The intellectual influence of Leo Strauss (1899–1973), a learned German-Jewish emigre and interpreter of religious, philosophical, and political traditions, has spread across the annals of theology and political philosophy both during his lifetime and after he died. This has occurred not only because of his charismatic teaching and many publications but also because of his ability to generate coteries of students and adherents who exercise significant power in the hallways of American academies and governments. Now, Cambridge University Press has decided to honor Strauss by devoting a volume of articles to him in their “Companions to Philosophy” series.

This collection of essays is learned, well argued, intelligent, and written by fine scholars from departments of philosophy and political science who are clearly independent thinkers. But all could be fairly called Straussians—and here I mean no more than the following: individuals whose intellectual bearings have been significantly shaped by Strauss, who see themselves as students of Strauss or adherents to his political philosophy. The essays typically elaborate themes raised in Strauss's writings and theoretical projects. They focus on relatively specialized questions of Strauss's interpretive worldviews—such as “modernity” and his interest in ancient Greek philosophy (Stanley Rosen, Catherine Zuckert), the medieval Arabic sources of his thought (Joel Kraemer), esotericism (Laurence Lampert), German nihilism (Susan Shell), liberal education (Timothy Fuller), his opposition to positivist social science (Nasser Behnegar), philosophical differences among Straussians (Michael Zuckert), and “the theological-political predicament” (Steven B. Smith, Leora Batnitzsky). The last theme, used by the editor to frame our reading of Strauss, derives from Spinoza's famous book Theological-politico Treatise, about which Strauss wrote his own first book (published in German in 1930) and which Strauss himself said preoccupied him as a Jew in Weimar Germany during the 1920s. These essays do not seriously engage the relationship of his philosophy to politics, the form which the “theological-political predicament” took for Strauss after he emigrated to the United States in 1933. As a result, this volume may leave readers who are looking for a critical account of the many dimensions of his philosophy and its political relevance nonplused—which may be the point.

Given the importance of the relationship between philosophy and politics in Strauss's work, however, the significance of the relationship between intellectual discourse and political activity in the history of his metier—ancient and medieval political philosophy—and the role of Straussians in American public life, this omission is odd; it has the effect of limiting much of the value of the work to Straussian insiders. After all, the substance of Strauss's work raises questions about the relationship between Alcibiades and Socrates, Socrates and Plato, Aristotle and Alexander or Demetrios of Phaleron (the Macedonian regent who stripped the Athenians of their autonomous democracy in 323—after which Aristotle fled in order, so legend has it, to make sure that the Athenians did not sin against philosophy a second time)—not to mention between theoretical discourse and political culture, especially in the United States if not “the West.”

Moreover, one thing Strauss and Straussians have unquestionably achieved is recognition. But writers in this volume either ignore or contemptuously dismiss the three waves [sic] of controversy that have surrounded Strauss's writings and their political impact over the past half century—namely, 1) a barbed critique of Strauss by Berkeley political theorists Sheldon Wolin and John Schaar in the March 1963 issue of the American Political Science Review; followed more than 20 years later by 2) the whirlwind that attended the publication in the May 30, 1985, issue of the New York Review of Books of an incisively critical review of Strauss's work by the Cambridge classical philosopher Myles Burnyeat (letters to the editor about Burnyeat's review filled pages in two subsequent issues of the NYRB—October 10, 1985, and April 24, 1986, and culminating in 3) the public exposure of the influx of Straussians into the administration of George W. Bush and their role (since the 1990s) in advocating an American invasion of Iraq. In the May 12, 2003, issue of The New Yorker and in the May 15, 2003, issue of the International Herald Tribune, Seymour M. Hersh and William Pfaff, respectively, noted the Straussian connections of not only Paul Wolfowitz and Abram Shulsky, who wrote their dissertations with Strauss, but also (in alphabetical order) Elliott Abrams, Charles Fairbanks, Douglas Feith, Robert Kagan, William Kristol, Carnes Lord, and Richard Perle.

