It seems appropriate that the messaging platform that Tyler Robinson, the assassin of conservative activist Charlie Kirk, appears to have lived on is called Discord. His action, it seems, was born in part from a deep discord in public life. Unfortunately, Kirk’s killing will likely exacerbate it.
The way we perceive political expression deepens this discord in our society. Not only did the killer indicate that it was the expression of “hate” that he objected to, but the tragedy has sparked rounds of controversy over “free expression.” Even as many left-wing figures offered appropriate, civil statements about the shooting, anonymous social media accounts, college students, and celebrities shared flippant or celebratory reactions to the tragedy. That, in turn, prompted a right-wing reaction that has revived debate about “cancel culture,” hate speech, ideological indoctrination at colleges and universities, and government coercion of media based on viewpoint.
Many of us sense that political discord at the present, including the recent spate of violence, is in some way tied to a breakdown in public discourse. Some expect that a greater commitment to free expression may guide our society out of the wilderness. To get to the heart of that connection between discord and political communication, though, we must get more specific: not all “expression” is created equal.
The Limits of “Expression”
“Expression” is an umbrella term: Google’s definition captures what most people have in mind: “the process of making known one’s thoughts or feelings.” That can take many forms. Expression mightbe thoughtful, reasoned, and coherent; but it does not needto be. And it may be presented in such a way that others can respond to it and engage with it, but it does not need to be. It may be a speech, or it may be an anguished cry; a negotiation or a bumper sticker; a conversation or vandalism.
Limiting ourselves to political expression, we might distinguish between what could be called “bare expression”—which does nothing more than make our political views known—and other forms of expression that attempt something more. Perhaps I want to explain to others why I hold the views I do, or perhaps persuade them through reason that they are correct. Perhaps I want to negotiate a compromise position with others of different views; or debate others to publicly test the relative strength of my views; or experience the pleasure of conversation with others about our views.
Bare expression is not necessarily bad. There’s nothing wrong with flying a flag or sporting a bumper sticker. But that form of expression tends to be all about the expressor himself. As Wilfred McClay recently wrote in Law & Liberty, such unmitigated expression “tends to be a one-way thing, a monologue, a cry of the heart.… We sit back and listen to the monologue, like moviegoers in a darkened theater. We are spectators.”
Forms that go beyond bare expression, however, require at least some engagement between speaker and audience. Even a speaker giving a seemingly one-way speech or writing must, if aimed at explanation or persuasion, accommodate the listeners to a certain extent. It must appeal to some values they hold, make arguments or use examples that they will appreciate, and avoid giving gratuitous offense. More dialogic forms of political expression require even more engagement with and accommodation between speaker and listener. A debate will require agreement to a set of specified rules. And a conversation will require a more subtle set of manners and etiquette.
Out of this interaction between speaker and listener, therefore, a set of limits naturally emerges. Even as I express my views, I realize there some things are better left unsaid in certain settings; there are certain ways of conveying my thoughts that I should avoid; there are certain courtesies I must offer to my interlocutor. These rules typically reflect manners and virtues we associate with civility: self-control, courtesy, accommodation, humility, tact, impartiality, and graciousness, among others. If we simply ignore such rules of conduct, we will find ourselves speaking—and, therefore, expressing ourselves—to no one.
Bare expression, on the contrary, demands few or no side constraints when it comes to the manner in which one’s view are conveyed. If my only concern is that others know what my views are, the act of expression need not bother with any accommodation of the listener’s expectations, unless the speaker chooses to limit himself in that way.
Bare expression does not aim at the higher ends pursued by civil expression, but it does have effects: It can provoke the passions, convey solidarity, intimidate, create emotional attachments, or stir to action. In engaging in bare expression, therefore, one often hopes to exercise a degree of power in the world. By “making my voice heard,” I can change the world and impact others’ views withoutnecessarily having to accommodate myself to others.
Using the term casually, one might hear that more, freer, or more diverse political expression is the antidote to rising political violence and incivility. But thinking of it more precisely, bare expression is an unstable foundation for civil society—indeed, by itself, it leads only to discord.
