High School Dist. 205, Will Cty., 391 U. S. 563, 568 (1968) (government employee speech).
In applying this kind of standard the Court normally defers to a legislature’s empirical judgment in matters where a legislature is likely to have greater expertise and greater institutional factfinding capacity. See Turner Broadcasting System, Inc. v. FCC, 520 U. S. 180, 195–196 (1997); see also Nixon, supra, at 403 (BREYER, J., concur- ring). Nonetheless, a court, not a legislature, must make the ultimate constitutional conclusion, exercising its “in- dependent judicial judgment” in light of the whole record to determine whether a law exceeds constitutional boundaries. Randall v. Sorrell, 548 U. S. 230, 249 (2006) (opinion of BREYER, J.) (citing Bose Corp. v. Consumers Union of United States, Inc., 466 U. S. 485, 499 (1984)).
The above-described approach seems preferable to a more rigid approach here for a further reason. Experience as much as logic has led the Court to decide that in one area of constitutional law or another the interests are likely to prove stronger on one side of a typical constitu- tional case than on the other. See, e.g., United States v. Virginia, 518 U. S. 515, 531–534 (1996) (applying height- ened scrutiny to gender-based classifications, based upon experience with prior cases); Williamson v. Lee Optical of Okla., Inc., 348 U. S. 483, 488 (1955) (applying rational- basis scrutiny to economic legislation, based upon experi- ence with prior cases). Here, we have little prior experi- ence. Courts that do have experience in these matters have uniformly taken an approach that treats empirically- based legislative judgment with a degree of deference. See Winkler, Scrutinizing the Second Amendment, 105 Mich. L. Rev. 683, 687, 716–718 (2007) (describing hundreds of
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gun-law decisions issued in the last half-century by Su- preme Courts in 42 States, which courts with “surprisingly little variation,” have adopted a standard more deferential than strict scrutiny). While these state cases obviously are not controlling, they are instructive. Cf., e.g., Bartkus v. Illinois, 359 U. S. 121, 134 (1959) (looking to the “ex- perience of state courts” as informative of a constitutional question). And they thus provide some comfort regarding the practical wisdom of following the approach that I believe our constitutional precedent would in any event suggest.
IV The present suit involves challenges to three separate
District firearm restrictions. The first requires a license from the District’s Chief of Police in order to carry a “pis- tol,” i.e., a handgun, anywhere in the District. See D. C. Code §22–4504(a) (2001); see also §§22–4501(a), 22–4506. Because the District assures us that respondent could obtain such a license so long as he meets the statutory eligibility criteria, and because respondent concedes that those criteria are facially constitutional, I, like the major- ity, see no need to address the constitutionality of the licensing requirement. See ante, at 58–59.
The second District restriction requires that the lawful owner of a firearm keep his weapon “unloaded and disas- sembled or bound by a trigger lock or similar device” unless it is kept at his place of business or being used for lawful recreational purposes. See §7–2507.02. The only dispute regarding this provision appears to be whether the Constitution requires an exception that would allow some- one to render a firearm operational when necessary for self-defense (i.e., that the firearm may be operated under circumstances where the common law would normally permit a self-defense justification in defense against a criminal charge). See Parker v. District of Columbia, 478
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F. 3d 370, 401 (2007) (case below); ante, at 57–58 (opinion of the Court); Brief for Respondent 52–54. The District concedes that such an exception exists. See Brief for Petitioners 56–57. This Court has final authority (albeit not often used) to definitively interpret District law, which is, after all, simply a species of federal law. See, e.g., Whalen v. United States, 445 U. S. 684, 687–688 (1980); see also Griffin v. United States, 336 U. S. 704, 716–718 (1949). And because I see nothing in the District law that would preclude the existence of a background common-law self-defense exception, I would avoid the constitutional question by interpreting the statute to include it. See Ashwander v. TVA, 297 U. S. 288, 348 (1936) (Brandeis, J., concurring).
I am puzzled by the majority’s unwillingness to adopt a similar approach. It readily reads unspoken self-defense exceptions into every colonial law, but it refuses to accept the District’s concession that this law has one. Compare ante, at 59–61, with ante, at 57–58. The one District case it cites to support that refusal, McIntosh v. Washington, 395 A. 2d 744, 755–756 (1978), merely concludes that the District Legislature had a rational basis for applying the trigger-lock law in homes but not in places of business. Nowhere does that case say that the statute precludes a self-defense exception of the sort that I have just de- scribed. And even if it did, we are not bound by a lower court’s interpretation of federal law.
The third District restriction prohibits (in most cases) the registration of a handgun within the District. See §7– 2502.02(a)(4). Because registration is a prerequisite to firearm possession, see §7–2502.01(a), the effect of this provision is generally to prevent people in the District from possessing handguns. In determining whether this regulation violates the Second Amendment, I shall ask how the statute seeks to further the governmental inter- ests that it serves, how the statute burdens the interests
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that the Second Amendment seeks to protect, and whether there are practical less burdensome ways of furthering those interests. The ultimate question is whether the statute imposes burdens that, when viewed in light of the statute’s legitimate objectives, are disproportionate. See Nixon, 528 U. S., at 402 (BREYER, J., concurring).
A No one doubts the constitutional importance of the
statute’s basic objective, saving lives. See, e.g., Salerno, 481 U. S., at 755. But there is considerable debate about whether the District’s statute helps to achieve that objec- tive. I begin by reviewing the statute’s tendency to secure that objective from the perspective of (1) the legislature (namely, the Council of the District of Columbia) that enacted the statute in 1976, and (2) a court that seeks to evaluate the Council’s decision today.
1 First, consider the facts as the legislature saw them
when it adopted the District statute. As stated by the local council committee that recommended its adoption, the major substantive goal of the District’s handgun re- striction is “to reduce the potentiality for gun-related crimes and gun-related deaths from occurring within the District of Columbia.” Hearing and Disposition before the House Committee on the District of Columbia, 94th Cong., 2d Sess., on H. Con. Res. 694, Ser. No. 94–24, p. 25 (1976) (herinafter DC Rep.) (reproducing, inter alia, the Council committee report). The committee concluded, on the basis of “extensive public hearings” and “lengthy research,” that “[t]he easy availability of firearms in the United States has been a major factor contributing to the drastic in- crease in gun-related violence and crime over the past 40 years.” Id., at 24, 25. It reported to the Council “startling statistics,” id., at 26, regarding gun-related crime, acci-
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dents, and deaths, focusing particularly on the relation between handguns and crime and the proliferation of handguns within the District. See id., at 25–26.
The committee informed the Council that guns were “responsible for 69 deaths in this country each day,” for a total of “[a]pproximately 25,000 gun-deaths . . . each year,” along with an additional 200,000 gun-related injuries. Id., at 25. Three thousand of these deaths, the report stated, were accidental. Ibid. A quarter of the victims in those accidental deaths were children under the age of 14. Ibid. And according to the committee, “[f]or every intruder stopped by a homeowner with a firearm, there are 4 gun- related accidents within the home.” Ibid.
