Philosophy is very different from theory, which is even yet very different from practical politics.
I am ashamed that there are so few thinkers in the world today who will even name the problems of modernity, post modernity, civilization, or singularity. When I studied political philosophy, I've been told that I was lucky enough to be exposed to best Conservative thought and Classical Political Science of the time. And I was a Socialist. Looking back, I am very glad. Today's liberal-left have absolutely no idea what is happening in the world, and cannot solve anything.
Philosophy and politics are inseparable — but in Politica Aeterna, Alexander Dugin transforms this insight into a justification for authoritarian mysticism dressed in philosophical language. The book begins with the claim that to separate politics from philosophy is to misunderstand the political entirely. But what seems like a philosophical axiom becomes a polemical bludgeon. Rather than engaging diverse political traditions — liberal, socialist, democratic — Dugin dismisses them wholesale as rooted in “non-being” or even “Satanic” influence. This isn’t philosophical engagement; it’s metaphysical war paint.
Dugin’s framing of Plato and Aristotle as founding figures in a masculine “philosophy of eternity” reveals more about his theological aspirations than it does about classical thought. He turns Plato into the “Father,” concerned with eternal Ideas, and Aristotle into the “Son,” aligned with earthly phenomena — a theological projection onto what are deeply complex and often contradictory philosophical systems. His interpretation ignores the tensions, ironies, and open questions in their works, especially the ambiguity of Plato’s kallipolis, which may well be more a critical thought experiment than a blueprint for theocracy. Reducing these thinkers to patriarchal archetypes erases their philosophical nuance.
The idea that Western democracy springs from a “philosophy of the mother” — rooted in Democritean atomism, materialism, atheism, and a supposed matriarchal worldview — is an invented binary with no serious philosophical support. Dugin mythologizes the Greek atomists as civilizational villains whose ideas evolved into liberalism, individualism, capitalism, and the so-called philosophy of nothingness. This reading is not only simplistic but gendered in a way that instrumentalizes myth to reinforce reactionary cultural politics. It’s a worldview that aligns patriarchy with truth and matriarchy with decadence — a narrative common to fascist and integralist thought.
When Dugin uses language like “Satanic,” “non-being,” and “void,” he isn’t engaging in serious philosophical critique but deploying theological rhetoric to label modernity as evil. He conflates post-structuralism, transhumanism, climate activism, and gender theory into a single enemy: a secular, nihilistic, godless anti-order. Rather than treat these as complex, distinct intellectual traditions, he turns them into metaphysical threats. There is no specificity here — just sweeping demonization.
The so-called Fourth Political Theory that undergirds this work is not a theory in any conventional sense. It is a mystical vision for the return of hierarchy, spiritual transcendence, and ethnic-national community. It claims to reject liberalism, communism, and fascism, yet borrows authoritarian metaphysics from all of them. Dugin is not interested in pluralism, procedural justice, or democratic legitimacy. He wants a society rooted in submission to divine order, led by philosopher-priests, warriors, and peasants. This is less a political theory than a sacred order — a cosmic caste system.
Dugin’s rhetoric relies on grand myth, cosmic allegory, and moral absolutes. He frames the liberal world as the work of demons, casting his vision as the only heavenly alternative. He manipulates philosophical history to serve an eschatological narrative, where humanity must choose between being a bird (soulful, transcendental) or a stone (soulless, material). He selectively invokes thinkers like Nick Land or Reza Negarestani only to reject them as agents of a “dark enlightenment.” The result is a kind of conspiratorial storytelling where every aspect of modernity is linked to a demonic plot — whether it’s gender theory, climate science, or global governance.
Dugin’s approach is not historical scholarship or philosophical critique. It is a mythopoetic manifesto aiming to replace modern political thought with reactionary esotericism. His selective historiography omits vast swathes of political philosophy — including Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Kant, Hegel, Marx, Arendt — in favor of a deified reading of Plato and Aristotle. He casts these as eternal foundations for a new-old order, one that demands obedience to cosmic truth, not reasoned deliberation.
In the end, Politica Aeterna is not a serious philosophical work but a religious text in disguise. It offers those alienated by postmodernity a seductive metaphysical narrative, but the cost of entry is the abandonment of philosophical plurality, democracy, and individual autonomy. It does not think with philosophy — it replaces philosophy with revelation.
Dugin’s work is deeply compelling to those drawn to transcendence, order, and spiritual certainty in an age of flux. But its solution to modern fragmentation is a retreat into mysticism, authoritarianism, and myth. It offers not understanding, but submission.