An Expressive War of All Against All
Taken as a whole, modern America is not lacking for free political expression. Even as certain institutions, such as legacy media and academia, have asymmetrically stifled political expression, we have nevertheless seen an incredible explosion in our capacity for pure, unlimited expression. From the very beginning, social media promised a platform and megaphone for everyone: the independent podcaster; the Substacker; the TikToker with a video camera in his pocket at every moment of the day; or just the stereotypical boomer with a Facebook account. Never before have so many people had the ability to project their views and beliefs on the rest of the world. Digital media can also transform the dynamics of more traditional forms of communication, which now all may be turned into “viral moments.” (Compare the aim of congressional debate today with its aim 200 years ago.) All such political expression is increasingly uninhibited and unfiltered by the limits of civility. After all, we are speaking to no one in particular, whose reaction we must take into consideration; we do not require the approval of others to publish our views; we can find silos of those who already agree with us and are eager to hear their own views amplified; we can choose complete anonymity; and it is often easy to separate “online life” from “IRL.”
The inevitable result of such a situation, however, is frustration, anger, and fear. This new media environment is characterized by increasing expressive equality and the decline of naturally arising limits. Any reader of Thomas Hobbes would be unsurprised to find that it leads to an expressive version of his “war of all against all.” In that condition, Hobbes argued, equality and lack of any natural limits gives each man a sense of his own power and “hope of attaining [his] ends,” but the fact that all others are equal to him frustrates his ambitions, puts him in fear for his interests, wounds his pride, and makes him an enemy to those around him.
This is not far removed from the present environment of political expression. Recurring, again, to McClay: “Expression qua expression is all about ‘my voice,’ ‘my truth,’ ‘my narrative’—and it must be heard” (emphasis added). But when everyone has an increasingly equal voice—how do I know mine will be heard? Even as I have a greater ability to project my voice, which gives me hope of attaining certain influence, I also have a greater fear that some other voice will win out. I become incensed when others seem to have the upper hand.
In such a situation, the three markers of war identified by Hobbes are remarkably clear: There is competition—for attention, votes, or money (see the endless line of online grifters or the congressmen whose role in government is now little more than “influencer”); There is Diffidence—fear that if we aren’t out there “influencing,” they will win the war to control minds; And most importantly for present purposes: glory.
Glory, for Hobbes, was associated with pride. It is the pleasure we take in a sense of our own power over others, and in having our superiority recognized. Glory, Hobbes says, can cause war over “trifles, as a word, a smile, a different opinion, and any other sign of undervalue.”
It should be unsurprising, then, that “cancel culture,” along with attempts to compel speech, have blossomed in a time of egalitarian ability to exercise bare political expression. Cancel culture and related phenomena appear as attempts, through collectivist measures, to reimpose some sort of limits in an environment that no longer generates them organically (which is why its defenders can so often make the argument that cancel culture is just “consequences for actions.”) But unlike the rules and limits of civil discourse that emerge from accommodation among participants (and the consequences that naturally follow from violating them), cancel culture’s rules are a planned enterprise, and thus simply reflect the interests, concerns, or emotional needs of a particularly vocal group. They are not limits that promote civil peace, but ones that merely perpetuate the war.
In particular, cancel culture is often a matter of pride. Though it can and has brought down significant figures that may impact the competition among voices, it often targets unknown people—a small business owner here, a college student there. That is because it is mostly about gratifying the pride of those wielding it. Seeing one’s political competitors brought low or forced to comply with one’s will in symbolic gestures elevates the sense of power and control.
That brings us back to the political killings.
In an excellent essay, Rachel Lu observed a particularly troubling trend in our recent spate of political violence. Unlike, say, the IRA or Weather Underground, she noted, Robinson, Luigi Mangione, Thomas Matthew Crooks, Robin Westman, and other recent attackers don’t seem to have any clear goal. They cite ideological beliefs and display political rage, but none seem to have any expectation that their actions are going to change anything. And unlike a terrorist organization, they don’t appear designed to spark a political uprising.
