Political Theory and Literary Impact: Freund, Schmitt, and The Reader
Raymond Freund draws a critical distinction between le politique (the political) and la politique (politics), contending that the political constitutes a fundamental and enduring structure of human social existence, rather than a mere collection of institutional arrangements or policy practices. For Freund, the political is not primarily a matter of action but of sentiment—it underpins and conditions the possibility of political life itself, even in its most violent manifestations.
Raymond Freund’s Distinction of the Political
Freund’s analysis focuses on the conceptual presuppositions of the political, which he argues rest upon three essential relational structures:
Command and Obedience
Every political order is predicated upon a hierarchical structure wherein some individuals or groups exercise authority while others are subject to it. This dynamic remains foundational across all forms of political organization, including liberal democracies, and constitutes a basic condition of political life.
The Public/Private Distinction
Political societies necessarily distinguish between the public and private spheres. Although the boundaries between these domains are subject to transformation, Freund views the totalitarian impulse to obliterate this distinction as a pathological deformation of the political. Even under extreme regimes, the private sphere, though severely compromised, never vanishes entirely. For Freund, the totalitarian project of eradicating civil society calls into question the very nature of political order.
The Friend/Enemy Distinction
Central to Freund’s conception of the political is the antagonistic binary of friend and enemy. The enemy, in this context, is not defined by moral depravity but by the existential threat they pose. Political identity, according to Freund, is constituted through the delineation of opposition; communities affirm themselves in relation to what they oppose.
Ultimately, Freund rejects utopian visions of politics as a realm of rational consensus or purely moral harmony. He insists that politics is inherently conflictual, and that attempts to subsume it entirely under legal, economic, or ethical frameworks fail to grasp its essential nature. Rather than aspiring to eliminate conflict and enmity, political thought and practice must seek to regulate and contain these forces within a sustainable order.
Carl Schmitt’s Concept of Political Conflict
Carl Schmitt is often mistakenly associated with a defense of total or absolute war. However, his concept of the political actually supports a vision of conflict that is real but limited. For Schmitt, genuine political conflict is necessary to preserve the meaning of politics and to resist the dangers of moralized or ideological violence. While conflict is unavoidable, the way it is understood and managed determines whether politics remains rational and controlled, or whether it becomes destructive and inhumane.
Schmitt defines the political through a fundamental and public distinction between friend and enemy. This distinction is not personal or emotional, but existential—it is based on the recognition of a serious threat to the collective way of life of a political community. In this sense, the “enemy” is simply the one who represents that threat.
Types of Enmity
He further develops the concept of enmity by identifying three distinct types, each of which shapes a different approach to war and political conflict:
- Classical Enmity: A traditional, respectful form of conflict guided by clear rules and mutual recognition.
- Real Enmity: Irregular or unconventional warfare, where the enemy is still seen as a legitimate opponent.
- Absolute Enmity: A form of conflict driven by moral or ideological rejection, in which the enemy is viewed as fundamentally evil and beyond recognition.
Schmitt strongly opposes absolute enmity. He warns that when politics becomes moralized, it leads to the demonization of opponents and opens the door to extreme violence. In doing so, it destroys the limited and structured nature of political conflict, replacing it with a dangerous form of total war.
Literature as a Common Good: Lessons from The Reader
The film The Reader (2008) shows us how literature—often taken for granted—can become a powerful force for connection, dignity, and transformation. Through three key moments in the story, we witness the moral and emotional depth that reading can offer. More importantly, through the lens of political philosophy and the work of Robert G. Kennedy, we come to understand why literature should be seen as a common good, not just a private pleasure.
The Power of Shared Reading
In the first part, shown in the film’s trailer, we see the early bond between Hanna and Michael, built on a shared ritual: he reads aloud to her. Though we don’t yet know Hanna is illiterate, her insistence on hearing literature reveals something deeper—her desire to participate in a world she cannot access. As Kennedy notes, “literature can be shared.” This moment reflects that truth. Literature, even when not fully understood or possessed, becomes a bridge—one that allows intimacy, meaning, and connection between two people from different worlds.
But who is responsible for ensuring that people like Hanna are not excluded from that shared world of meaning? While families and individuals play an important role, the responsibility must ultimately lie with society as a whole, and more specifically with the state. Access to literacy is a condition for full participation in civic life and moral development. Without strong educational systems and public policies that reach everyone, especially the most vulnerable, the potential good of literature remains dormant, as it did for Hanna.
Literacy and Moral Responsibility
In the second key moment, Hanna is on trial, accused of writing a report justifying the actions of Nazi guards. She remains silent, even when speaking up could reduce her sentence. Her shame over her illiteracy is greater than her fear of prison. Here, Kennedy’s idea of literature as a “potential good” becomes essential. Literacy was never activated in Hanna’s life—it remained a possibility unfulfilled. This shows the ethical danger of treating literacy as optional or private: without it, people are denied the tools to defend themselves, to reason morally, or to understand their own story.
Kennedy also distinguishes between instrumental goods and final goods. Reading can be seen as an instrumental good—it’s a skill, a means. But what it leads to—literacy—is a final good, because it enriches the human person in itself. It enables self-expression, critical thinking, moral awareness, and participation in culture. In Hanna’s case, the inability to access this final good earlier in life had tragic consequences. It reminds us that the value of reading is not limited to utility; it is a gateway to a deeper good that defines human flourishing.
Transformation Through Literature
In the third moment, Michael, now older, sends Hanna audiobooks while she is in prison. Slowly, she begins to follow the words, learns to read, and engages with literature on her own. This delayed awakening shows the power of reading to transform from the inside. Kennedy writes that “literacy promotes individual flourishing,” and we see that in Hanna. For the first time, she is not just receiving stories—she is interpreting, thinking, and growing. Her interior life expands. Though redemption comes late, it shows how literacy can open the door to reflection and moral development.
And so, can literacy be considered a common good? Yes—and the film makes that clear. It is not only beneficial to the individual, but also to the wider society, which is enriched when its members can understand, express, and relate to one another. When literacy is shared, promoted, and protected, it strengthens democracy, justice, and collective memory.
In conclusion, The Reader demonstrates that literature is far more than a cultural artifact—it is a common good. It can be shared, it must be made accessible, and it has the power to promote personal growth. As Kennedy reminds us, a fulfilled life requires access to certain goods—literature among them. Through Hanna’s story, we see what happens when that access is denied, and how, even late, the power of words can still transform a life.