I would not be so harsh. For example I believe that individuals should have rights in balance with the rights of nations or states. However, even the Soviet Union had a constitution attempting to balance democracy with dictatorship?
There’s an attempt to draw a contrast between individual rights and the so-called rights of nations or states, but the underlying logic is shaky. When the speaker says “individuals should have rights in balance with the rights of nations or states,” the language is vague. What does it mean for a state to have “rights”? Are we talking about sovereignty? The ability to regulate internal affairs? Cultural self-determination? The concept isn’t clarified. The idea of “balancing rights” between such fundamentally different entities—individual human beings and geopolitical collectives—demands further precision. Without that, the statement risks being a vague gesture rather than a substantive claim.
Then comes the example of the Soviet Union, which feels abrupt and underdeveloped. The USSR’s constitution is indeed a fascinating case study—on paper, it contained provisions for speech, assembly, and universal suffrage. But in practice, these guarantees were subverted by a totalitarian regime. By citing the Soviet constitution as an example of attempting to “balance democracy with dictatorship,” the speaker risks legitimizing a historical regime known for repression. The phrase “balance democracy with dictatorship” is itself deeply problematic. While it might be rhetorically effective to show tension between forms of governance, the Soviet model was not a balanced one—it was a dictatorship with a democratic facade. Without sufficient context or critique, this reference seems misleading.
The syntax also lacks force. Ending on a question mark weakens what might otherwise be a strong historical reference. There’s no clear narrative progression in the sentence. It flattens into a blur of uncertain claims, as if unsure whether it wants to conclude or simply raise doubt.
The conceptual confusion is compounded by terms like “rights of states,” which are philosophically and politically murky. States have powers, sovereignty, and responsibilities—not necessarily rights in the moral or legal sense applied to individuals. And the rhetorical strategy of using the Soviet Union’s constitution to illustrate this balance muddies the waters further. It risks collapsing the distinction between performative governance and actual political freedom.
To give the statement more weight, it might be revised along these lines: “I prefer not to judge too harshly. I believe that individual rights must be considered alongside the sovereign responsibilities of states. However, history shows that this balance is precarious—take the Soviet Union, for example, whose constitution outwardly endorsed democratic principles while simultaneously entrenching authoritarian control. This paradox raises important questions about the relationship between legal form and political reality.”
Ultimately, while the original sentence aims for moderation and complexity, it struggles with clarity, coherence, and historical accuracy. Without more precise definitions and stronger framing, its attempt at balance comes off as uncertain rather than nuanced.
Melvin, I agree with what you had written. However, I believe you are responding to my comments rather than anything Dugin has actually written. You know philosophy is very different from practical politics, such as constitutional law or judicial politics. In the real world, we seek to solve problems.
I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world, and how we got to such a breakdown of the Liberal world order. They are different projects than to actually solve matters right now.
Your original critique dissected the ambiguities and conceptual problems in a statement about balancing individual rights and the so-called rights of states, using the Soviet Union as a case study. It applied philosophical, rhetorical, and historical scrutiny in a thorough and balanced way. The response to your critique, however, reveals several layers of confusion, deflection, and conceptual reduction.
The response opens with, “Melvin, I agree with what you had written,” yet it proceeds to ignore or sidestep the core content of your critique. Instead of engaging your points—such as the vague use of terms like “rights of states,” or the problematic use of the Soviet Union as a balancing example—it asserts that you’re responding to the respondent’s own comments rather than to Dugin himself. This is misleading. Your critique clearly addresses the logic of a particular statement made about Dugin’s ideas. If the respondent believes the statement wasn’t Dugin’s but their own, that should have been clarified earlier. But even if it was the respondent’s interpretation of Dugin, the critique remains valid as a philosophical and rhetorical assessment of the content, regardless of authorship. It evades substantive engagement by casting your critique as misdirected rather than answering its points.
The claim that “philosophy is very different from practical politics” is a truism, but it’s used here to dismiss your critique unfairly. Your original statement did not collapse the two; rather, it precisely distinguished between metaphysical abstraction and political praxis, arguing that concepts like “rights of states” need philosophical clarification before they can be used effectively in political or historical claims. It misrepresents your position by implying that you conflate philosophy with law or politics. In fact, your critique was pushing for more philosophical precision, not less.