In respect to local crime, the committee observed that there were 285 murders in the District during 1974—a record number. Id., at 26. The committee also stated that, “[c]ontrary to popular opinion on the subject, fire- arms are more frequently involved in deaths and violence among relatives and friends than in premeditated criminal activities.” Ibid. Citing an article from the American Journal of Psychiatry, the committee reported that “[m]ost murders are committed by previously law-abiding citizens, in situations where spontaneous violence is generated by anger, passion or intoxication, and where the killer and victim are acquainted.” Ibid. “Twenty-five percent of these murders,” the committee informed the Council, “occur within families.” Ibid.
The committee report furthermore presented statistics strongly correlating handguns with crime. Of the 285 murders in the District in 1974, 155 were committed with handguns. Ibid. This did not appear to be an aberration, as the report revealed that “handguns [had been] used in roughly 54% of all murders” (and 87% of murders of law enforcement officers) nationwide over the preceding sev- eral years. Ibid. Nor were handguns only linked to mur- ders, as statistics showed that they were used in roughly
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60% of robberies and 26% of assaults. Ibid. “A crime committed with a pistol,” the committee reported, “is 7 times more likely to be lethal than a crime committed with any other weapon.” Id., at 25. The committee further- more presented statistics regarding the availability of handguns in the United States, ibid., and noted that they had “become easy for juveniles to obtain,” even despite then-current District laws prohibiting juveniles from possessing them, id., at 26.
In the committee’s view, the current District firearms laws were unable “to reduce the potentiality for gun- related violence,” or to “cope with the problems of gun control in the District” more generally. Ibid. In the ab- sence of adequate federal gun legislation, the committee concluded, it “becomes necessary for local governments to act to protect their citizens, and certainly the District of Columbia as the only totally urban statelike jurisdiction should be strong in its approach.” Id., at 27. It recom- mended that the Council adopt a restriction on handgun registration to reflect “a legislative decision that, at this point in time and due to the gun-control tragedies and horrors enumerated previously” in the committee report, “pistols . . . are no longer justified in this jurisdiction.” Id., at 31; see also ibid. (handgun restriction “denotes a policy decision that handguns . . . have no legitimate use in the purely urban environment of the District”).
The District’s special focus on handguns thus reflects the fact that the committee report found them to have a particularly strong link to undesirable activities in the District’s exclusively urban environment. See id., at 25– 26. The District did not seek to prohibit possession of other sorts of weapons deemed more suitable for an “urban area.” See id., at 25. Indeed, an original draft of the bill, and the original committee recommendations, had sought to prohibit registration of shotguns as well as handguns, but the Council as a whole decided to narrow the prohibi-
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tion. Compare id., at 30 (describing early version of the bill), with D. C. Code §7–2502.02).
2 Next, consider the facts as a court must consider them
looking at the matter as of today. See, e.g., Turner, 520 U. S., at 195 (discussing role of court as factfinder in a constitutional case). Petitioners, and their amici, have presented us with more recent statistics that tell much the same story that the committee report told 30 years ago. At the least, they present nothing that would permit us to second-guess the Council in respect to the numbers of gun crimes, injuries, and deaths, or the role of handguns.
From 1993 to 1997, there were 180,533 firearm-related deaths in the United States, an average of over 36,000 per year. Dept. of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, M. Zawitz & K. Strom, Firearm Injury and Death from Crime, 1993–97, p. 2 (Oct. 2000), online at http:// www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/pub/pdf/fidc9397.pdf (hereinafter Firearm Injury and Death from Crime). Fifty-one percent were suicides, 44% were homicides, 1% were legal inter- ventions, 3% were unintentional accidents, and 1% were of undetermined causes. See ibid. Over that same period there were an additional 411,800 nonfatal firearm-related injuries treated in U. S. hospitals, an average of over 82,000 per year. Ibid. Of these, 62% resulted from as- saults, 17% were unintentional, 6% were suicide attempts, 1% were legal interventions, and 13% were of unknown causes. Ibid.
The statistics are particularly striking in respect to children and adolescents. In over one in every eight fire- arm-related deaths in 1997, the victim was someone under the age of 20. American Academy of Pediatrics, Firearm- Related Injuries Affecting the Pediatric Population, 105 Pediatrics 888 (2000) (hereinafter Firearm-Related Inju- ries). Firearm-related deaths account for 22.5% of all
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injury deaths between the ages of 1 and 19. Ibid. More male teenagers die from firearms than from all natural causes combined. Dresang, Gun Deaths in Rural and Urban Settings, 14 J. Am. Bd. Family Practice 107 (2001). Persons under 25 accounted for 47% of hospital-treated firearm injuries between June 1, 1992 and May 31, 1993. Firearm-Related Injuries 891.
Handguns are involved in a majority of firearm deaths and injuries in the United States. Id., at 888. From 1993 to 1997, 81% of firearm-homicide victims were killed by handgun. Firearm Injury and Death from Crime 4; see also Dept. of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, C. Per- kins, Weapon Use and Violent Crime, p. 8 (Sept. 2003), (Table 10), http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/pub/pdf/wuvc01. pdf (hereinafter Weapon Use and Violent Crime) (statis- tics indicating roughly the same rate for 1993–2001). In the same period, for the 41% of firearm injuries for which the weapon type is known, 82% of them were from hand- guns. Firearm Injury and Death From Crime 4. And among children under the age of 20, handguns account for approximately 70% of all unintentional firearm-related injuries and deaths. Firearm-Related Injuries 890. In particular, 70% of all firearm-related teenage suicides in 1996 involved a handgun. Id., at 889; see also Zwerling, Lynch, Burmeister, & Goertz, The Choice of Weapons in Firearm Suicides in Iowa, 83 Am. J. Public Health 1630, 1631 (1993) (Table 1) (handguns used in 36.6% of all fire- arm suicides in Iowa from 1980–1984 and 43.8% from 1990–1991).
Handguns also appear to be a very popular weapon among criminals. In a 1997 survey of inmates who were armed during the crime for which they were incarcerated, 83.2% of state inmates and 86.7% of federal inmates said that they were armed with a handgun. See Dept. of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, C. Harlow, Firearm Use by Offenders, p. 3 (Nov. 2001), online at http://
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www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/pub/pdf/fuo.pdf; see also Weapon Use and Violent Crime 2 (Table 2) (statistics indicating that handguns were used in over 84% of nonlethal violent crimes involving firearms from 1993 to 2001). And hand- guns are not only popular tools for crime, but popular objects of it as well: the FBI received on average over 274,000 reports of stolen guns for each year between 1985 and 1994, and almost 60% of stolen guns are handguns. Dept. of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, M. Zawitz, Guns Used in Crime, p. 3 (July 1995), online at http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/pub/pdf/guic.pdf. Department of Justice studies have concluded that stolen handguns in particular are an important source of weapons for both adult and juvenile offenders. Ibid.
