Public Intellectuals and the Birth of Totalitarianism

Hannah Arendt’s essays, particularly Lying in Politics and Truth and Politics, rely on—and simultaneously diverge from—a long-standing Western tradition that reflects not only on the philosophical nature of politics but also on the broader meaning of lying. They rely on this tradition because Arendt, as a thinker who throughout her entire body of work has sought to analyze the nature of political action and its relationship to concepts such as morality, freedom, truth, authority, will, and culture in the history of philosophy, attempts to trace the trajectory of this nature and this relationship across the Western tradition as a whole. Yet they diverge from it because Arendt approaches politics not in the manner of, say, Carl Schmitt—who diagnoses our age around certain constants and labels it as a period of depoliticization—or of Eric Voegelin—who sees modern politics as caught in a vortex of representation and truth that constantly drifts toward Gnosticism—or, as we will examine below, of Alexandre Koyré, who subjects political lying to an analysis that confines it to totalitarian regimes. Rather, she evaluates each political action by taking into account its non-political characteristics, as if aiming to grasp its nascent, embryonic form at the moment of its inception. This allows Arendt, even when speaking of tradition, to do so without being bound by it, offering her a perspective from which to assess politics from outside the political sphere itself. As Roberto Esposito puts it, in Arendt, the political is not analyzed through a process of depoliticization, but rather through an impolitical void that precisely enables the political to begin. Accordingly, truth and politics are presented as entering into a particular kind of relationship. Depending on the changing nature of this relationship, lying either finds no place at all or begins to assume an almost defining role.

Before turning to how Arendt—one of the rare public intellectuals not particularly aligned with the American world order—evaluated this relationship, it is worth highlighting several key points about how the relationship between politics, truth, and lying has been historically constructed. Bearing in mind that what follows is a broad classification, in the classical philosophical tradition, lying is not considered a particularly significant act. For example, Plato’s opponents are not liars, but sophists—those who act as though they possess ideas and present those ideas as if they were highly valuable. Sophists are not so much liars as they are impostors who offer their opinions, convictions, or beliefs as though they were the truth—perhaps even counterfeiters of truth. In Aristotle—who to a large extent rendered the Platonic system more mediocre and, in doing so, left a mark not only on Western but also Eastern philosophy—the focus is not on lying, but rather on whether a statement is true or false. A statement such as “All humans are liars” is not itself a lie but rather a proposition that must be evaluated according to criteria of truth or falsity. During the medieval period in the West, the classical understanding of lying remained intact. However, what prevailed instead was the notion of secrecy—the belief that truth need not be made available to everyone—and a political worldview structured around this idea. Although it cannot be generalized across the entire history of Christianity, it was not lying per se but rather bearing false witness—rooted in the logic of the covenant—that was regarded as an act deserving punishment.

At the beginning of the modern era, certain variations in the understanding of lying begin to appear. On one hand, the rigid stance of Puritanism, and on the other, the initiation of a new tradition of thought by the philosophical spokespersons of Protestantism—also known as the modern age—led to assessments of lying that diverge significantly in character. For instance, Hobbes sees lying as something that dissolves into a form of truth within the framework of a contract made under a Sovereign, which is presented as the foundational reason for society’s existence; whereas Kant, even when faced with a murderer seeking the whereabouts of a close friend, regards truthfulness as a sacred command of reason that must not be violated under any circumstances. Hobbes famously argued that even mathematical truths could be suppressed, and all geometry books burned, if they ran counter to the rights or interests of sovereignty; while Kant, approaching the issue from a standpoint of unconditional moral obligation, claimed that deliberate lying constitutes a violation of one’s duty as a moral being. Still, none of these positions provide criteria sufficient for establishing a comprehensive relationship between lying and politics. That is, it is still assumed that lying may be permissible under certain conditions—particularly in the context of self-protection or deceiving an enemy; moreover, the mere capacity for speech may lead to lying, whether through innocent intentions or purposeful aims. Therefore, from a behavioral standpoint, Hobbes maintains that in some cases it is preferable to lie than to tell the truth, whereas Kant, in contrast to Hobbes, asserts that intentional lying is morally wrong because it causes harm to others. To reiterate: lying has not yet been subjected to a comprehensive evaluation within its relation to politics.

One of the first serious attempts to relate lying to politics is Alexandre Koyré’s essay titled The Political Function of the Modern Lie, first published in 1945. The essay stands out both for its use of the term “modern lie” and for its focus on the political function of lying. Although, as we will later explore, Arendt also distinguishes between classical and modern types of lies, Koyré—who was engaged in the history of philosophy, worked in his early years with figures like the phenomenologist Edmund Husserl and the mathematician David Hilbert in Germany, but completed his education in France after rejecting Husserl’s thesis, and is best known for his work From the Closed World to the Infinite Universe, a history of the philosophy of science that explores the formation of the modern conception of the cosmos—does not, by “modern lie,” mean what he himself calls the “phenomenological lie.” The phenomenological lie refers to the inherent possibility of lying that arises as a consequence of human beings possessing the capacity for speech.