The response says, “I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world,” and that his project is not to “solve matters right now.” This is a reductive and protective framing of Dugin’s work. Dugin is not simply offering a descriptive account of history or metaphysics; he is actively prescribing a new civilizational model, advocating a return to hierarchical, spiritual, and nationalist orders. His “Fourth Political Theory” is an ideological project, not a neutral explanation. To excuse the ideological content of Dugin’s project under the guise of “explaining the world” misses the prescriptive thrust of his work and ignores the rhetorical danger in his mythic, eschatological framing of modernity. It downplays the political implications and ideological ambitions of Dugin’s project by portraying it as merely descriptive.
Your critique asked for clarification of what is meant by “rights of states” and flagged the risk of misrepresenting the Soviet Union’s constitution as an example of a “balance.” The response offers no defense or clarification on these points. Instead, it shifts to a general statement about “solving problems” in the “real world,” which is irrelevant to the initial philosophical and rhetorical critique. This rhetorical pivot avoids intellectual responsibility for the terms used. If Dugin (or the respondent) introduces a term like “rights of states,” it must be explicated, not shielded by appeals to “real-world problem solving.” It avoids defending or defining its terminology and instead escapes into generalities about “real-world” politics.
The suggestion that “in the real world, we seek to solve problems” contains a subtle but troubling anti-intellectual undertone. It implies that your critique, concerned with clarity, history, and philosophical rigor, is somehow detached from real concerns. This is ironic, given that the original statement was attempting to make a claim about political order and constitutional history. Philosophy is not an escape from reality—it’s the condition for thinking through reality critically. It subtly devalues the role of critique, interpretation, and philosophical precision by invoking an unspecified “real world” of action.
The response fails to meaningfully address your critique on any of the points you raised—conceptual vagueness, historical misrepresentation, syntactic weakness, or rhetorical misdirection. Instead, it reframes your position inaccurately, reduces the significance of philosophical inquiry, and avoids defending its original claims. It acts as a deflection rather than a rebuttal. In this sense, it exemplifies a common rhetorical move in ideological discourse: the avoidance of critical specificity under the guise of higher purpose or urgency.
Melvin, I agree with what you had written. However, I believe you are responding to my comments rather than anything Dugin has actually written. You know philosophy is very different from practical politics, such as constitutional law or judicial politics. In the real world, we seek to solve problems.
I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world, and how we got to such a breakdown of the Liberal world order. They are different projects than to actually solve matters right now.
Your original critique dissected the ambiguities and conceptual problems in a statement about balancing individual rights and the so-called rights of states, using the Soviet Union as a case study. It applied philosophical, rhetorical, and historical scrutiny in a thorough and balanced way. The response to your critique, however, reveals several layers of confusion, deflection, and conceptual reduction.
The response opens with, “Melvin, I agree with what you had written,” yet it proceeds to ignore or sidestep the core content of your critique. Instead of engaging your points—such as the vague use of terms like “rights of states,” or the problematic use of the Soviet Union as a balancing example—it asserts that you’re responding to the respondent’s own comments rather than to Dugin himself. This is misleading. Your critique clearly addresses the logic of a particular statement made about Dugin’s ideas. If the respondent believes the statement wasn’t Dugin’s but their own, that should have been clarified earlier. But even if it was the respondent’s interpretation of Dugin, the critique remains valid as a philosophical and rhetorical assessment of the content, regardless of authorship. It evades substantive engagement by casting your critique as misdirected rather than answering its points.
The claim that “philosophy is very different from practical politics” is a truism, but it’s used here to dismiss your critique unfairly. Your original statement did not collapse the two; rather, it precisely distinguished between metaphysical abstraction and political praxis, arguing that concepts like “rights of states” need philosophical clarification before they can be used effectively in political or historical claims. It misrepresents your position by implying that you conflate philosophy with law or politics. In fact, your critique was pushing for more philosophical precision, not less.
The response says, “I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world,” and that his project is not to “solve matters right now.” This is a reductive and protective framing of Dugin’s work. Dugin is not simply offering a descriptive account of history or metaphysics; he is actively prescribing a new civilizational model, advocating a return to hierarchical, spiritual, and nationalist orders. His “Fourth Political Theory” is an ideological project, not a neutral explanation. To excuse the ideological content of Dugin’s project under the guise of “explaining the world” misses the prescriptive thrust of his work and ignores the rhetorical danger in his mythic, eschatological framing of modernity. It downplays the political implications and ideological ambitions of Dugin’s project by portraying it as merely descriptive.