Statistics further suggest that urban areas, such as the District, have different experiences with gun-related death, injury, and crime, than do less densely populated rural areas. A disproportionate amount of violent and property crimes occur in urban areas, and urban criminals are more likely than other offenders to use a firearm during the commission of a violent crime. See Dept. of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, D. Duhart, Urban, Suburban, and Rural Victimization, 1993–98, pp. 1, 9 (Oct. 2000), online at http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/pub/pdf/ usrv98.pdf. Homicide appears to be a much greater issue in urban areas; from 1985 to 1993, for example, “half of all homicides occurred in 63 cities with 16% of the nation’s population.” Wintemute, The Future of Firearm Violence Prevention, 282 JAMA 475 (1999). One study concluded that although the overall rate of gun death between 1989 and 1999 was roughly the same in urban than rural areas, the urban homicide rate was three times as high; even after adjusting for other variables, it was still twice as high. Branas, Nance, Elliott, Richmond, & Schwab, Ur- ban-Rural Shifts in Intentional Firearm Death, 94 Am. J. Public Health 1750, 1752 (2004); see also ibid. (noting that
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rural areas appear to have a higher rate of firearm sui- cide). And a study of firearm injuries to children and adolescents in Pennsylvania between 1987 and 2000 showed an injury rate in urban counties 10 times higher than in nonurban counties. Nance & Branas, The Rural- Urban Continuum, 156 Archives of Pediatrics & Adoles- cent Medicine 781, 782 (2002).
Finally, the linkage of handguns to firearms deaths and injuries appears to be much stronger in urban than in rural areas. “[S]tudies to date generally support the hy- pothesis that the greater number of rural gun deaths are from rifles or shotguns, whereas the greater number of urban gun deaths are from handguns.” Dresang, supra, at 108. And the Pennsylvania study reached a similar con- clusion with respect to firearm injuries—they are much more likely to be caused by handguns in urban areas than in rural areas. See Nance & Branas, supra, at 784.
3 Respondent and his many amici for the most part do not
disagree about the figures set forth in the preceding sub- section, but they do disagree strongly with the District’s predictive judgment that a ban on handguns will help solve the crime and accident problems that those figures disclose. In particular, they disagree with the District Council’s assessment that “freezing the pistol . . . popula- tion within the District,” DC Rep., at 26, will reduce crime, accidents, and deaths related to guns. And they provide facts and figures designed to show that it has not done so in the past, and hence will not do so in the future.
First, they point out that, since the ban took effect, violent crime in the District has increased, not decreased. See Brief for Criminologists et al. as Amici Curiae 4–8, 3a (hereinafter Criminologists’ Brief); Brief for Congress of Racial Equality as Amicus Curiae 35–36; Brief for Na- tional Rifle Assn. et al. as Amici Curiae 28–30 (hereinafter
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NRA Brief). Indeed, a comparison with 49 other major cities reveals that the District’s homicide rate is actually substantially higher relative to these other cities than it was before the handgun restriction went into effect. See Brief for Academics as Amici Curiae 7–10 (hereinafter Academics’ Brief); see also Criminologists’ Brief 6–9, 3a– 4a, 7a. Respondent’s amici report similar results in com- paring the District’s homicide rates during that period to that of the neighboring States of Maryland and Virginia (neither of which restricts handguns to the same degree), and to the homicide rate of the Nation as a whole. See Academics’ Brief 11–17; Criminologists’ Brief 6a, 8a. Second, respondent’s amici point to a statistical analysis that regresses murder rates against the presence or ab- sence of strict gun laws in 20 European nations. See Criminologists’ Brief 23 (citing Kates & Mauser, Would Banning Firearms Reduce Murder and Suicide? 30 Harv. J. L. & Pub. Pol’y 649, 651–694 (2007)). That analysis concludes that strict gun laws are correlated with more murders, not fewer. See Criminologists’ Brief 23; see also id., at 25–28. They also cite domestic studies, based on data from various cities, States, and the Nation as a whole, suggesting that a reduction in the number of guns does not lead to a reduction in the amount of violent crime. See id., at 17–20. They further argue that handgun bans do not reduce suicide rates, see id., at 28–31, 9a, or rates of accidents, even those involving children, see Brief for International Law Enforcement Educators and Trainers Assn. et al. as Amici Curiae App. 7–15 (hereinafter ILEETA Brief).
Third, they point to evidence indicating that firearm ownership does have a beneficial self-defense effect. Based on a 1993 survey, the authors of one study esti- mated that there were 2.2-to-2.5 million defensive uses of guns (mostly brandishing, about a quarter involving the actual firing of a gun) annually. See Kleck & Gertz,
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Armed Resistance to Crime, 86 J. Crim. L. & C. 150, 164 (1995); see also ILEETA Brief App. 1–6 (summarizing studies regarding defensive uses of guns). Another study estimated that for a period of 12 months ending in 1994, there were 503,481 incidents in which a burglar found himself confronted by an armed homeowner, and that in 497,646 (98.8%) of them, the intruder was successfully scared away. See Ikida, Dahlberg, Sacks, Mercy, & Pow- ell, Estimating Intruder-Related Firearms Retrievals in U. S. Households, 12 Violence & Victims 363 (1997). A third study suggests that gun-armed victims are substan- tially less likely than non-gun-armed victims to be injured in resisting robbery or assault. Barnett & Kates, Under Fire, 45 Emory L. J. 1139, 1243–1244, n. 478 (1996). And additional evidence suggests that criminals are likely to be deterred from burglary and other crimes if they know the victim is likely to have a gun. See Kleck, Crime Control Through the Private Use of Armed Force, 35 Social Prob- lems 1, 15 (1988) (reporting a substantial drop in the burglary rate in an Atlanta suburb that required heads of households to own guns); see also ILEETA Brief 17–18 (describing decrease in sexual assaults in Orlando when women were trained in the use of guns). Fourth, respondent’s amici argue that laws criminaliz- ing gun possession are self-defeating, as evidence suggests that they will have the effect only of restricting law- abiding citizens, but not criminals, from acquiring guns. See, e.g., Brief for President Pro Tempore of Senate of Pennsylvania as Amicus Curiae 35, 36, and n. 15. That effect, they argue, will be especially pronounced in the District, whose proximity to Virginia and Maryland will provide criminals with a steady supply of guns. See Brief for Heartland Institute as Amicus Curiae 20.
In the view of respondent’s amici, this evidence shows that other remedies—such as less restriction on gun own- ership, or liberal authorization of law-abiding citizens to
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carry concealed weapons—better fit the problem. See, e.g., Criminologists’ Brief 35–37 (advocating easily obtainable gun licenses); Brief for Southeastern Legal Foundation, Inc. et al. as Amici Curiae 15 (hereinafter SLF Brief) (advocating “widespread gun ownership” as a deterrent to crime); see also J. Lott, More Guns, Less Crime (2d ed. 2000). They further suggest that at a minimum the Dis- trict fails to show that its remedy, the gun ban, bears a reasonable relation to the crime and accident problems that the District seeks to solve. See, e.g., Brief for Re- spondent 59–61.
