The argument: you are another

Article published in Le Spectateur, volume three, n° 23, April 1911, p. 141-151

B., playwright, gives a play at the Théâtre Français, which is performed. We then learn that B., being a soldier, deserted and bragged about it in a letter, which was made public. Hostile demonstrations take place every evening in the theater: newspapers and posters invite these demonstrations and seek to justify them.
These are very recent events. Here is an analysis of the arguments that were used on this occasion, both on the side of B. and his supporters and on the side of his opponents.

First argument: "The French Theater, known as l'Oeuvre, is a subsidized theater. But B., having deserted, has failed in his duties towards the State. The State must not help him to have his plays performed, since he is a bad French. — The real bad French responds B. in a public letter, they are those who want to prevent the performance of a piece which will enrich the literary heritage of France."

Second argument : "You are, say B.'s supporters, elements of trouble and disorder. The day each citizen has the right to prevent, through brutality and demonstration, the performance of a play that displeases him, public order is compromised. — Public order is much more compromised, replies L'Action française, the day a deserter sees his play performed in a theater subsidized; there is a privilege to the detriment of all honest French people, and who write plays. By speaking out against this privilege, we are defending "the fundamental order, the historical order" (1).

Third argument : "There is a principle, say the defenders of B., which must dominate all our quarrels. It is that of freedom, and in particular of the freedom of art: a play which is beautiful has the right to be represented whatever its author. You are adversaries of freedom. — The essential freedom of the spectator in the theater, which has always been recognized to him, is to whistle the play which pleases him displeases, replies Action française. By denying us this right, you are the real adversaries of freedom."

And we could summarize this whole discussion like this:
“You are a bad Frenchman. — Not so much as you.”
“You are an agitator. — You are another one.”
“You do not admit freedom. — Neither do you.”

B., responding to the first reproach addressed to him, hardly seeks to show that he is a good Frenchman: his adversaries do not try to prove either, whatever it seems, that they are defending the freedom of the theater, and immediate public order. Their argument consists, not of discussing the reproach addressed to them, but of immediately returning this same reproach to their adversary.
There is a common and fairly far-reaching discussion process here. Each of us has heard in a public meeting:
“You are a reactionary,” said the socialist to the progressive. “You remain confined to social forms which are crumbling a little more every day. You do not know how to take into account either the modern conditions of life, nor the new aspirations of the people. — You are the true reactionary,” replies the progressive. “You want to take us back to primitive times when property did not exist.”
“You are in reality an anarchist,” said the progressive to the socialist. “By the logic of your ideas you are led to destroy everything that is still stable and ordered in our current society. — You are the true anarchist, replies the socialist. By systematically refusing to take into account the new needs of the proletariat and the new conditions of its life, you create a state of deep unease and disorder, which is the most painful anarchy.”

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Following the publication of Mr. Prévost's Demi-Vierges, and with the intention of "dispelling the bad impression produced by this book", a writer, Mr. Olivier de Tréville, questioned several hundred young Parisian and provincial girls about their ideals, their tastes, their way of life (2). He asked them this, for example: "For several years, the newspaper and the novel have painted the young girl in very ugly colors. I refuse to believe that the modern young girl is that, that is to say what journalists and novelists claim. And you?"
Here are three answers:
"In the environment in which they live, novelists have seen funny people and, believing themselves to be sufficiently documented, they have the cynicism to say: that's what the modern girl is..."
“Thanks to God, France has a good number of virgins who, at twenty years old, have not drunk the cup of pleasures to the dregs, as the daughters of these pessimists must have done..."
“These famous novelists, so concerned with the document, must have probably (to find it so hideous), study the young girl on their own daughters...”
Here we find the same argument which consists of saying: "We are poorly brought up, according to you, and have perverse tastes: it is the young girls around you who have these tastes. You find that the young French girl is hideous: it is your daughter who is like this."

A few days ago, I heard the following discussion between two children:

—"Liar!
— You are another one.
—Thug!
— You are another one.
— Coward!
— You didn't look at yourself.
— Thief!
— You think everyone is like you.

We find here, in the simplest, most naked form, the same process of discussion where the reproach immediately turned against the adversary who launched it, appears as the beginning of proof and a victorious response. We will call this argument, after the usual response by which it is revealed, the argument: "You are another."

