Walter Benjamin’s "The Critique of Violence": A conversation with James Martel (Keywords: Violence; Fascism; Law; Police; Myth)

From The Philosopher, vol. 112, no. 2 ("Violence")

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Walter Benjamin’s The Critique of Violence is arguably one of the most complex and critically debated essays ever written on the subject. It has been a source of both admiration and frustration for students of his work. The essay shows how violence has been integral to the formation of modern political systems and raises difficult questions about the theological nature of modern secularism. Brad Evans speaks to Professor James Martel to assess the relevance of Benjamin’s Critique today, explore the distinction between mythical and divine violence, and consider how all this can help us address the vexing problem of fascism in our times.

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Brad Evans (BE): When did you first encounter the work of Benjamin, and why did it resonate so much with you?

James Martel (JM): The first essay I encountered was The Critique of Violence. I remember a passage that really resonated with me. I was in my early twenties, and it discussed how, when the police show up, they are just people with guns. For some reason, I’ve always been afraid of the police. That fear is part of why I’m an anarchist—I always feel like they could shoot you for any reason. Reading Benjamin express this in a philosophical text deeply resonated with me because I had never encountered that idea before. It pushed me to think in a more radical direction than I had up to that point.

BE: I’m often a bit dubious when we try to apply twentieth-century thinkers or texts to the twenty-first century. But with Benjamin, I feel that his text still works and remains so resonant. What is it, do you think—aside from the obvious fact that police are still killing people for seemingly no reason—that makes it such a compelling essay today?

JM: It’s unfortunately very relevant today because our time mirrors the same drama that characterized Benjamin’s era: the rise of incipient fascism. This essay, in particular, is his analysis of the sources of fascism and how to fight it. Sadly, I believe that now—perhaps more than at any point since he wrote it over a hundred years ago—we are experiencing a similar moment. We need someone who has already grappled with this to show us how to resist it all over again. That, I think, is the real impact of this essay for our time.

It’s unfortunately very relevant today because our time mirrors the same drama that characterized Benjamin’s era: the rise of incipient fascism

BE: Could you explain, in straightforward terms, what Benjamin means by mythical violence and divine violence? And why are the two in tension with each other?

JM: To back up a bit, the first half of the essay deals with the distinction between positive law and natural law, and the difference between law-preserving violence and law-making violence. Benjamin sets up these distinctions carefully, but if you are new to the text, keep in mind that he pulls the rug out from under the reader about two-thirds of the way through. That’s when he introduces the concept of mythic violence. He basically says, “All of these distinctions that I’ve been carefully making,” and thinking about, “are all actually fake. They are all part of this larger thing called mythic violence.” What Benjamin means by mythic violence is that the law, as we know it—not necessarily law in the abstract, but the law as practiced globally—is a form of mythic violence. It’s based on truths that don’t actually exist. That’s why it’s called a myth. There’s no ontological foundation for the law. So, the law comes into the world—and this resonated with me early on as well—deeply anxious about its right to exist. It is entirely self-proclaimed. It’s authority over us is, is completely based on our ongoing fear of the law, in fact. And so, one of his claims is that the law has to constantly kill, really kill, in order to kind of remind us and itself that it really exists. But its fundamental problem is that it can never kill enough to establish itself as an absolute, eternal truth—which is what it claims to be. So, it remains trapped in an endless cycle of violence.

What Benjamin means by mythic violence is that the law, as we know it—not necessarily law in the abstract, but the law as practiced globally—is a form of mythic violence.

BE: So, we need to invent gods that kill, right? And then we are incapable of answering the question of how much killing is too much. Because the answer is, there is never enough killing. We have to keep killing to justify the re-enactment of the images of law that we’ve created. In your book Divine Violence, you point out that one of the most striking examples of this is the Holocaust—an extreme case of idolatry towards a power that was entirely constructed and manufactured. I know Kafka also appears in this narrative. Could you elaborate on that a bit more?

JM: Kafka was Benjamin’s great muse. I think more than anyone else, Kafka really inspired him with his stories. If you look at The Trial, for example, it’s making the same argument. The Trial is about the law as this cosmic, all-encompassing force, but at the same time, it’s a very grimy, earthly phenomenon. Yet, it claims to have absolute authority. As Josef K. moves through the novel—after being arrested—the entire plot revolves around him trying to prove his innocence. But there is no innocence. The law needs fodder to justify its existence. This is one of Benjamin’s great insights, which Kafka powerfully illustrates: the law is never about justice or helping people achieve it. It’s always about itself. People are merely tools the law uses to affirm its own reality, both to itself and to us.