These empirically based arguments may have proved strong enough to convince many legislatures, as a matter of legislative policy, not to adopt total handgun bans. But the question here is whether they are strong enough to destroy judicial confidence in the reasonableness of a legislature that rejects them. And that they are not. For one thing, they can lead us more deeply into the uncer- tainties that surround any effort to reduce crime, but they cannot prove either that handgun possession diminishes crime or that handgun bans are ineffective. The statistics do show a soaring District crime rate. And the District’s crime rate went up after the District adopted its handgun ban. But, as students of elementary logic know, after it does not mean because of it. What would the District’s crime rate have looked like without the ban? Higher? Lower? The same? Experts differ; and we, as judges, cannot say.
What about the fact that foreign nations with strict gun laws have higher crime rates? Which is the cause and which the effect? The proposition that strict gun laws cause crime is harder to accept than the proposition that strict gun laws in part grow out of the fact that a nation already has a higher crime rate. And we are then left with the same question as before: What would have happened to crime without the gun laws—a question that respon-
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dent and his amici do not convincingly answer. Further, suppose that respondent’s amici are right when
they say that householders’ possession of loaded handguns help to frighten away intruders. On that assumption, one must still ask whether that benefit is worth the potential death-related cost. And that is a question without a di- rectly provable answer.
Finally, consider the claim of respondent’s amici that handgun bans cannot work; there are simply too many illegal guns already in existence for a ban on legal guns to make a difference. In a word, they claim that, given the urban sea of pre-existing legal guns, criminals can readily find arms regardless. Nonetheless, a legislature might respond, we want to make an effort to try to dry up that urban sea, drop by drop. And none of the studies can show that effort is not worthwhile.
In a word, the studies to which respondent’s amici point raise policy-related questions. They succeed in proving that the District’s predictive judgments are controversial. But they do not by themselves show that those judgments are incorrect; nor do they demonstrate a consensus, aca- demic or otherwise, supporting that conclusion.
Thus, it is not surprising that the District and its amici support the District’s handgun restriction with studies of their own. One in particular suggests that, statistically speaking, the District’s law has indeed had positive life- saving effects. See Loftin, McDowall, Weirsema, & Cottey, Effects of Restrictive Licensing of Handguns on Homicide and Suicide in the District of Columbia, 325 New England J. Med. 1615 (1991) (hereinafter Loftin study). Others suggest that firearm restrictions as a general matter reduce homicides, suicides, and accidents in the home. See, e.g., Duggan, More Guns, More Crime, 109 J. Pol. Econ. 1086 (2001); Kellerman, Somes, Rivara, Lee, & Banton, Injuries and Deaths Due to Firearms in the Home, 45 J. Trauma, Infection & Critical Care 263 (1998);
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Miller, Azrael, & Hemenway, Household Firearm Owner- ship and Suicide Rates in the United States, 13 Epidemi- ology 517 (2002). Still others suggest that the defensive uses of handguns are not as great in number as respon- dent’s amici claim. See, e.g., Brief for American Public Health Assn. et al. as Amici Curiae 17–19 (hereinafter APHA Brief) (citing studies).
Respondent and his amici reply to these responses; and in doing so, they seek to discredit as methodologically flawed the studies and evidence relied upon by the Dis- trict. See, e.g., Criminologists’ Brief 9–17, 20–24; Brief for Assn. Am. Physicians and Surgeons, Inc. as Amicus Cu- riae 12–18; SLF Brief 17–22; Britt, Kleck, & Bordua, A Reassessment of the D.C. Gun Law, 30 Law & Soc. Rev. 361 (1996) (criticizing the Loftin study). And, of course, the District’s amici produce counter-rejoinders, referring to articles that defend their studies. See, e.g., APHA Brief 23, n. 5 (citing McDowall, Loftin, & Wiersema et al., Using Quasi-Experiments to Evaluate Firearm Laws, 30 Law & Soc. Rev. 381 (1996)).
The upshot is a set of studies and counterstudies that, at most, could leave a judge uncertain about the proper policy conclusion. But from respondent’s perspective any such uncertainty is not good enough. That is because legislators, not judges, have primary responsibility for drawing policy conclusions from empirical fact. And, given that constitutional allocation of decisionmaking responsi- bility, the empirical evidence presented here is sufficient to allow a judge to reach a firm legal conclusion.
In particular this Court, in First Amendment cases applying intermediate scrutiny, has said that our “sole obligation” in reviewing a legislature’s “predictive judg- ments” is “to assure that, in formulating its judgments,” the legislature “has drawn reasonable inferences based on substantial evidence.” Turner, 520 U. S., at 195 (internal quotation marks omitted). And judges, looking at the
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evidence before us, should agree that the District legisla- ture’s predictive judgments satisfy that legal standard. That is to say, the District’s judgment, while open to ques- tion, is nevertheless supported by “substantial evidence.”
There is no cause here to depart from the standard set forth in Turner, for the District’s decision represents the kind of empirically based judgment that legislatures, not courts, are best suited to make. See Nixon, 528 U. S., at 402 (BREYER, J., concurring). In fact, deference to legisla- tive judgment seems particularly appropriate here, where the judgment has been made by a local legislature, with particular knowledge of local problems and insight into appropriate local solutions. See Los Angeles v. Alameda Books, Inc., 535 U. S. 425, 440 (2002) (plurality opinion) (“[W]e must acknowledge that the Los Angeles City Coun- cil is in a better position than the Judiciary to gather an evaluate data on local problems”); cf. DC Rep., at 67 (statement of Rep. Gude) (describing District’s law as “a decision made on the local level after extensive debate and deliberations”). Different localities may seek to solve similar problems in different ways, and a “city must be allowed a reasonable opportunity to experiment with solutions to admittedly serious problems.” Renton v. Playtime Theatres, Inc., 475 U. S. 41, 52 (1986) (internal quotation marks omitted). “The Framers recognized that the most effective democracy occurs at local levels of gov- ernment, where people with firsthand knowledge of local problems have more ready access to public officials re- sponsible for dealing with them.” Garcia v. San Antonio Metropolitan Transit Authority, 469 U. S. 528, 575, n. 18 (1985) (Powell, J., dissenting) (citing The Federalist No. 17, p. 107 (J. Cooke ed. 1961) (A. Hamilton)). We owe that democratic process some substantial weight in the consti- tutional calculus.
For these reasons, I conclude that the District’s statute properly seeks to further the sort of life-preserving and
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public-safety interests that the Court has called “compel- ling.” Salerno, 481 U. S., at 750, 754.
B I next assess the extent to which the District’s law
burdens the interests that the Second Amendment seeks to protect. Respondent and his amici, as well as the ma- jority, suggest that those interests include: (1) the preser- vation of a “well regulated Militia”; (2) safeguarding the use of firearms for sporting purposes, e.g., hunting and marksmanship; and (3) assuring the use of firearms for self-defense. For argument’s sake, I shall consider all three of those interests here.