Your critique asked for clarification of what is meant by “rights of states” and flagged the risk of misrepresenting the Soviet Union’s constitution as an example of a “balance.” The response offers no defense or clarification on these points. Instead, it shifts to a general statement about “solving problems” in the “real world,” which is irrelevant to the initial philosophical and rhetorical critique. This rhetorical pivot avoids intellectual responsibility for the terms used. If Dugin (or the respondent) introduces a term like “rights of states,” it must be explicated, not shielded by appeals to “real-world problem solving.” It avoids defending or defining its terminology and instead escapes into generalities about “real-world” politics.
The suggestion that “in the real world, we seek to solve problems” contains a subtle but troubling anti-intellectual undertone. It implies that your critique, concerned with clarity, history, and philosophical rigor, is somehow detached from real concerns. This is ironic, given that the original statement was attempting to make a claim about political order and constitutional history. Philosophy is not an escape from reality—it’s the condition for thinking through reality critically. It subtly devalues the role of critique, interpretation, and philosophical precision by invoking an unspecified “real world” of action.
The response fails to meaningfully address your critique on any of the points you raised—conceptual vagueness, historical misrepresentation, syntactic weakness, or rhetorical misdirection. Instead, it reframes your position inaccurately, reduces the significance of philosophical inquiry, and avoids defending its original claims. It acts as a deflection rather than a rebuttal. In this sense, it exemplifies a common rhetorical move in ideological discourse: the avoidance of critical specificity under the guise of higher purpose or urgency.
Philosophy is very different from theory, which is even yet very different from practical politics.
I am ashamed that there are so few thinkers in the world today who will even name the problems of modernity, post modernity, civilization, or singularity. When I studied political philosophy, I've been told that I was lucky enough to be exposed to best Conservative thought and Classical Political Science of the time. And I was a Socialist. Looking back, I am very glad. Today's liberal-left have absolutely no idea what is happening in the world, and cannot solve anything.
I have been blocked by Morrison Johnson accusing me of being a ‘Schizoid’.
This person clearly ‘hates being criticized’,
Beware he will probably block other people too.
Philosophy and politics are inseparable — but in Politica Aeterna, Alexander Dugin transforms this insight into a justification for authoritarian mysticism dressed in philosophical language. The book begins with the claim that to separate politics from philosophy is to misunderstand the political entirely. But what seems like a philosophical axiom becomes a polemical bludgeon. Rather than engaging diverse political traditions — liberal, socialist, democratic — Dugin dismisses them wholesale as rooted in “non-being” or even “Satanic” influence. This isn’t philosophical engagement; it’s metaphysical war paint.
Dugin’s framing of Plato and Aristotle as founding figures in a masculine “philosophy of eternity” reveals more about his theological aspirations than it does about classical thought. He turns Plato into the “Father,” concerned with eternal Ideas, and Aristotle into the “Son,” aligned with earthly phenomena — a theological projection onto what are deeply complex and often contradictory philosophical systems. His interpretation ignores the tensions, ironies, and open questions in their works, especially the ambiguity of Plato’s kallipolis, which may well be more a critical thought experiment than a blueprint for theocracy. Reducing these thinkers to patriarchal archetypes erases their philosophical nuance.
The idea that Western democracy springs from a “philosophy of the mother” — rooted in Democritean atomism, materialism, atheism, and a supposed matriarchal worldview — is an invented binary with no serious philosophical support. Dugin mythologizes the Greek atomists as civilizational villains whose ideas evolved into liberalism, individualism, capitalism, and the so-called philosophy of nothingness. This reading is not only simplistic but gendered in a way that instrumentalizes myth to reinforce reactionary cultural politics. It’s a worldview that aligns patriarchy with truth and matriarchy with decadence — a narrative common to fascist and integralist thought.
When Dugin uses language like “Satanic,” “non-being,” and “void,” he isn’t engaging in serious philosophical critique but deploying theological rhetoric to label modernity as evil. He conflates post-structuralism, transhumanism, climate activism, and gender theory into a single enemy: a secular, nihilistic, godless anti-order. Rather than treat these as complex, distinct intellectual traditions, he turns them into metaphysical threats. There is no specificity here — just sweeping demonization.
