There are two important issues raised by Jerry Weinberger's intricate, probing, and insightful book: whether his portrayal of Franklin is accurate and whether Franklin's understanding of existence is correct. Weinberger's thesis is controversial: From age 15, when Franklin read his father's books on theology until his death at 84, he never wavered in his conviction that God did not exist, religion was superstition, and moral principles were merely longings of the human psyche, unfulfilled in this life or the next. But if he took such a skeptical view of righteousness, why did he pen his Autobiography and promote such homespun virtues as temperance, frugality, justice, chastity, and humility?

Weinberger argues that Franklin's pieties were an elaborate and lifelong hoax concocted to ensure his personal safety, while disguising his real opinions from the wrath of morally serious and religiously devoted people. The young Franklin learned that his jabs at decency and faith, while effective at vexing his interlocutors, were risky. After reading Xenophon's Memorabilia at 17, he adopted the Socratic technique of irony and never again openly attacked prevailing orthodoxies. Behind the veneer of probity and devotion, he employed humor—often salacious—to deconstruct moral pretense and irrational, passionate faith. Weinberger maintains that Franklin made fun of everything and held nothing sacred. John Adams, the sort of earnest and solemn personage Franklin ridiculed, would not allow Franklin to work on a draft of the Declaration of Independence for fear that the Philadelphian would somehow slip in a joke.

Weinberger's most contentious claim is that not only did Franklin fabricate his facade of homespun philosopher and down-to-earth moralist, but he also left behind an elaborate set of clues in his writing that allow careful readers to uncover his ruse. He never deviated from his authorial intention to disguise and disclose his meaning.

Ben Franklin used esoteric writing? The theory may not be as far-fetched as it seems. He was, after all, a scientist, successful businessman, hugely popular author, renowned statesman, sexual rake, and, perhaps, an atheist. What does a person of superior ability and unpopular views do in a highly conventional hidebound society? He might pretend to be those things that his pious countrymen value. He might also be shrewd enough to take advantage of the simple-minded folk among whom he lives to secure his own comfort and pleasure. And, of course, he might have just enough pride in his own superiority to leave behind a road map for those willing to take the time to search out the “hidden” truth of his life.

But was Franklin not a humanitarian, the postmaster, patron of a hospital and an antislavery society, inventor of the lightning rod, and—most impressive of all—founder of a democratic nation? No doubt, but Weinberger argues that he undertook these activities more for his own pleasure and amusement than from duty. Franklin enjoyed the good things in life, including fame and the perks—all of them—attendant on celebrity.

It is striking how similar Weinberger's Franklin resembles the Richard Rorty of Achieving Our Country (1998). Like Rorty, Franklin denies the existence of metaphysical standards of right and wrong. Both men are pragmatists, more interested in making things work than in adherence to some abstract, unalterable principle of proper behavior. Both suppose, to paraphrase Rorty, that individual beliefs are constructed by historical circumstances and are little more than prevailing attitudes about what is considered true and just. Both are committed egalitarians, less from a devotion to democracy than from a belief that there are no standards and every person's views are as good as every other's. Both seem to engage in civic activities for the same reason that people play chess: to amuse themselves.

Franklin believed that there was nothing wrong with using his superior intelligence to his advantage, especially since he could get away with it. If this principle is true, perhaps it is also proper to take advantage of beauty for one's advantage. And to be consistent, is it not fitting to use guile and cruelty to get ahead, provided, of course, that they are employed effectively? Weinberger's Franklin looks eerily like the perfectly unjust man with a perfect reputation for justice in Plato's Republic. Is Franklin's view of virtue correct?

Franklin became truly famous because of his association with the first large-scale experiment in democracy. Neither the revolution that gave birth to the American republic nor the government formed to manage its affairs would have been successful without George Washington. Washington was not particularly brilliant, beautiful, or cruel. Rather, he was renowned for his integrity and virtue, qualities to which his countrymen responded with admirable devotion. Perhaps virtue is not as verifiable as are the laws of nature uncovered by Franklin's scientific experiments, but it does exist for human beings. Without Washington's virtue, the American Revolution would not have succeeded and Franklin might be remembered as a dilettantish oddity who suffered the unpleasant experience of hanging.

Weinberger has an extraordinary talent for illuminating the meaning of texts. He forces us to look for hints and ponder alternative points of view. He makes us consider what is said, what is implied, what is omitted, and what might have been said to make an argument persuasive—but was not. His analysis of Franklin's writings is so thorough and complex that it is not clear whether it is Franklin or Weinberger engaging in philosophic discourse. I must confess that I am not a Franklin specialist, and I spent about a month attempting to recreate Weinberger's research. The best I can say is that Weinberger could be faithfully presenting Franklin's veiled intentions if we ignore Franklin's specific exoteric statements, such as that he believes in God. Readers will be led to wonder, then, if Weinberger has not read too much into Franklin, and if so, why he presents such a profoundly amoral portrait of Franklin. Perhaps the biographer hopes to remind us that philosophy is not narrowly parochial or merely edifying.