1 The District’s statute burdens the Amendment’s first
and primary objective hardly at all. As previously noted, there is general agreement among the Members of the Court that the principal (if not the only) purpose of the Second Amendment is found in the Amendment’s text: the preservation of a “well regulated Militia.” See supra, at 3. What scant Court precedent there is on the Second Amendment teaches that the Amendment was adopted “[w]ith obvious purpose to assure the continuation and render possible the effectiveness of [militia] forces” and “must be interpreted and applied with that end in view.” Miller, 307 U. S., at 178. Where that end is implicated only minimally (or not at all), there is substantially less reason for constitutional concern. Compare ibid. (“In the absence of any evidence tending to show that possession or use of a ‘shotgun having a barrel of less than eighteen inches in length’ at this time has some reasonable rela- tionship to the preservation or efficiency of a well regulated militia, we cannot say that the Second Amend- ment guarantees the right to keep and bear such an instrument”).
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To begin with, the present case has nothing to do with actual military service. The question presented presumes that respondent is “not affiliated with any state-regulated militia.” 552 U. S. __ (2007) (emphasis added). I am aware of no indication that the District either now or in the recent past has called up its citizenry to serve in a militia, that it has any inkling of doing so anytime in the foreseeable future, or that this law must be construed to prevent the use of handguns during legitimate militia activities. Moreover, even if the District were to call up its militia, respondent would not be among the citizens whose service would be requested. The District does not consider him, at 66 years of age, to be a member of its militia. See D. C. Code §49–401 (2001) (militia includes only male residents ages 18 to 45); App. to Pet. for Cert. 120a (indi- cating respondent’s date of birth).
Nonetheless, as some amici claim, the statute might interfere with training in the use of weapons, training useful for military purposes. The 19th-century constitu- tional scholar, Thomas Cooley, wrote that the Second Amendment protects “learning to handle and use [arms] in a way that makes those who keep them ready for their efficient use” during militia service. General Principles of Constitutional Law 271 (1880); ante, at 45 (opinion of the Court); see also ante, at 45–46 (citing other scholars agree- ing with Cooley on that point). And former military offi- cers tell us that “private ownership of firearms makes for a more effective fighting force” because “[m]ilitary recruits with previous firearms experience and training are gener- ally better marksmen, and accordingly, better soldiers.” Brief for Retired Military Officers as Amici Curiae 1–2 (hereinafter Military Officers’ Brief). An amicus brief filed by retired Army generals adds that a “well-regulated militia—whether ad hoc or as part of our organized mili- tary—depends on recruits who have familiarity and train- ing with firearms—rifles, pistols, and shotguns.” Brief for
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Major General John D. Altenburg, Jr., et al. as Amici Curiae 4 (hereinafter Generals’ Brief). Both briefs point out the importance of handgun training. Military Officers’ Brief 26–28; Generals’ Brief 4. Handguns are used in military service, see id., at 26, and “civilians who are familiar with handgun marksmanship and safety are much more likely to be able to safely and accurately fire a rifle or other firearm with minimal training upon entering military service,” id., at 28.
Regardless, to consider the military-training objective a modern counterpart to a similar militia-related colonial objective and to treat that objective as falling within the Amendment’s primary purposes makes no difference here. That is because the District’s law does not seriously affect military training interests. The law permits residents to engage in activities that will increase their familiarity with firearms. They may register (and thus possess in their homes) weapons other than handguns, such as rifles and shotguns. See D. C. Code §§7–2502.01, 7–2502.02(a) (only weapons that cannot be registered are sawed-off shotguns, machine guns, short-barreled rifles, and pistols not registered before 1976); compare Generals’ Brief 4 (listing “rifles, pistols, and shotguns” as useful military weapons; emphasis added). And they may operate those weapons within the District “for lawful recreational pur- poses.” §7–2507.02; see also §7–2502.01(b)(3) (nonresi- dents “participating in any lawful recreational firearm- related activity in the District, or on his way to or from such activity in another jurisdiction” may carry even weapons not registered in the District). These permissible recreations plainly include actually using and firing the weapons, as evidenced by a specific D. C. Code provision contemplating the existence of local firing ranges. See §7–2507.03.
And while the District law prevents citizens from train- ing with handguns within the District, the District consists
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of only 61.4 square miles of urban area. See Dept. of Commerce, Bureau of Census, United States: 2000 (pt. 1), p. 11 (2002) (Table 8). The adjacent States do permit the use of handguns for target practice, and those States are only a brief subway ride away. See Md. Crim. Law Code Ann. §4–203(b)(4) (Lexis Supp. 2007) (general handgun restriction does not apply to “the wearing, carrying, or transporting by a person of a handgun used in connection with,” inter alia, “a target shoot, formal or informal target practice, sport shooting event, hunting, [or] a Department of Natural Resources-sponsored firearms and hunter safety class”); Va. Code Ann. §18.2–287.4 (Lexis Supp. 2007) (general restriction on carrying certain loaded pis- tols in certain public areas does not apply “to any person actually engaged in lawful hunting or lawful recreational shooting activities at an established shooting range or shooting contest”); Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority, Metrorail System Map, http://www.wmata.com/ metrorail/systemmmap.cfm.
Of course, a subway rider must buy a ticket, and the ride takes time. It also costs money to store a pistol, say, at a target range, outside the District. But given the costs already associated with gun ownership and firearms training, I cannot say that a subway ticket and a short subway ride (and storage costs) create more than a mini- mal burden. Compare Crawford v. Marion County Elec- tion Bd., 553 U. S. ___, ___ (2008) (slip op., at 3) (BREYER, J., dissenting) (acknowledging travel burdens on indigent persons in the context of voting where public transporta- tion options were limited). Indeed, respondent and two of his coplaintiffs below may well use handguns outside the District on a regular basis, as their declarations indicate that they keep such weapons stored there. See App. to Pet. for Cert. 77a (respondent); see also id., at 78a, 84a (coplaintiffs). I conclude that the District’s law burdens the Second Amendment’s primary objective little, or not at
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all. 2
The majority briefly suggests that the “right to keep and bear Arms” might encompass an interest in hunting. See, e.g., ante, at 26. But in enacting the present provisions, the District sought “to take nothing away from sports- men.” DC Rep., at 33. And any inability of District resi- dents to hunt near where they live has much to do with the jurisdiction’s exclusively urban character and little to do with the District’s firearm laws. For reasons similar to those I discussed in the preceding subsection—that the District’s law does not prohibit possession of rifles or shotguns, and the presence of opportunities for sporting activities in nearby States—I reach a similar conclusion, namely, that the District’s law burdens any sports-related or hunting-related objectives that the Amendment may protect little, or not at all.
3 The District’s law does prevent a resident from keeping
a loaded handgun in his home. And it consequently makes it more difficult for the householder to use the handgun for self-defense in the home against intruders, such as bur- glars. As the Court of Appeals noted, statistics suggest that handguns are the most popular weapon for self de- fense. See 478 F. 3d, at 400 (citing Kleck & Gertz, 86 J. Crim. L. & C., at 182–183). And there are some legitimate reasons why that would be the case: Amici suggest (with some empirical support) that handguns are easier to hold and control (particularly for persons with physical infirmi- ties), easier to carry, easier to maneuver in enclosed spaces, and that a person using one will still have a hand free to dial 911. See ILEETA Brief 37–39; NRA Brief 32– 33; see also ante, at 57. But see Brief for Petitioners 54– 55 (citing sources preferring shotguns and rifles to hand-
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guns for purposes of self-defense). To that extent the law burdens to some degree an interest in self-defense that for present purposes I have assumed the Amendment seeks to further.
