
The Chomsky Reader
140
insights are in the area of formal grammatical structure. A person who
knows a language has acquired a system of rules and principles--a "gen-
erative grammar," in technical terms--that associates sound and mean-
ing in some specific fashion. There are many reasonably well-founded
and, I think, rather enlightening hypotheses as to the character of such
grammars, for quite a number of languages. Furthermore, there has been
a renewal of interest in "universal grammar," interpreted now as the
theory that tries to specify the general properties of those languages that
can be learned in the normal way by humans. Here, too, significant
progress has been achieved. The subject is of particular importance. It
is appropriate to regard universal grammar as the study of one of the
essential faculties of mind. It is, therefore, extremely interesting to dis-
cover, as I believe we do, that the principles of universal grammar are
rich, abstract, and restrictive, and can be used to construct principled
explanations for a variety of phenomena. At the present stage of our
understanding, if language is to provide a springboard for the investiga-
tion of other problems of human nature, it is these aspects of language
to which we will have to turn our attention, for the simple reason that it
is
only these aspects that are reasonably well understood. In another
sense, the study of formal properties of language reveals something of
the nature of humans in a negative way: it underscores, with great clarity,
the limits of our understanding of those qualities of mind that are appar-
ently unique to humans and that must enter into their cultural achieve-
ments in an intimate, if still quite obscure, manner.
In searching for a point of departure, one turns naturally to a period
in the history of Western thought when it was possible to believe that "the
thought of making freedom the sum and substance of philosophy has
emancipated the human spirit in all its relationships, and ... has given
to science in all its parts a more powerful reorientation than any earlier
revolution."1
The word "revolution" bears multiple associations in this
passage, for Schelling also proclaims that "man is born to act and not to
speculate"; and when he writes that "the time has come to proclaim to
a nobler humanity the freedom of the spirit, and no longer to have
patience with men's tearful regrets for their lost chains," we hear the
echoes of the libertarian thought and revolutionary acts of the late eigh-
teenth century. Schelling writes that "the beginning and end of all philos-
ophy is--Freedom." These words are invested with meaning and urgency
at a time when people are struggling to cast off their chains, to resist
authority that has lost its claim to legitimacy, to construct more humane
and more democratic social institutions. It is at such a time that the
philosopher may be driven to inquire into the nature of human freedom
and its limits, and perhaps to conclude, with Schelling, that with respect
to the human ego, "its essence is freedom"; and with respect to philoso-
141
Interpreting
the
World
phy, "the highest dignity of Philosophy consists precisely therein, that it
stakes all on human freedom."
We are living, once again, at such a time. A revolutionary ferment is
sweeping the so-called Third World, awakening enormous masses from
torpor and acquiescence in traditional authority. There are those who
feel that the industrial societies as well are ripe for revolutionary
change--and I do not refer only to representatives of the New Left.
The threat of revolutionary change brings forth repression and reac--
tion. Its signs are evident in varying forms, in France, in the Soviet Union,
in the United States--not least, in the city where we are meeting. It is
natural, then, that we should consider, abstractly, the problems of human
freedom, and turn with interest and serious attention to the thinking of
an earlier period when archaic social institutions were subjected to criti-
cal analysis and sustained attack. It is natural and appropriate, so long as
we bear in mind Schelling's admonition that man is born not merely to
speculate but also to act.
One of the earliest and most remarkable of the eighteenth-century
investigations of freedom and servitude is Rousseau's
Discourse on Inequal-
ity
(1755), in many ways a revolutionary tract. In it, he seeks to "set forth
the origin and progress of inequality, the establishment and abuse of
political societies, insofar as these things can be deduced from the nature
of man by the light of reason alone." His conclusions were sufficiently
shocking that the judges of the prize competition of the Academy of
Dijon, to whom the work was originally submitted, refused to hear the
manuscript through.
2
In it, Rousseau challenges the legitimacy of virtu-
ally every social institution, as well as individual control of property and
wealth. These are "usurpations... established only on a precarious and
abusive right ... having been acquired only by force, force could take
them away without [the rich] having grounds for complaint." Not even
property acquired by personal industry is held "upon better titles."
Against such a claim, one might object: "Do you not know that a multi-
tude of your brethren die or suffer from need of what you have in excess,
and that you needed express and unanimous consent of the human race
to appropriate for yourself anything from common subsistence that ex-
ceeded your own?" It is contrary to the law of nature that "a handful of
men be glutted with superfluities while the starving multitude lacks
necessities."
Rousseau argues that civil society is hardly more than a conspiracy by
the rich to guarantee their plunder. Hypocritically, the rich call upon
their neighbors to "institute regulations of justice and peace to which all
are obliged to conform, which make an exception of no one, and which
compensate in some way for the caprices of fortune by equally subjecting
the powerful and the weak to mutual duties"-those laws which, as Ana-