The law is never about justice or helping people achieve it. It’s always about itself.

BE: So in the establishment of reality, violence becomes absolutely necessary for the very realisation of power—for power to even reveal itself? Without violence, there’s no revelation of the legal basis of power?

JM: Exactly. It all boils down to violence. You’ve pinpointed the core of Benjamin’s Critique of Violence: without violence, there is no law—at least, not the kind of law we’re familiar with, like the state, the police, all of it. At its heart, it’s all about violence, and nothing else. So, we shouldn’t be surprised that states are violent. It’s not inexplicable. Why is the state violent? Because it has to be violent to exist. The law, and legal practice, must rely on violence to sustain itself.

BE: Could you explain what divine violence is and how it might connect to a narrative of revolutionary politics or revolutionary potential in Benjamin? How does it also relate to the messianic?

JM: Divine violence—translated from the German as godly violence or God’s violence—differs significantly in its vision. Unlike mythic violence, it is not insecure about itself and does not need to inflict harm to establish its power. Its existence is independent of human consciousness and validation. For Benjamin, God’s violence doesn’t create new truths in the world. God doesn’t need to shed blood; God can simply eliminate. This is crucial because if God were to compete with mythic violence by establishing new truths, those truths would quickly become new idols and sources of mythic violence themselves.

What’s crucial about Benjamin’s idea of divine violence is that we know nothing about it. Here’s an example that illustrates the difference between mythic and divine violence. Consider Machiavelli’s account of Numa, the second king of Rome. Numa, recognizing that the Romans were unlawful and uncivilized, fabricated a story that a goddess had given him golden tablets with the law. He claimed that anyone who violated the law would be punished immediately. This ruse worked, and Machiavelli praises Numa for this “big lie.” This is an example of mythic violence: Numa invented a god, projected his own laws onto this god, and thus made his laws appear unimpeachable. Now, imagine if, instead of this fabrication, the fake goddess had actually appeared, taken the tablets, smashed them into pieces, and then disappeared without a word. That would be an example of divine violence. Divine violence undoes the lies projected onto the external world; it manifests and dismantles those projections without validating or reinforcing them.

Divine violence can be understood as this ongoing resistance to the falsehoods propagated by would-be rulers, tyrants, fascists, and illiberals. It is always present, countering mythic violence.

Some people have issues with Benjamin’s theology. However, it’s not just about dramatic, messianic moments when God intervenes to challenge the lies attributed to divinity. Rather, it’s a constant presence. All of reality is in perpetual resistance to the lies imposed upon it—whether those lies pertain to commodities in capitalism or legal subjects and objects. None of these things are as mythic violence portrays them. Divine violence can be understood as this ongoing resistance to the falsehoods propagated by would-be rulers, tyrants, fascists, and illiberals. It is always present, countering mythic violence, and creating a space where human beings can act autonomously. Without this resistance, we would be trapped in the lies of mythic violence, forever bound as Numa’s citizens.

BE: In a previous conversation, I pressed you on the question of fascism. There’s one line that particularly struck me, which I understand you took from Benjamin: "Fascism is always on the brink of collapse." Could you elaborate on this? Why is fascism not defined by its strength but by its weakness?

JM: To me, the most compelling aspect of The Critique of Violence is its insight into fascism. Fascism thrives on our fear of it. Benjamin, subscribing to a Marxist perspective, views fascism as the flip side of liberalism. When markets are not adequately protected, or when there are too many leftists or antifa, fascism emerges to suppress these elements. Then, because it’s an unstable system, it eventually reverts to liberalism. In this view, fascism and liberalism are intertwined. What becomes evident when reading The Critique of Violence is that fascism is actually quite vulnerable. It relies on a specific kind of response from the population to exist at all. Fascism is anxious about its own existential status, and when confronted with divine violence—which lacks such anxiety—it reveals its inherent fragility. Fascism, when it appears in our time, is spectacularly violent, but it can never be violent enough to establish itself permanently. Thus, it is inherently unstable and always on the verge of collapse. Despite how frightening it may seem, that’s all it is: an empty, violent force.

Fascism is inherently unstable and always on the verge of collapse. It is an empty, violent force.

BE: That also aligns with Hannah Arendt’s point that violence is ultimately impotent. Why else would so much violence be needed if the power model weren’t fundamentally weak in its operations? Is there a particular section of The Critique of Violence that stands out to you?