C In weighing needs and burdens, we must take account of
the possibility that there are reasonable, but less restric- tive alternatives. Are there other potential measures that might similarly promote the same goals while imposing lesser restrictions? See Nixon, 528 U. S., at 402 (BREYER, J., concurring) (“existence of a clearly superior, less re- strictive alternative” can be a factor in determining whether a law is constitutionally proportionate). Here I see none.
The reason there is no clearly superior, less restrictive alternative to the District’s handgun ban is that the ban’s very objective is to reduce significantly the number of handguns in the District, say, for example, by allowing a law enforcement officer immediately to assume that any handgun he sees is an illegal handgun. And there is no plausible way to achieve that objective other than to ban the guns.
It does not help respondent’s case to describe the Dis- trict’s objective more generally as an “effort to diminish the dangers associated with guns.” That is because the very attributes that make handguns particularly useful for self-defense are also what make them particularly dangerous. That they are easy to hold and control means that they are easier for children to use. See Brief for American Academy of Pediatrics et al. as Amici Curiae 19 (“[C]hildren as young as three are able to pull the trigger of most handguns”). That they are maneuverable and permit a free hand likely contributes to the fact that they are by far the firearm of choice for crimes such as rape and robbery. See Weapon Use and Violent Crime 2 (Table 2).
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That they are small and light makes them easy to steal, see supra, at 19, and concealable, cf. ante, at 54 (opinion of the Court) (suggesting that concealed-weapon bans are constitutional).
This symmetry suggests that any measure less restric- tive in respect to the use of handguns for self-defense will, to that same extent, prove less effective in preventing the use of handguns for illicit purposes. If a resident has a handgun in the home that he can use for self-defense, then he has a handgun in the home that he can use to commit suicide or engage in acts of domestic violence. See supra, at 18 (handguns prevalent in suicides); Brief for National Network to End Domestic Violence et al. as Amici Curiae 27 (handguns prevalent in domestic violence). If it is indeed the case, as the District believes, that the number of guns contributes to the number of gun-related crimes, accidents, and deaths, then, although there may be less restrictive, less effective substitutes for an outright ban, there is no less restrictive equivalent of an outright ban.
Licensing restrictions would not similarly reduce the handgun population, and the District may reasonably fear that even if guns are initially restricted to law-abiding citizens, they might be stolen and thereby placed in the hands of criminals. See supra, at 19. Permitting certain types of handguns, but not others, would affect the com- mercial market for handguns, but not their availability. And requiring safety devices such as trigger locks, or imposing safe-storage requirements would interfere with any self-defense interest while simultaneously leaving operable weapons in the hands of owners (or others capa- ble of acquiring the weapon and disabling the safety de- vice) who might use them for domestic violence or other crimes.
The absence of equally effective alternatives to a com- plete prohibition finds support in the empirical fact that other States and urban centers prohibit particular types of
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weapons. Chicago has a law very similar to the District’s, and many of its suburbs also ban handgun possession under most circumstances. See Chicago, Ill., Municipal Code §§8–20–030(k), 8–20–40, 8–20–50(c) (2008); Evans- ton, Ill., City Code §9–8–2 (2007); Morton Grove, Ill., Village Code §6–2–3(C) (2008); Oak Park, Ill., Village Code §27–2–1 (2007); Winnetka, Ill., Village Ordinance §9.12.020(B) (2008); Wilmette, Ill., Ordinance §12–24(b) (2008). Toledo bans certain types of handguns. Toledo, Ohio, Municipal Code, ch. 549.25 (2007). And San Fran- cisco in 2005 enacted by popular referendum a ban on most handgun possession by city residents; it has been precluded from enforcing that prohibition, however, by state-court decisions deeming it pre-empted by state law. See Fiscal v. City and County of San Francisco, 158 Cal. App. 4th 895, 900–901, 70 Cal. Rptr. 3d 324, 326–328 (2008). (Indeed, the fact that as many as 41 States may pre-empt local gun regulation suggests that the absence of more regulation like the District’s may perhaps have more to do with state law than with a lack of locally perceived need for them. See Legal Community Against Violence, Regulating Guns in America 14 (2006), http://www. lcav.org/Library/reports_analyses/National_Audit_Total_ 8.16.06.pdf.
In addition, at least six States and Puerto Rico impose general bans on certain types of weapons, in particular assault weapons or semiautomatic weapons. See Cal. Penal Code §12280(b) (West Supp. 2008); Conn. Gen. Stat. §§53–202c (2007); Haw. Rev. Stat. §134–8 (1993); Md. Crim. Law Code Ann. §4–303(a) (Lexis 2002); Mass. Gen. Laws, ch. 140, §131M (West 2006); N. Y. Penal Law Ann. §265.02(7) (West Supp. 2008); 25 Laws P. R. Ann. §456m (Supp. 2006); see also 18 U. S. C. §922(o) (federal ma- chinegun ban). And at least 14 municipalities do the same. See Albany, N. Y., Municipal Code §193–16(A) (2005); Aurora, Ill., Ordinance §29–49(a) (2007); Buffalo,
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N. Y., City Code §180–1(F) (2000); Chicago, Ill., Municipal Code §8–24–025(a), 8–20–030(h); Cincinnati, Ohio, Admin. Code §708–37(a) (Supp. 2008); Cleveland, Ohio, Ordinance §628.03(a) (2008); Columbus, Ohio, City Code §2323.31 (2007); Denver, Colo., Municipal Code §38–130(e) (2008); Morton Grove, Ill., Village Code §6–2–3(B); N. Y. C. Admin. Code §10–303.1 (2007); Oak Park, Ill., Village Code §27–2-1; Rochester, N. Y., Code §47–5(f) (2008); South Bend, Ind., Ordinance §§13–97(b), 13–98 (2008); Toledo, Ohio, Municipal Code §549.23(a). These bans, too, suggest that there may be no substitute to an outright prohibition in cases where a governmental body has deemed a particular type of weapon especially dangerous.
D The upshot is that the District’s objectives are compel-
ling; its predictive judgments as to its law’s tendency to achieve those objectives are adequately supported; the law does impose a burden upon any self-defense interest that the Amendment seeks to secure; and there is no clear less restrictive alternative. I turn now to the final portion of the “permissible regulation” question: Does the District’s law disproportionately burden Amendment-protected interests? Several considerations, taken together, con- vince me that it does not.