Of course, political lies have existed since the founding of the first city (polis); however, Koyré attributes the phenomenon of lying to a broader domain that begins with language and sociality but extends across various spheres—from being weaponized to defeat an enemy or rival, to being used innocently as a form of entertainment. He refers to all of this as the phenomenology of lying. “Never before in history have so many lies been told. And never has lying been so shameless, so systematic, so relentless,” writes Koyré, turning his attention not to the phenomenological lie but to a kind of lie he calls the “contemporary political lie,” which, he argues, has never been seen with such frequency in any previous period. This type of lie, in contrast to the phenomenological kind, arises within a philosophical worldview marked by the transition from the image of a closed world to that of an infinite universe—an idea that subtly evokes Popper’s reflections in The Open Society and Its Enemies. According to Koyré, contemporary political lies are now more widespread than ever before in human history. “Written and spoken words, radio, and all forms of technical advancement have now been placed in the service of falsehood. Modern man—as a totalitarian species (genus totalitarian)—is bathed in lies, breathes lies, and is enslaved by lies at every moment of his existence.”

According to Koyré, what makes such total exposure to falsehood possible is the mass nature of lying. Lies have become “mass output for mass consumption.” And intellectual labor is by no means exempt from this. “All production aimed at the masses—especially all intellectual production—is doomed to submit to low standards. As a result, despite all its technical sophistication, the content of modern propaganda is utterly repugnant. It exhibits an absolute and total contempt for truth—even for proximity to reality. But this contempt is equivalent to the disdain it holds for the intellectual capacities of those to whom the propaganda is addressed.”

These are, of course, portrayals that, while not massifying modern man on a phenomenological level, do so quite thoroughly on a political level—and in doing so, also diminish his intellectual capacity.

However, Koyré’s depiction of the “modern man” suddenly changes—along with, of course, the intellectuals themselves. Koyré employs the concept of the contemporary political lie not as a critique of all modern societies, but as a weapon specifically directed at totalitarian regimes: “The official philosophies of totalitarian regimes unanimously brand the idea of a single, objective truth valid for everyone as absurd.” This is a strange claim; and not only because, for example, it contrasts with thinkers like Badiou today, who attempt to ontologically ground the concept of truth—not in terms of the dominance of the One (i.e., totality), but through fidelity to a truth, whatever its content may be. Badiou, drawing on set theory, prioritizes fidelity to truth over mere inclusion in any particular set, thus breaking away from the logic of the One by substituting it with the logic of the one-like. Considering that nearly half a century separates these two French-speaking thinkers, the depth of the rupture is, of course, significant. Yet what is even more peculiar is the relationship Koyré establishes between totalitarian regimes and the totality of objective truth. For Koyré, truth is total and singular; yet totalitarian regimes and their official philosophies do not accept the existence of “a single, objective truth,” branding the idea as absurd. Instead, they assert that the criterion of “truth” lies not in correspondence with reality, but in its alignment with the spirit of a race, nation, or class—in other words, truth becomes racial, national, or utilitarian. “Truth,” in its total form, is objective and universal; but totalitarian regimes do not accept this.

This inverted relationship between truth and totality also transforms the criterion of a “single, objective truth”—used as a lever to move from the “modern human,” who has been exposed to mass-scale lies in an unprecedented manner in world history and thus labeled genus totalitarian, toward the “totalitarian regime.” As a result, even the scientific publications of intellectuals within totalitarian regimes cease to be considered “truth” and instead become “propaganda.” It is at this point that Koyré’s key concept regarding the political function of lies in the modern age emerges. While lying can be seen, phenomenologically, as a trick or a form of amusement—a natural extension of being a speaking creature—in the modern era, this same logic enables, for example, a British TV presenter to calmly claim that photos of starving babies in Gaza are not “real”; that they appear this way because their mothers deliberately deprived them of food; and that their hunger, in turn, is the result of “propaganda.” It is also the same logic that allows the genocidal Netanyahu to publicly declare Israel the tireless defender of Western values, framing the West and non-West in stark contrast, as white and black. “Propaganda,” then, is the modern political lie. Rather than operating within the realm of truth and falsehood, it functions outside it—in place of a single, objective, universally valid truth. According to Koyré, propaganda not only exists outside the domain where something can be falsified once the truth is revealed; it also exploits the very criteria of verifiability and falsifiability themselves: “The distinction between truth and falsehood, between fantasy and reality, plays a significant role in totalitarian regimes. Only the positions have been reversed: the totalitarian regime is based on the primacy of falsehood.”