The so-called Fourth Political Theory that undergirds this work is not a theory in any conventional sense. It is a mystical vision for the return of hierarchy, spiritual transcendence, and ethnic-national community. It claims to reject liberalism, communism, and fascism, yet borrows authoritarian metaphysics from all of them. Dugin is not interested in pluralism, procedural justice, or democratic legitimacy. He wants a society rooted in submission to divine order, led by philosopher-priests, warriors, and peasants. This is less a political theory than a sacred order — a cosmic caste system.
Dugin’s rhetoric relies on grand myth, cosmic allegory, and moral absolutes. He frames the liberal world as the work of demons, casting his vision as the only heavenly alternative. He manipulates philosophical history to serve an eschatological narrative, where humanity must choose between being a bird (soulful, transcendental) or a stone (soulless, material). He selectively invokes thinkers like Nick Land or Reza Negarestani only to reject them as agents of a “dark enlightenment.” The result is a kind of conspiratorial storytelling where every aspect of modernity is linked to a demonic plot — whether it’s gender theory, climate science, or global governance.
Dugin’s approach is not historical scholarship or philosophical critique. It is a mythopoetic manifesto aiming to replace modern political thought with reactionary esotericism. His selective historiography omits vast swathes of political philosophy — including Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Kant, Hegel, Marx, Arendt — in favor of a deified reading of Plato and Aristotle. He casts these as eternal foundations for a new-old order, one that demands obedience to cosmic truth, not reasoned deliberation.
In the end, Politica Aeterna is not a serious philosophical work but a religious text in disguise. It offers those alienated by postmodernity a seductive metaphysical narrative, but the cost of entry is the abandonment of philosophical plurality, democracy, and individual autonomy. It does not think with philosophy — it replaces philosophy with revelation.
Dugin’s work is deeply compelling to those drawn to transcendence, order, and spiritual certainty in an age of flux. But its solution to modern fragmentation is a retreat into mysticism, authoritarianism, and myth. It offers not understanding, but submission.
I would not be so harsh. For example I believe that individuals should have rights in balance with the rights of nations or states. However, even the Soviet Union had a constitution attempting to balance democracy with dictatorship?
There’s an attempt to draw a contrast between individual rights and the so-called rights of nations or states, but the underlying logic is shaky. When the speaker says “individuals should have rights in balance with the rights of nations or states,” the language is vague. What does it mean for a state to have “rights”? Are we talking about sovereignty? The ability to regulate internal affairs? Cultural self-determination? The concept isn’t clarified. The idea of “balancing rights” between such fundamentally different entities—individual human beings and geopolitical collectives—demands further precision. Without that, the statement risks being a vague gesture rather than a substantive claim.
Then comes the example of the Soviet Union, which feels abrupt and underdeveloped. The USSR’s constitution is indeed a fascinating case study—on paper, it contained provisions for speech, assembly, and universal suffrage. But in practice, these guarantees were subverted by a totalitarian regime. By citing the Soviet constitution as an example of attempting to “balance democracy with dictatorship,” the speaker risks legitimizing a historical regime known for repression. The phrase “balance democracy with dictatorship” is itself deeply problematic. While it might be rhetorically effective to show tension between forms of governance, the Soviet model was not a balanced one—it was a dictatorship with a democratic facade. Without sufficient context or critique, this reference seems misleading.
The syntax also lacks force. Ending on a question mark weakens what might otherwise be a strong historical reference. There’s no clear narrative progression in the sentence. It flattens into a blur of uncertain claims, as if unsure whether it wants to conclude or simply raise doubt.
The conceptual confusion is compounded by terms like “rights of states,” which are philosophically and politically murky. States have powers, sovereignty, and responsibilities—not necessarily rights in the moral or legal sense applied to individuals. And the rhetorical strategy of using the Soviet Union’s constitution to illustrate this balance muddies the waters further. It risks collapsing the distinction between performative governance and actual political freedom.
To give the statement more weight, it might be revised along these lines: “I prefer not to judge too harshly. I believe that individual rights must be considered alongside the sovereign responsibilities of states. However, history shows that this balance is precarious—take the Soviet Union, for example, whose constitution outwardly endorsed democratic principles while simultaneously entrenching authoritarian control. This paradox raises important questions about the relationship between legal form and political reality.”
Ultimately, while the original sentence aims for moderation and complexity, it struggles with clarity, coherence, and historical accuracy. Without more precise definitions and stronger framing, its attempt at balance comes off as uncertain rather than nuanced.
See below.