First, the District law is tailored to the life-threatening problems it attempts to address. The law concerns one class of weapons, handguns, leaving residents free to possess shotguns and rifles, along with ammunition. The area that falls within its scope is totally urban. Cf. Loril- lard Tobacco Co. v. Reilly, 533 U. S. 525, 563 (2001) (var- ied effect of statewide speech restriction in “rural, urban, or suburban” locales “demonstrates a lack of narrow tailor- ing”). That urban area suffers from a serious handgun- fatality problem. The District’s law directly aims at that compelling problem. And there is no less restrictive way
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to achieve the problem-related benefits that it seeks. Second, the self-defense interest in maintaining loaded
handguns in the home to shoot intruders is not the pri- mary interest, but at most a subsidiary interest, that the Second Amendment seeks to serve. The Second Amend- ment’s language, while speaking of a “Militia,” says noth- ing of “self-defense.” As JUSTICE STEVENS points out, the Second Amendment’s drafting history shows that the language reflects the Framers’ primary, if not exclusive, objective. See ante, at 17–28 (dissenting opinion). And the majority itself says that “the threat that the new Federal Government would destroy the citizens’ militia by taking away their arms was the reason that right . . . was codified in a written Constitution.” Ante, at 26 (emphasis added). The way in which the Amendment’s operative clause seeks to promote that interest—by protecting a right “to keep and bear Arms”—may in fact help further an interest in self-defense. But a factual connection falls far short of a primary objective. The Amendment itself tells us that militia preservation was first and foremost in the Framers’ minds. See Miller, 307 U. S., at 178 (“With obvious purpose to assure the continuation and render possible the effectiveness of [militia] forces the declaration and guarantee of the Second Amendment were made,” and the amendment “must be interpreted and applied with that end in view”).
Further, any self-defense interest at the time of the Framing could not have focused exclusively upon urban- crime related dangers. Two hundred years ago, most Americans, many living on the frontier, would likely have thought of self-defense primarily in terms of outbreaks of fighting with Indian tribes, rebellions such as Shays’ Rebellion, marauders, and crime-related dangers to trav- elers on the roads, on footpaths, or along waterways. See Dept. of Commerce, Bureau of Census, Population: 1790 to 1990 (1998) (Table 4), online at http://www.census.gov/
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population/censusdata/table-4.pdf (of the 3,929,214 Ameri- cans in 1790, only 201,655—about 5%—lived in urban areas). Insofar as the Framers focused at all on the tiny fraction of the population living in large cities, they would have been aware that these city dwellers were subject to firearm restrictions that their rural counterparts were not. See supra, at 4–7. They are unlikely then to have thought of a right to keep loaded handguns in homes to confront intruders in urban settings as central. And the subse- quent development of modern urban police departments, by diminishing the need to keep loaded guns nearby in case of intruders, would have moved any such right even further away from the heart of the amendment’s more basic protective ends. See, e.g., Sklansky, The Private Police, 46 UCLA L. Rev. 1165, 1206–1207 (1999) (profes- sional urban police departments did not develop until roughly the mid-19th century).
Nor, for that matter, am I aware of any evidence that handguns in particular were central to the Framers’ con- ception of the Second Amendment. The lists of militia- related weapons in the late 18th-century state statutes appear primarily to refer to other sorts of weapons, mus- kets in particular. See Miller, 307 U. S., at 180–182 (re- producing colonial militia laws). Respondent points out in his brief that the Federal Government and two States at the time of the founding had enacted statutes that listed handguns as “acceptable” militia weapons. Brief for Re- spondent 47. But these statutes apparently found them “acceptable” only for certain special militiamen (generally, certain soldiers on horseback), while requiring muskets or rifles for the general infantry. See Act of May 8, 1792, ch. XXXIII, 1 Stat. 271; Laws of the State of North Carolina 592 (1791); First Laws of the State of Connecticut 150 (1784); see also 25 Journals of the Continental Congress, pp. 1774–1789 741–742 (1922).
Third, irrespective of what the Framers could have
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thought, we know what they did think. Samuel Adams, who lived in Boston, advocated a constitutional amend- ment that would have precluded the Constitution from ever being “construed” to “prevent the people of the United States, who are peaceable citizens, from keeping their own arms.” 6 Documentary History of the Ratification of the Constitution 1453 (J. Kaminski & G. Saladino eds. 2000). Samuel Adams doubtless knew that the Massachusetts Constitution contained somewhat similar protection. And he doubtless knew that Massachusetts law prohibited Bostonians from keeping loaded guns in the house. So how could Samuel Adams have advocated such protection unless he thought that the protection was consistent with local regulation that seriously impeded urban residents from using their arms against intruders? It seems unlikely that he meant to deprive the Federal Government of power (to enact Boston-type weapons regulation) that he know Boston had and (as far as we know) he would have thought constitutional under the Massachusetts Constitution. Indeed, since the District of Columbia (the subject of the Seat of Government Clause, U. S. Const., Art. I, §8, cl. 17) was the only urban area under direct federal control, it seems unlikely that the Framers thought about urban gun control at all. Cf. Palmore v. United States, 411 U. S. 389, 397–398 (1973) (Congress can “legislate for the District in a manner with respect to subjects that would exceed its powers, or at least would be very unusual, in the context of national legislation enacted under other powers delegated to it”).
Of course the District’s law and the colonial Boston law are not identical. But the Boston law disabled an even wider class of weapons (indeed, all firearms). And its existence shows at the least that local legislatures could impose (as here) serious restrictions on the right to use firearms. Moreover, as I have said, Boston’s law, though highly analogous to the District’s, was not the only colo-
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nial law that could have impeded a homeowner’s ability to shoot a burglar. Pennsylvania’s and New York’s laws could well have had a similar effect. See supra, at 6–7. And the Massachusetts and Pennsylvania laws were not only thought consistent with an unwritten common-law gun-possession right, but also consistent with written state constitutional provisions providing protections simi- lar to those provided by the Federal Second Amendment. See supra, at 6–7. I cannot agree with the majority that these laws are largely uninformative because the penalty for violating them was civil, rather than criminal. Ante, at 61–62. The Court has long recognized that the exercise of a constitutional right can be burdened by penalties far short of jail time. See, e.g., Murdock v. Pennsylvania, 319 U. S. 105 (1943) (invalidating $7 per week solicitation fee as applied to religious group); see also Forsyth County v. Nationalist Movement, 505 U. S. 123, 136 (1992) (“A tax based on the content of speech does not become more constitutional because it is a small tax”).
Regardless, why would the majority require a precise colonial regulatory analogue in order to save a modern gun regulation from constitutional challenge? After all, insofar as we look to history to discover how we can consti- tutionally regulate a right to self-defense, we must look, not to what 18th-century legislatures actually did enact, but to what they would have thought they could enact. There are innumerable policy-related reasons why a legis- lature might not act on a particular matter, despite having the power to do so. This Court has “frequently cautioned that it is at best treacherous to find in congressional si- lence alone the adoption of a controlling rule of law.” United States v. Wells, 519 U. S. 482, 496 (1997). It is similarly “treacherous” to reason from the fact that colo- nial legislatures did not enact certain kinds of legislation an unalterable constitutional limitation on the power of a modern legislature cannot do so. The question should not
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be whether a modern restriction on a right to self-defense duplicates a past one, but whether that restriction, when compared with restrictions originally thought possible, enjoys a similarly strong justification. At a minimum that similarly strong justification is what the District’s modern law, compared with Boston’s colonial law, reveals.