JM: There’s a part that I absolutely love. It’s towards the end and directly relates to this subject, so your timing is perfect. It discusses how we should think about the commandment, “Thou shalt not kill.”

Benjamin writes, “For the question, ‘May I kill?’, begets an unshakeable answer in the form of the commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill’. This commandment blocks the deed, as though God were preventing it from happening. But just as it ought not be fear of punishment that compels one to comply with the commandment, so the commandment remains inapplicable to, and incommensurable with, the completed deed. No judgment of the deed follows from the commandment. And thus, neither the divine judgment of the deed nor the basis for this judgment can be foreseen. For this reason, those who base every violent killing of a human being on the commandment are wrong. "The commandment exists"—and this is the key sentence—“not as a standard of judgment, but as a guideline of action for the agent or community that has to confront it in solitude and, in terrible cases, take on the responsibility of disregarding it.”

The way I read this is that even a commandment as clear as “Thou shalt not kill” does not mean you must not kill. It serves as a guide for how human actors should think about externalities in general. There is no absolute truth out there; everything is for us to struggle with, interpret, and ponder. I see this as inherently anti-fascist because fascism asserts absolute truths, like “Thou shalt kill.” In contrast, “Thou shalt not kill” is just as rigid and absolute. It’s a commandment to follow without question. Benjamin offers us a more human approach—a law for living, rather than the mere life dictated by mythic violence.

There is no absolute truth out there; everything is for us to struggle with, interpret, and ponder. I see this as inherently anti-fascist because fascism asserts absolute truths.

These ideas are present; we don’t ignore them. We have histories, stories, and memories. But we are always engaged in a struggle with them, sometimes turning our backs on them. To me, this is the recipe for resisting fascism in our own time.

BE: I want to end by bringing it back to the life of Benjamin and those final moments of his life when he becomes the refugee. He’s fleeing the horrors of fascism and also, ends up, for a long period of time, a disappeared body. We know about the disappeared text of Benjamin. How do you look back upon that moment of his life? And what do you think that means for how we should receive, perhaps, Benjamin’s lesson today?

JM: The story of his attempt to escape from Europe, and his death, are kind of, to me, like, poor Benjamin. He had Adorno and others trying to get him to come to the United States, but he hated the United States because it was capitalist. He had others trying to get him to go Israel, but he hated Israel because he wasn’t a Zionist. He didn’t know where to go, and so he dawdled and—in a way there’s something tragic, tragically beautiful about his indecision. Even the way he died is a little bit complicated. Because most people think that he committed suicide because he was apprehended—he was told by the Spanish police that he was going to be investigated when he came into Spain. But it’s also possible he took an overdose of sleeping pills by accident, because he was so nervous. I kind of like that story better. I like to think of him not as this heroic figure who sacrificed his life, but somebody—a very human figure. A very vulnerable figure, who was in terrible shape; he could barely climb over the Pyrenees. He was only forty-nine years old, but his heart was bad.

He embodied a profound sense of humaneness that resonates deeply with what I see as anarchism: valuing the ordinary life as its own principle, rather than adhering to the ends-oriented goals of fascism and liberalism.

Benjamin’s sweet humanity appeals to me, and it’s evident in The Critique of Violence. This is a very human person, who’s not expecting us to be magically heroic or anything like that. That’s precisely the point of this, right? Instead of having these ideals that we all have to ascribe to, he sort of allows us to be fully human—which is a contrast to those demands and ends that come onto us from externality. So he lived his whole life, and it was somewhat of a disastrous life. He could never get a job as an academic, he was poor, he was persecuted. He died. Yet, in a way, he embodied a profound sense of humaneness that resonates deeply with what I see as anarchism: valuing the ordinary life as its own principle, rather than adhering to the ends-oriented goals of fascism and liberalism.

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James Martel is a professor in the Department of Political Science. He is the author of eight books, most recently, Anarchist Prophets: Disappointing Vision and the Power of Collective Sight (Duke University Press, 2022). He is also the author of many essays, encyclopedia entries, book chapters and book reviews. 

Brad Evans is a Professor of Political Violence and Aesthetics at the University of Bath, UK. He is the founding Director of the Centre for the Study of Violence, and the online educational ‘Histories of Violence’ project. Brad has published twenty books and edited collections, many of which address international affairs and theorizations of violence.

First published online on 3rd May 2025

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