Considering that the article was written in 1945—before the rigid divisions of the Cold War had been institutionalized—it is evident that Koyré sought to construct a relationship between lying and politics through the example of the Nazi regime, which had receded into the past, and the Soviet regime, which remained a present threat, and to present this relationship as something existing outside the “free world.” Although mass communication technologies were more active within the so-called “free world,” it was the totalitarian regimes—built upon the primacy of falsehood and unwilling to accept a single truth—that became preoccupied with “propaganda” and, through it, dragged their masses into a world of lies.

Koyré’s essay, one of the earliest serious attempts at classifying the relationship between lying and politics—a classification that persists to this day—seeks to legitimize its argument through a curious logic: the logic of secret societies. In this attempt at legitimization, the typology of the phenomenological lie and several hastily passed-over sociological considerations play a central role. While philosophy has taken firm stances against lying, and while religions—which, as Koyré (arguably overgeneralizing) claims, do not tolerate lying in the face of a God conceived as absolute truth—also generally condemn it, from a social perspective, lying is “almost universally accepted as a legitimate instrument of deception in every society,” with the exception of extreme Puritan traditions such as the Quakers and Wahhabis—religious groups that prohibit lying to a stranger under any circumstances. Koyré, apparently unaware of deception techniques like taqiyya, a practice specific to Shiism that once drew attention in Turkey not only due to the social energy it generated but also because of the disproportionate investment it received in elite circles, equates lying with secret societies. In doing so, he effectively displaces what Carl Schmitt defined as the “enemy”—a publicly meaningful, external political category—and relocates it to the very heart of society itself.

According to Koyré, lying is not socially acceptable in “peaceful relations.” However, truthfulness has never been considered the hallmark of diplomatic skill. The foreigner is always a potential enemy. In the business world, lying is tolerated in one way or another. Even here, customary practices impose increasingly narrow restrictions. Yet even the strictest commercial conventions do not tolerate the certified fraudulence of advertising. Thus, lying is met with tolerance, even acceptance—but only up to a certain point, and only under specific conditions. The exception is war: only then, and only then, does lying become a justified means. But if lying is only tolerated and legitimized in the context of war, what is its connection to the structure of secret societies—and how does that link to totalitarian regimes?

What makes this possible is that war ceases to be an “abnormal, temporary, transitional state” and instead becomes “permanent.” “Lying, once an emergency measure, now becomes the norm.” Consequently, “a social group that sees itself surrounded by enemies will not hesitate for even a moment to use any weapon against them.” And among these weapons, the most important are truth and falsehood: “Truth within the group, lies to the outside.” Moreover, “this behavioral pattern will deeply permeate social habits.” If such a group perceives itself as being wholly and existentially threatened, the practice of lying—now embedded in its habits—transforms into a structured, hierarchical system. Within this structure, lies and truths are codified by the elite, turning the group into a secret society. Of course, in any society, various groups—including gangsters or lobbyists—develop defensive behaviors toward outsiders. But according to Koyré, what distinguishes a secret society most is that it shares a secret. That secret prevents members from expressing their own thoughts or beliefs. On the contrary, they are expected always to express the opposite of what they truly think or believe: “For a member of a secret society, speech is a means of concealing one’s thoughts.” Furthermore, a member of such a society does not believe anything that any other member—especially the elite leaders of the secret society—says in public, because they know that public declarations are made “for others.” This leads to a paradox: a member of a secret society places trust in their leader by refusing to believe anything the leader publicly says.

Thus, instead of adhering to a single, objective truth—that is, the totalitarianism of truth—Koyré likens totalitarian regimes, built upon the principle of falsehood, to secret societies. The most crucial difference between them lies in visibility: whereas secret societies survive by remaining hidden from public life, totalitarian regimes operate in full view. They “maintain secrecy in broad daylight”—that is, they conspire openly. “A totalitarian regime, determined to incite and win over the masses, to bring them together and organize them, must appear in the spotlight—and in fact, it must direct that spotlight toward itself and, above all, its leaders.” There is no need for ordinary members to conceal themselves either; on the contrary, they can openly display their affiliation with the group or the “Party,” draw the attention of outsiders, and employ visible signs of membership for this purpose—badges and insignia, armbands, even uniforms, as well as public performances of ritualized acts. And yet, this visibility does not disqualify them from resembling secret societies: “For even an open conspiracy, though not a secret society, is still a society that possesses a secret.” The “secret” of this open conspiracy—founded on the principle of falsehood and aimed at embedding lies within the masses—lies in the role of the intellectuals, who determine its content. These are the intellectuals who, under the regime, turn even the subject of scientific truth into a matter of propaganda.