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"I accuse you of lying. You tell me that I am a liar myself. You deflect the question. It is not about me or my character. It is first up to you to justify yourself."
This is what the first adversary could answer. In fact, it seems that the logical link between the judgments “You are a liar” and “You are another” is, at least, fragile. You don't deny that you are a liar but you don't admit it either. So why respond? and what does this have to do with my accusation?
This is because a reprimand is not a simple judgment and we do not say of someone that he is dishonest in the same way that we would say that he is young or old. It is a more complex fact where a moral assessment and a comparison intervene.

If we say to someone: "You have a beige hat." nothing results from this sentence other than what we have expressed. He has a beige hat, and that's it. Others wear black, gray, white hats. We probably also wear a hat of some color.
If we say "You have an elegant hat", the phrase already takes on a different meaning. No doubt our hat can be elegant like yours, or simply banal. But we suggest that your hat is superior to the hat of this or that person, and, in general, so to speak, to the majority of hats.

If we now say: "Why are you wearing a torn hat?" our question has a more precise scope. It means: "We do not wear torn hats. No one should wear torn hats. You are wrong to wear one." — Say: “You are a liar.” is like saying: "I'm not a liar, but you are." And if I myself wear a torn hat, if I myself am a liar, the reproach will seem meaningless or laughable to both of us. We rejoice at the one who "sees a speck in his neighbor's eye and does not see a beam in his own", at the lazy person who reproaches others for their negligence; his reasoning is: "[I'm not lazy; we shouldn't be lazy]. Why are you lazy?" appears to us to be flawed, as a result of a factual error in the premise.
And it seems, therefore, that the argument “You are another” directly responds to the first, implied term of the reproach “You are a liar”. He does not attack the accusation itself but the deep reason which allowed it.

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What is the value of this premise, and why, before accusing someone of lying, is it appropriate to affirm oneself as sincere? — "You are telling me that I am also a liar, the first opponent could respond. It doesn't matter. The fact that I myself lie does not prevent the fact that in this particular circumstance it was you who lied." In fact, a liar is very capable of noticing the lies of the people around him: he will notice them all the better, perhaps, because he himself knows, from experience, what lies are and what tricks they can be accompanied by. And we should undoubtedly attach greater value to his findings.

Yes, but telling someone: “You are lying” is not making a statement. This is not to say: “Having carefully observed your conduct, it appears to me that you have told a lie” but rather: “You are wrong to lie”. Certain ideas are ideas of facts, only awakening in us the memory of this or that act: thus the idea of the carpenter, or the blacksmith. Other ideas are from the outset tinged with morality, sentimental, awakening in us, more than precise images, blame or admiration: a coward, a hero is not a man we condemn or approve of. And the true meaning of the word "liar" is "one who is wrong to lie" and perhaps even, in general, one who is wrong. Words like thief, liar, murderer, have a very vague meaning sometimes. I heard a coachman call out to a bus driver who had brushed against him: “Come on, eh, thief!”
However, whatever the diffusion, in a society, of moral sentiments, and of this more fleeting thing: the moral nuance which attaches to a given word, it seems that certain people can escape its influence. “Thief” means to us “one who is wrong to steal.” And yet, if we find ourselves in an environment of thieves, we will find that this is an meaning of the word which becomes personal to us; and we will avoid any words that could affirm this, if we do not want to be unpleasant to those around us. So again, in a country where "tailor" means "one who practices a lowly profession", tailors would have some chance of escaping common sentiment on this point.

We thus admit that the thief does not share common ideas about theft, nor the liar about lying, nor even both common feelings about honesty in general. We will have less confidence in the word of an assassin than in that of an “honest man”. Faults, corresponding to very different acts, thus appear to be closely related to each other. — "One steals an egg, then one steals an ox and then one murders one's mother" — no doubt for their common quality of faults. A few years ago, a butler was accused of having murdered his boss, and was brought before the Assize Court. There was only vague evidence against him. However, we learned, during the debates, that he was a pederast and this was undoubtedly the main reason for the condemnation that followed. His denials, in any case, took on less importance. There was little to discuss with him, any more than with a thief about theft or with a liar about lying, because any discussion presupposes a basis of common moral ideas. B. could respond to an adversary because both admitted that it is good to be a good Frenchman, to respect freedom, to participate in the social order. However, having retreated into these solid and commonly accepted opinions, each wanted to chase the other out and said to him: "I am alone in believing that it is appropriate to be a good Frenchman, to respect order and freedom."
And from then on the argument: “You are another” takes on a new meaning. It means: "You cannot judge me. Being a liar yourself, you cannot speak of lies. Being a bad Frenchman you cannot speak of patriotism. The words do not have the same meaning for both of us. You are outside the common conscience."