The editor and contributors chose to marginalize these debates, even though it may well have been due to Strauss's specifically political notoriety that Cambridge University Press found it worthwhile to publish a collection of essays on his philosophy. Indeed, various academics have written more than a half-dozen books about Strauss since the invasion of Iraq, either delineating and criticizing his radical conservatism or justifying the worth of his life and philosophy—such as, in alphabetical order, Shadia Drury (a second edition of an earlier work), Anne Norton, Thomas Pangle, Eugene Sheppard, Smith, Daniel Tanguay, Nicholas Xenos, and Catherine and Michael Zuckert (both of whom have pieces in this collection). Smith's edited volume fits within the latter perspective. Notably, his introduction cites prominently the books that praise Strauss (such as his own) but fails to mention those that find Strauss's work problematic on philosophical or political grounds.

Apart from the mildly critical essays on Strauss's views of Martin Heidegger (by Stanley Rosen) and liberal democracy (by William Galston), none takes much issue with Strauss's philosophy, style of argument, or politics. For example, they do not address his controversial approaches to reading the history of political thought—for example, his view that most major writers in the history of Western political thought wrote “between the lines” such that their meaning must be read “between the lines.” (See his article, “Persecution and the Art of Writing,” published in 1941). For Strauss, whether a reading is legitimate or illegitimate can be judged only at the level of “genuine” philosophy—that is, his philosophy. No one addresses the invidious circularity and self-serving potential of this interpretive approach. Neither does anyone question the extent to which persecution is the proper context for judging the arguments of philosophers from Socrates to Spinoza. Nor do any of the authors address the justification for Strauss's differentiation between the educable “few” and the vulgar “many” who need guidance from Straussian lights. Finally, while it certainly is true that the neoconservative political and philosophical perspective with which Strauss's work has been associated cannot be deduced from his writings, Strauss regularly invokes the contempt of early twentieth-century elitists for “mass democracy” and rule by “the vulgar,” both of which, he believes, can be salvaged only by those versed in the kind of comprehensive philosophy he offers. His interest in accommodating “virtue” with “democracy” is not concerned about reducing social, economic, and political inequality.

One might explore the potential for an “elective affinity” between Strauss's political philosophy and the politics of neo-conservatism, but this collection missed its significant opportunity for such critical examination.

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In his twenties, Strauss wrote about the meaning of “principles,” but from the 1930s until his death, it was the wayward conduct of political power in the West—initially as expressed in Germany and later as understood by American culture and American political theorists—that consumed his philosophical attention. And perhaps the most distinguishing feature of his writing is how he views power. He loathes the corruption of “philosophy” by “science,” and he worries about the corruption of liberal education by “mass culture” and “mass democracy.” But he has no historically informed analysis of the attraction of science as the benchmark for truth in higher education, and he has no interest in creating conditions that would provide greater access to a liberal education for more citizens. For Strauss, that is a quixotic enterprise. And he may be right—but for the wrong reasons. He is right because the need and desire for greater access to a college education by more citizens has led to a greater interest shown by the administrations of both George W. Bush and Barack Obama in quantitatively measurable performance on standardized tests. The result tends to minimize the value of a liberal education that comes from studying, in one way or another, “Great Books” of the West or other cultures. But Strauss's work obsessively focuses on the obstacles to wisdom created by “the vulgar” and not, say, by the demands of Western capitalism for profit and expansion—demands that he might well despise but has no philosophical means or enunciated suggestions for recasting. This, too, is unfortunate, insofar as obstacles to a culture of critical, careful, and thoughtful reading come more from incentives pressed on the public by corporate interests in digitalizing communication than from autonomous choices made by public educators.

Because the contributors to this volume have focused on themes raised by Strauss without, for the most part, critically engaging them, many issues concerning his work are begged. But many interesting subjects are usefully explored. For those who are interested in Strauss's critique of modernity, or the nature of his debt to Heidegger, or his Spinozistic tendencies, this volume offers a very good place to start, especially for insiders.