The relationship Koyré constructs between totalitarianism and falsehood does not quite align with his vision of mass deception unique to the modern era—nor with his characterization of modern humanity as a unified genus totalitarian. The modern lie to which modern humans are subjected appears instead as a diagnostic tool for identifying regimes that institutionalize their own “truth” (or rather, their own falsehood) in the manner of a transparent secret society, set against the backdrop of a totalitarian notion of truth. Indeed, Koyré offers no elaboration on how truth might be objective and singular. This omission produces a somewhat puzzling implication—that his own conception of truth may resemble a kind of esoteric knowledge, one not meant to be universally shared. Nevertheless, Koyré adds yet another distinction to his conceptual framework: he splits the modern human—who is now seen as comprehensively exposed to modern, mass-scale deception—into two anthropological types, based on his observations of totalitarian regimes. There is now, in his view, a “totalitarian anthropology” and a “liberal-democratic anthropology.”

In what could be seen as an attempt to lend philosophical depth to his otherwise analytically elusive reflections on truth, politics, and falsehood, Koyré introduces a distinction that gives rise to a concept he calls totalitarian anthropology—which, in turn, presupposes a totalitarian vision of the human: “Totalitarian anthropology defends the importance, the role, and the primacy of action. Yet it does not, in the slightest, disdain reason. Or rather, the part of reason it disdains—or even hates—is only that which manifests itself in its highest forms: intuitive apprehension, theory, the Greek nous. But when it comes to discursive reason and rationalization, totalitarian anthropology embraces them fully. This kind of reasoning is exalted to such a degree that it becomes too lofty for the ordinary journey of mortals.” From within this framework, a definition of the human emerges: “In totalitarian anthropology, the human is not defined by thought, reason, or judgment—because, according to it, the vast majority of humans lack these faculties.” So, what then is the human, according to the totalitarian anthropology of totalitarian regimes? The answer is implicit, though Koyré prefers to define it by negation: “Totalitarian anthropology denies the existence of any single, shared human essence applicable to all people.” This is the kind of definition that might have Sartre turning in his grave. Yet what is perhaps more remarkable is the irony: in trying to escape totalitarianism, Koyré ends up totalizing truth itself—and now, in fleeing from totalitarian anthropology, he ends up totalizing the human.

In contrast, the “liberal-democratic anthropology”—which is arguably the true purpose behind Koyré’s essay, the model he seeks to praise and elevate beyond the reach of mere mortals—is never explicitly defined by any of its own attributes. Instead, the reader is expected to infer its contours from the description of its opposite: the “totalitarian anthropology” that Koyré deems vulnerable to totalitarian propaganda. From this, we come to understand that “thought—that is, reason as the ability to distinguish truth from falsehood, to make decisions and judgments—is, for totalitarian anthropology, exceedingly rare. It is the concern of elites, not the masses. The masses are guided—or rather, made to act—through instinct, passion, emotion, and vengeance. The masses do not know how to think, nor do they care to. They know only one thing: to obey and to believe.”

Koyré’s essay, “The Political Function of the Modern Lie,” is a poor text. It attempts—if such a thing is even possible—to do for “liberal-democratic anthropology” precisely what it accuses totalitarian regimes of doing through propaganda. Beyond its flaws—such as presenting truth as objective yet defined by a singular essence, and likewise reducing human nature to a singular form, thereby positing a totalitarian conception of both truth and humanity—the essay treats falsehood as benign within certain social contexts and historical periods it labels “modern.” It defines totalitarian regimes as those that mobilize the masses through secrets they treat as if they were truth, and then counterposes this with a vision of the “free world”: a rational, discursively open, transparent realm founded on its own self-legitimizing essence. Moreover, Koyré’s notion of the so-called “free world” implies—philosophically speaking—that not falsehood but rather the categories of true and false are operative there. While this may have aligned with the ideological climate of his time, it remains a deployable fiction even today—one that, for instance, can be weaponized as propaganda by figures like the genocidal Netanyahu.

Is Koyré’s vision a lie? Of course, no matter how flawed a text may be, such an accusation cannot justly be made against it. Nonetheless, although it is not widely discussed, Koyré’s essay remains one of the foundational texts for thinking about the relationship between politics and truth in the modern era. In Arendt’s own reflections on politics, truth, and falsehood, Koyré’s text is not a cited point of reference. However, this does not mean that Arendt was unaware of it. Rather, Koyré offers his own attempt at defining the role of the public intellectual within an American world order—one that, perhaps inadvertently, illustrates why public intellectuals tend to be more sensitive to the concerns of American foreign policy.

However, the relationship Arendt establishes—something we will explore in the next essay—between modern politics and falsehood is not primarily directed at totalitarian regimes as opposed to the “free world.” Rather, it sheds light on the trajectory that would eventually lead to what came to be described as “post-truth” during Trump’s first term. In recent years, the shape this issue has taken in Turkey no longer reflects a general concern with the political function of falsehood but instead evokes the very logic of post-truth that emerged alongside Trump. To pursue this further, however, we must first revisit Arendt, and then turn to post-truth itself.