We could recall here an old reasoning, one of those that we usually call sophisms: "Apollodorus of Crete says that the Cretans are liars; but he was a Cretan; therefore he lied; therefore the Cretans are not liars; therefore Apollodorus did not lied; therefore the Cretans are liars..." And there is only an amusing form given to this very banal idea that a liar must always lie. “You are another” that is to say: “You are a liar. Therefore you lie. Therefore I am not a liar”. — Or: “You are a bad Frenchman. So there is no need to take your opinions into account. So I am a good Frenchman.”

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In response to the accusation: "You are a liar", another attitude would be possible. It would consist of showing that the criticism is ill-founded and does not affect us (3). We can imagine one of the young girls, who responded to Mr. de Tréville, patiently analyzing her feelings, telling us at length about her day's activities, to conclude that she really finds nothing perverse in his conduct. But such a response would be suspect to us. It is dangerous, sometimes, to show so clearly that one is innocent: one seems to know too well the fault in question. In any case, defending ourselves against it, we recognize the accusation, and that it did not lack foundation. There are such discussions from which one cannot emerge victorious, in the eyes of the majority, whatever the finesse and truth of the arguments imagined; it is that from the start they were placed on bad ground: an accused thus appears half-guilty; even if, in the discussion, he was able to convince the jury of his innocence, he remained, after the acquittal verdict, a little suspicious. He is the “gentleman who had a bad story”. It is he, and not the investigating judge, nor the attorney general, who is despite everything the real loser.
If I am called a liar, my opponent will already have on his side, before any discussion, before my response even, people who agree with him that lying is a fault. He is doing these people a courtesy by accusing me. He said to them: "I am not lying. I am like you. We are all honest. But this one is lying."
And if I agree to defend myself on this ground, if I patiently seek to show that I did not lie, I recognize first of all that the accusation was partly founded, or could appear so, since I discuss it; and at the same time I draw attention, by criticizing them, to the reasons which could strengthen it. In any case I recognize that my opponent is honest, that he is in the same group as all honest people, and I am only trying to enter, too, into this group; I agree to be alone against them all, and I ask them to take me among them; I recognize them as my judges. by this I admit myself inferior to them, I am already half defeated.

But if, on the contrary, refusing to defend myself, I immediately accuse my opponent of the same fault that he accused me of, I equalize the chances; the same suspicion is against each of us. The fight becomes equal.
He simply said: "You are a liar." The first part of his reasoning: "I am not lying", he hid with care, appearing to consider it as something so obvious that it was even pointless to recall it. He thus established an impregnable position from which he went to war to attack me. And I, accusing him completely of lying, will therefore seek him out in his entrenchments. I create for myself, in my turn, an impregnable position: “Since I also attack you, it is therefore because I am sure of myself and I judge it useless to defend myself”. And the art of discussion thus consists, very often, of passing over silence, of considering as obvious the point that is in reality the most debatable, to focus the effort of the discussion on a secondary question where a possible defeat presents less great dangers. Like the thief who fled, shouting himself: “To the thief!” and stirring up the crowd. He imagines the person who would accuse him: “You stole!” and answers him in advance: “You are the thief!” He thus asserts his honesty skillfully. If he shouted, even with the greatest conviction, “I didn’t steal!” he would quickly become suspect.
Because it is delicate and dangerous to justify one's conduct. The surest way to avoid being defeated here is to refuse combat. And it is in refusing a fight, in the conditions in which the adversary wanted to engage in it, that the whole dialectical effort of the argument goes: “You are another”.

Jean Paulhan

    1 - L. de Montesquiou, in l'Action française. ↩
    2 - O. de Tréville, Young girls painted by themselves, Ollendorff, 1901. ↩
    3 - This would be the argument: "I'm not one." ↩