A disturbing conclusion one might draw is that for many of these figures, murder is precisely a form of grotesque political expression born of Hobbesian “glory.” It offers them the opportunity to “make a statement” without any limits imposed or any response by others. It allows them to see their enemies, or perceived enemies, brought low. Robinson notably remarked in his text messages that part of his motivation was that “some hate can’t be negotiated out.” Several recent shooters have scrawled basic, sometimes borderline incomprehensible political messages on their bullet casings. And it doesn’t take much analysis to see how someone shooting while chanting “Free Palestine” is attempting to “make a statement.”
If that is an accurate appraisal, it would be a perverse other side of the coin to the idea that “words are violence.” Words used only as bare political expression generally have the exercise of power as their goal. If that goal is thwarted by other people’s words, they do violence to our interests and our pride. Competition, fear, and pride all lead us, then, to shut down those threatening words. When such methods fail, it is not hard to see how unstable people playing that game can slide to physical violence.
Seek Peace
None of this is an argument for attempting to control or stifle political expression. History has shown the kind of absolute power Hobbes thought put an end to war usually just creates additional incentives for it. But we should realize that adding more voices or more diverse viewpoints to the present cacophony will be of little remedy to our discord, so long as our political speech is in pursuit only of power and pride, unlimited by the restraints of civility. Our problem is not too much or too little communication, but how and why we communicate.
Political expression unrestrained by civil norms of behavior points in the direction of cancellation, coercion, and potentially violence. But civil norms cannot simply be wished into existence. They are habituated. They grow in a context in which power, pride, and fear are tamed, and views are expressed in ways that demand limits. Reestablishing that context is a difficult proposition. Reasserting the rule of law and limits on political power generally would be an essential step. Understanding the limits on what political expression can achieve will make expression a less powerful engine of pride and fear of our political opponents. Why would I feel the need to bully a pizza parlor over its religious views if I know full well that I don’t have it in my power to impose my views on all of society? A limited politics is one of negotiation and accommodation, from which civility is born. And the rapidly growing specter of violent death ought to prompt public figures and average citizens alike to ask whether it isn’t time to renegotiate the terms of our political life under law.
Non-governmental institutions, including schools and universities also ought to think more about civil engagement than mere “expression.” As John McGinnis has argued, twentieth-century First Amendment doctrine is a very poor guide for universities, whose aim is the pursuit of truth. Yet many advocates of free speech on campus look to the rather one-dimensional “viewpoint diversity” standard as the key. More street protests or clout-seeking expression will do little to improve the political environment, though. If they could recover their traditional aims, however, universities are precisely the sorts of places that can foster forms of expression that aim at higher ends, and that habituate the necessary civil norms.
Finally, minimizing as much as possible the role of certain digital media in our lives would also help. There is no putting that genie back in the bottle, but parents ought to be increasingly aware that their children should not “live” online. And various institutions ought to consider being as “offline” as possible in the modern world in an attempt to revive traditional forms of communication that generate civil limits on behavior. Schools ought to keep phones and social media out of their hallways, so that students speak to, learn with and befriend real people; Cameras could be removed from capitols and town halls to allow lawmakers to talk to one another, not the internet void; more public events could be cell-phone free.
Of course all the incentives of competition, fear, and pride can be marshaled against these sorts of changes, since they all place limits on our power of pure expression. We tend to learn the value of self-limitation the hard way. Ominously, Hobbes believed that it was only the horrific experience of civil war and the immediate threat of violent death that overwhelmed our other impulses and compelled us into a civil order. In the expressive war described here, bodily violence thankfully remains only a sporadic exception for now, and it takes place within a broader civil context that, though shaky, still broadly holds. That broader context is what allows us the luxury of mostly forgetting each violent outburst after a few days of vocal concern, rather than confronting the hard reality. As both words and violence continue to erode the limits of law, civility, and personal virtue, however, will we be able to learn the value of restraining political ambition and pride? Until we do, the environment of free expression will likely be defined by discord. That period will be nasty and brutish. We can only pray it will be short.
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