Mission 2026: Binge reviewing all previous Reads, I was too slothful to review back when I read them
Reading Kant’s 'Perpetual Peace and Other Essays' today feels uncannily like listening to a severe, slightly irritable, but profoundly honest elder who refuses to indulge our illusions. This is not a comforting book. It does not flatter human nature, nor does it console us with easy optimism about progress.
And yet, paradoxically, it is one of the most quietly hopeful political texts ever written. Kant’s hope is not emotional or sentimental; it is structural, conditional, and hard-earned. He hopes not because humans are good, but because they can be constrained into behaving better.
My first reaction, returning to this text after years of encountering it only through secondary commentary, was surprise at how readable and even sly it is. Kant is often caricatured as forbidding, mechanical, and airless.
But 'Perpetual Peace' in particular has a dry wit and a deliberate provocativeness that feels almost modern. The very framing of the essay as a “treaty” between states, complete with preliminary and definitive articles, reads like a philosophical performance.
Kant knows the world he is addressing: cynical diplomats, war-hardened monarchs, and armchair realists who believe conflict is inevitable. He chooses not to plead with them morally at first, but to trap them logically.
What struck me most forcefully is how relentlessly Kant dismantles the romance of war. Long before the mechanized slaughter of the twentieth century, Kant already sees war not as a tragic necessity but as a moral scandal masquerading as realism. His claim that standing armies should be abolished feels radical even now, and almost laughable in our era of permanent military readiness. Yet the argument behind it is devastatingly clear: standing armies normalize the idea of war as policy rather than failure.
They transform violence into a budget line item. Kant does not deny that states will prepare for conflict; he insists that institutionalizing preparation ensures conflict will arrive.
There is a bracing honesty in Kant’s refusal to sentimentalize sovereignty. States, he argues, behave like individuals in a lawless condition when no higher legal framework binds them.
This analogy between individuals in the state of nature and states in international anarchy has been repeated endlessly since Kant, but reading it at the source reveals its ethical sharpness.
Kant is not describing a tragic inevitability; he is issuing an indictment. If we would not excuse individuals who resolve disputes through violence, why do we tolerate it among states?
Yet Kant is not naïve. He has no illusions that rulers will suddenly become virtuous. One of the most unsettling aspects of the essay is his insistence that perpetual peace does not require moral improvement. It requires better institutions.
This is Kant at his most disenchanted and, paradoxically, most persuasive. He trusts reason, not goodness. He assumes self-interest, not altruism. Republican constitutions, he argues, make war harder because those who bear its costs have a say in declaring it. This is not a claim about democratic virtue; it is a claim about risk distribution.
As someone reading this in a century shaped by both democratic wars and authoritarian peace, I found myself constantly arguing with Kant in my head. History has not fully vindicated his optimism about republics. And yet, it has not refuted him either.
Democracies do go to war, but rarely lightly, and almost never without elaborate justification. Kant’s insight is not that republics are peaceful, but that they are slower, more self-conscious, and more conflicted about violence. That hesitation matters. It introduces friction into the machinery of war.
The famous idea of a federation of free states is often misunderstood as a call for a world government. Kant explicitly rejects this. He fears global despotism as much as international anarchy. What he proposes instead is something more fragile and more realistic: a voluntary league grounded in law rather than coercion.
Reading this after decades of observing institutions like the United Nations is sobering. Kant anticipates their weakness, their dependence on goodwill, and their vulnerability to power politics. And yet he insists that even flawed legal frameworks are morally superior to none at all.
One of the most personally unsettling sections of the book is Kant’s discussion of hospitality. His notion of “cosmopolitan right” is modest to the point of austerity. He does not advocate open borders or universal belonging. He argues instead for a right of visitation, the right not to be treated with hostility upon arrival. In an era of mass migration, refugee crises, and fortress borders, this restrained moral demand feels both insufficient and revolutionary.
Kant does not ask states to love the stranger; he asks them not to brutalize him. The bar is low, and we still fail it regularly.
What gives 'Perpetual Peace' its enduring power is Kant’s bleak anthropology. Humans, he insists, are driven by what he famously calls “unsocial sociability.” We need others, but we resent them. We seek recognition, but resist constraint. This tension, Kant argues, is not an obstacle to progress but its engine.
Conflict, competition, and pride push humans to create institutions that restrain them. Peace emerges not from harmony but from exhaustion, calculation, and mutual limitation.
Reading this, I felt an uncomfortable recognition. Kant’s peace is not beautiful. It is procedural. It is built on checks, balances, and mutual distrust. There is something almost tragic about this vision, and yet it feels more honest than utopian alternatives.
Kant refuses to imagine a transformed humanity. He imagines a constrained one. In doing so, he anticipates modern liberalism’s deepest tension: the desire to create moral outcomes without requiring moral people.
The other essays in the volume deepen this impression. Kant’s reflections on enlightenment, history, and progress reveal a thinker painfully aware of the gap between ideals and reality. His famous call to “dare to know” is not triumphant; it is cautious. Enlightenment, for Kant, is slow, reversible, and fragile. Freedom of thought does not guarantee wisdom. Reason does not abolish power.
Again and again, Kant insists that progress is possible without being inevitable.
What moved me most, unexpectedly, was the tone of moral seriousness without moral hysteria. Kant does not shout. He does not moralize in the modern sense. He argues patiently, often coldly, as if aware that passion alone cannot sustain peace. In a world saturated with moral outrage and apocalyptic rhetoric, this restraint feels almost alien. Kant does not demand that we feel differently; he demands that we organize differently.
There are moments where the book feels dated, particularly in its Eurocentric assumptions and its limited engagement with colonial violence. Kant’s own record on race and empire complicates any straightforward admiration. Reading him now requires a double awareness: of his brilliance and of his blind spots. Yet even here, the text provokes rather than pacifies.
Kant’s insistence that conquest cannot produce legitimate sovereignty stands in quiet tension with Europe’s imperial history, including Germany’s own.
What lingers after finishing 'Perpetual Peace and Other Essays' is not confidence but responsibility. Kant does not promise peace; he sketches the conditions under which peace might become rational. He leaves the rest to us.
The book feels less like a prophecy than a challenge: if peace is possible, it will be because we built institutions strong enough to survive our worst impulses.
Returning this book to the shelf, I felt neither inspired nor despondent, but sharpened. Kant strips away comforting myths and leaves us with a stark choice: either accept perpetual war as normal, or do the difficult, unglamorous work of limiting power through law. In an age that oscillates between cynicism and moral absolutism, Kant’s severe moderation feels strangely radical.
'Perpetual Peace and Other Essays' is not a book that changes how you feel about the world. It changes how you think about what peace actually demands. And that, in the long run, may be far more unsettling.
Most recommended.