Melvin, I agree with what you had written. However, I believe you are responding to my comments rather than anything Dugin has actually written. You know philosophy is very different from practical politics, such as constitutional law or judicial politics. In the real world, we seek to solve problems.
I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world, and how we got to such a breakdown of the Liberal world order. They are different projects than to actually solve matters right now.
Your original critique dissected the ambiguities and conceptual problems in a statement about balancing individual rights and the so-called rights of states, using the Soviet Union as a case study. It applied philosophical, rhetorical, and historical scrutiny in a thorough and balanced way. The response to your critique, however, reveals several layers of confusion, deflection, and conceptual reduction.
The response opens with, “Melvin, I agree with what you had written,” yet it proceeds to ignore or sidestep the core content of your critique. Instead of engaging your points—such as the vague use of terms like “rights of states,” or the problematic use of the Soviet Union as a balancing example—it asserts that you’re responding to the respondent’s own comments rather than to Dugin himself. This is misleading. Your critique clearly addresses the logic of a particular statement made about Dugin’s ideas. If the respondent believes the statement wasn’t Dugin’s but their own, that should have been clarified earlier. But even if it was the respondent’s interpretation of Dugin, the critique remains valid as a philosophical and rhetorical assessment of the content, regardless of authorship. It evades substantive engagement by casting your critique as misdirected rather than answering its points.
The claim that “philosophy is very different from practical politics” is a truism, but it’s used here to dismiss your critique unfairly. Your original statement did not collapse the two; rather, it precisely distinguished between metaphysical abstraction and political praxis, arguing that concepts like “rights of states” need philosophical clarification before they can be used effectively in political or historical claims. It misrepresents your position by implying that you conflate philosophy with law or politics. In fact, your critique was pushing for more philosophical precision, not less.
The response says, “I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world,” and that his project is not to “solve matters right now.” This is a reductive and protective framing of Dugin’s work. Dugin is not simply offering a descriptive account of history or metaphysics; he is actively prescribing a new civilizational model, advocating a return to hierarchical, spiritual, and nationalist orders. His “Fourth Political Theory” is an ideological project, not a neutral explanation. To excuse the ideological content of Dugin’s project under the guise of “explaining the world” misses the prescriptive thrust of his work and ignores the rhetorical danger in his mythic, eschatological framing of modernity. It downplays the political implications and ideological ambitions of Dugin’s project by portraying it as merely descriptive.
Your critique asked for clarification of what is meant by “rights of states” and flagged the risk of misrepresenting the Soviet Union’s constitution as an example of a “balance.” The response offers no defense or clarification on these points. Instead, it shifts to a general statement about “solving problems” in the “real world,” which is irrelevant to the initial philosophical and rhetorical critique. This rhetorical pivot avoids intellectual responsibility for the terms used. If Dugin (or the respondent) introduces a term like “rights of states,” it must be explicated, not shielded by appeals to “real-world problem solving.” It avoids defending or defining its terminology and instead escapes into generalities about “real-world” politics.
The suggestion that “in the real world, we seek to solve problems” contains a subtle but troubling anti-intellectual undertone. It implies that your critique, concerned with clarity, history, and philosophical rigor, is somehow detached from real concerns. This is ironic, given that the original statement was attempting to make a claim about political order and constitutional history. Philosophy is not an escape from reality—it’s the condition for thinking through reality critically. It subtly devalues the role of critique, interpretation, and philosophical precision by invoking an unspecified “real world” of action.
The response fails to meaningfully address your critique on any of the points you raised—conceptual vagueness, historical misrepresentation, syntactic weakness, or rhetorical misdirection. Instead, it reframes your position inaccurately, reduces the significance of philosophical inquiry, and avoids defending its original claims. It acts as a deflection rather than a rebuttal. In this sense, it exemplifies a common rhetorical move in ideological discourse: the avoidance of critical specificity under the guise of higher purpose or urgency.
Im going to block you because you cannot communicate in a normal way. You sound like a schizophrenic retard.
I agree with this assessment. How is he back 3000 years? It is a hell (no pun) of a reach. Thanks for confirming my view of much of his writings.
What a wonderfully sane mind Mr. Dugin has. A true visionary in the most authentic sense.
What do you have to say about the Bolsheviks ??
They cracked the clock of empire and built a mechanism of control in its place—history, in their hands, became a weapon with a trigger and no safety.
Red was the color of dawn and of blood; they dreamed the sun into existence, but it rose behind barbed wire.