Fourth, a contrary view, as embodied in today’s decision, will have unfortunate consequences. The decision will encourage legal challenges to gun regulation throughout the Nation. Because it says little about the standards used to evaluate regulatory decisions, it will leave the Nation without clear standards for resolving those chal- lenges. See ante, at 54, and n. 26. And litigation over the course of many years, or the mere specter of such litiga- tion, threatens to leave cities without effective protection against gun violence and accidents during that time.
As important, the majority’s decision threatens severely to limit the ability of more knowledgeable, democratically elected officials to deal with gun-related problems. The majority says that it leaves the District “a variety of tools for combating” such problems. Ante, at 64. It fails to list even one seemingly adequate replacement for the law it strikes down. I can understand how reasonable individu- als can disagree about the merits of strict gun control as a crime-control measure, even in a totally urbanized area. But I cannot understand how one can take from the elected branches of government the right to decide whether to insist upon a handgun-free urban populace in a city now facing a serious crime problem and which, in the future, could well face environmental or other emergencies that threaten the breakdown of law and order.
V The majority derides my approach as “judge-
empowering.” Ante, at 62. I take this criticism seriously, but I do not think it accurate. As I have previously ex-
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plained, this is an approach that the Court has taken in other areas of constitutional law. See supra, at 10–11. Application of such an approach, of course, requires judg- ment, but the very nature of the approach—requiring careful identification of the relevant interests and evaluat- ing the law’s effect upon them—limits the judge’s choices; and the method’s necessary transparency lays bare the judge’s reasoning for all to see and to criticize.
The majority’s methodology is, in my view, substantially less transparent than mine. At a minimum, I find it difficult to understand the reasoning that seems to under- lie certain conclusions that it reaches.
The majority spends the first 54 pages of its opinion attempting to rebut JUSTICE STEVENS’ evidence that the Amendment was enacted with a purely militia-related purpose. In the majority’s view, the Amendment also protects an interest in armed personal self-defense, at least to some degree. But the majority does not tell us precisely what that interest is. “Putting all of [the Second Amendment’s] textual elements together,” the majority says, “we find that they guarantee the individual right to possess and carry weapons in case of confrontation.” Ante, at 19. Then, three pages later, it says that “we do not read the Second Amendment to permit citizens to carry arms for any sort of confrontation.” Ante, at 22. Yet, with one critical exception, it does not explain which confrontations count. It simply leaves that question unanswered.
The majority does, however, point to one type of confron- tation that counts, for it describes the Amendment as “elevat[ing] above all other interests the right of law- abiding, responsible citizens to use arms in defense of hearth and home.” Ante, at 63. What is its basis for finding that to be the core of the Second Amendment right? The only historical sources identified by the major- ity that even appear to touch upon that specific matter consist of an 1866 newspaper editorial discussing the
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Freedmen’s Bureau Act, see ante, at 43, two quotations from that 1866 Act’s legislative history, see ante, at 43–44, and a 1980 state court opinion saying that in colonial times the same were used to defend the home as to main- tain the militia, see ante, at 52. How can citations such as these support the far-reaching proposition that the Second Amendment’s primary concern is not its stated concern about the militia, but rather a right to keep loaded weap- ons at one’s bedside to shoot intruders?
Nor is it at all clear to me how the majority decides which loaded “arms” a homeowner may keep. The major- ity says that that Amendment protects those weapons “typically possessed by law-abiding citizens for lawful purposes.” Ante, at 53. This definition conveniently ex- cludes machineguns, but permits handguns, which the majority describes as “the most popular weapon chosen by Americans for self-defense in the home.” Ante, at 57; see also ante, at 54–55. But what sense does this approach make? According to the majority’s reasoning, if Congress and the States lift restrictions on the possession and use of machineguns, and people buy machineguns to protect their homes, the Court will have to reverse course and find that the Second Amendment does, in fact, protect the individual self-defense-related right to possess a machine- gun. On the majority’s reasoning, if tomorrow someone invents a particularly useful, highly dangerous self- defense weapon, Congress and the States had better ban it immediately, for once it becomes popular Congress will no longer possess the constitutional authority to do so. In essence, the majority determines what regulations are permissible by looking to see what existing regulations permit. There is no basis for believing that the Framers intended such circular reasoning.
I am similarly puzzled by the majority’s list, in Part III of its opinion, of provisions that in its view would survive Second Amendment scrutiny. These consist of (1) “prohi-
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bitions on carrying concealed weapons”; (2) “prohibitions on the possession of firearms by felons”; (3) “prohibitions on the possession of firearms by . . . the mentally ill”; (4) “laws forbidding the carrying of firearms in sensitive places such as schools and government buildings”; and (5) government “conditions and qualifications” attached “to the commercial sale of arms.” Ante, at 54. Why these? Is it that similar restrictions existed in the late 18th cen- tury? The majority fails to cite any colonial analogues. And even were it possible to find analogous colonial laws in respect to all these restrictions, why should these colo- nial laws count, while the Boston loaded-gun restriction (along with the other laws I have identified) apparently does not count? See supra, at 5–6, 38–39.
At the same time the majority ignores a more important question: Given the purposes for which the Framers en- acted the Second Amendment, how should it be applied to modern-day circumstances that they could not have an- ticipated? Assume, for argument’s sake, that the Framers did intend the Amendment to offer a degree of self-defense protection. Does that mean that the Framers also in- tended to guarantee a right to possess a loaded gun near swimming pools, parks, and playgrounds? That they would not have cared about the children who might pick up a loaded gun on their parents’ bedside table? That they (who certainly showed concern for the risk of fire, see supra, at 5–7) would have lacked concern for the risk of accidental deaths or suicides that readily accessible loaded handguns in urban areas might bring? Unless we believe that they intended future generations to ignore such matters, answering questions such as the questions in this case requires judgment—judicial judgment exercised within a framework for constitutional analysis that guides that judgment and which makes its exercise transparent. One cannot answer those questions by combining incon- clusive historical research with judicial ipse dixit.
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The argument about method, however, is by far the less important argument surrounding today’s decision. Far more important are the unfortunate consequences that today’s decision is likely to spawn. Not least of these, as I have said, is the fact that the decision threatens to throw into doubt the constitutionality of gun laws throughout the United States. I can find no sound legal basis for launch- ing the courts on so formidable and potentially dangerous a mission. In my view, there simply is no untouchable constitutional right guaranteed by the Second Amendment to keep loaded handguns in the house in crime-ridden urban areas.
VI For these reasons, I conclude that the District’s measure
is a proportionate, not a disproportionate, response to the compelling concerns that led the District to adopt it. And, for these reasons as well as the independently sufficient reasons set forth by JUSTICE STEVENS, I would find the District’s measure consistent with the Second Amend- ment’s demands.
With respect, I dissent.
Michel Foucault The Art of Telling the Truth.pdf
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