They promised the end of history, then rewrote it annually—revolutions eat their children, but only the Bolsheviks made a banquet of it.
I think we live in a Cosmos containing untold varieties of emanation! Transcendence is what happens when your imagination fails!
The cosmos drips with emanations—each a whisper from matter’s hidden delirium.
Transcendence? That’s the coward’s term for imagination grown brittle.
Imagination is a bridge; transcendence is the storm that teaches it how to sway.
Only the brittle call collapse failure—some thresholds were made to splinter.
This is what I was responding too:
Morrison Johnson Writes:
Melvin, I agree with what you had written. However, I believe you are responding to my comments rather than anything Dugin has actually written. You know philosophy is very different from practical politics, such as constitutional law or judicial politics. In the real world, we seek to solve problems.
I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world, and how we got to such a breakdown of the Liberal world order. They are different projects than to actually solve matters right now.
Your original critique dissected the ambiguities and conceptual problems in a statement about balancing individual rights and the so-called rights of states, using the Soviet Union as a case study. It applied philosophical, rhetorical, and historical scrutiny in a thorough and balanced way. The response to your critique, however, reveals several layers of confusion, deflection, and conceptual reduction.
The response opens with, “Melvin, I agree with what you had written,” yet it proceeds to ignore or sidestep the core content of your critique. Instead of engaging your points—such as the vague use of terms like “rights of states,” or the problematic use of the Soviet Union as a balancing example—it asserts that you’re responding to the respondent’s own comments rather than to Dugin himself. This is misleading. Your critique clearly addresses the logic of a particular statement made about Dugin’s ideas. If the respondent believes the statement wasn’t Dugin’s but their own, that should have been clarified earlier. But even if it was the respondent’s interpretation of Dugin, the critique remains valid as a philosophical and rhetorical assessment of the content, regardless of authorship. It evades substantive engagement by casting your critique as misdirected rather than answering its points.
The claim that “philosophy is very different from practical politics” is a truism, but it’s used here to dismiss your critique unfairly. Your original statement did not collapse the two; rather, it precisely distinguished between metaphysical abstraction and political praxis, arguing that concepts like “rights of states” need philosophical clarification before they can be used effectively in political or historical claims. It misrepresents your position by implying that you conflate philosophy with law or politics. In fact, your critique was pushing for more philosophical precision, not less.
The response says, “I think what Dugin is trying to do is explain the world,” and that his project is not to “solve matters right now.” This is a reductive and protective framing of Dugin’s work. Dugin is not simply offering a descriptive account of history or metaphysics; he is actively prescribing a new civilizational model, advocating a return to hierarchical, spiritual, and nationalist orders. His “Fourth Political Theory” is an ideological project, not a neutral explanation. To excuse the ideological content of Dugin’s project under the guise of “explaining the world” misses the prescriptive thrust of his work and ignores the rhetorical danger in his mythic, eschatological framing of modernity. It downplays the political implications and ideological ambitions of Dugin’s project by portraying it as merely descriptive.
Your critique asked for clarification of what is meant by “rights of states” and flagged the risk of misrepresenting the Soviet Union’s constitution as an example of a “balance.” The response offers no defense or clarification on these points. Instead, it shifts to a general statement about “solving problems” in the “real world,” which is irrelevant to the initial philosophical and rhetorical critique. This rhetorical pivot avoids intellectual responsibility for the terms used. If Dugin (or the respondent) introduces a term like “rights of states,” it must be explicated, not shielded by appeals to “real-world problem solving.” It avoids defending or defining its terminology and instead escapes into generalities about “real-world” politics.
The suggestion that “in the real world, we seek to solve problems” contains a subtle but troubling anti-intellectual undertone. It implies that your critique, concerned with clarity, history, and philosophical rigor, is somehow detached from real concerns. This is ironic, given that the original statement was attempting to make a claim about political order and constitutional history. Philosophy is not an escape from reality—it’s the condition for thinking through reality critically. It subtly devalues the role of critique, interpretation, and philosophical precision by invoking an unspecified “real world” of action.
The response fails to meaningfully address your critique on any of the points you raised—conceptual vagueness, historical misrepresentation, syntactic weakness, or rhetorical misdirection. Instead, it reframes your position inaccurately, reduces the significance of philosophical inquiry, and avoids defending its original claims. It acts as a deflection rather than a rebuttal. In this sense, it exemplifies a common rhetorical move in ideological discourse: the avoidance of critical specificity under the guise of higher purpose or urgency.