The Radical Luhmann

A German friend of mine, although generally sympathetic to social systems theory, once expressed a certain frustration that, as he said, not only he himself but many others had experienced when studying Luhmann. Creating a very fitting metaphor, he pointed out that Luhmann’s works do not provide its readers with a Kuschelecke, literally, a “cuddling corner,” a space with well-cushioned furniture that allows readers to feel comforted and cozy, relaxed and warm.¹ Since he made that remark, I have been on the search for Luhmann’s cuddling corner, so far to no avail. Perhaps it is this complete lack that makes Luhmann so radical—or is it?

Attempts to make Luhmann a little cozier and more comforting are not uncommon among his interpreters.² Apparently, for them the longing for a Kuschelecke became irresistible. Such efforts to soften Luhmann are, I think, generally unhelpful. To my mind, a watered-down Luhmann, a Luhmann whose radicalism is ignored or tempered, only leads to misunderstandings and distortions. This is not what his “supertheory” deserves. It is, in my view, better to harshly criticize Luhmann for his radicalism than to apologetically deny it. To salvage, preserve, and clarify Luhmann’s radicalism has been my main purpose in writing this book.

So far, I have attempted to explain Luhmann’s radical departure from mainstream social theory and modern Western philosophy by pointing out several specific areas in which Luhmann’s theory represents a paradigm shift. These areas range from his anti- or posthumanism to his deconstruction of democracy. I conclude with a more general account of Luhmann’s radicalism. The questions I address in these final remarks are Where does Luhmann’s radicalism lead? In what ways does one see the world differently after understanding Luhmann? What would a Luhmannian attitude toward society, the world, and, indeed, one’s life consist of? Such questions were hardly an issue for Luhmann himself, given that they go beyond the scope of the theory and may therefore even be considered indecent or inappropriate to ask. Nevertheless, I could not refrain from asking them, if only to look for and establish, if not a Kuschelecke, than at least something to make up for its lack.

The major paradigm shift that I ascribe to Luhmann consists in the end of philosophy and the beginning of theory.³ Such a change has theoretical consequences: in the same way as the shift from religion to philosophy in early modern Europe, from the sacred to the secular, came alongside shifts of social semantics and social structures, the shift from philosophy to theory will be accompanied by what may be called, for lack of a better phrase, shifts in attitude. A disenchantment with or a liberation from the sacred and divine world of theology may be followed by a disenchantment with or liberation from the rational and moral world of philosophy. It would be foolish to try to predict what a postphilosophical semantics would look like, but it may be possible to outline some of the features of an attitude that emerges from observing Luhmann as one of the first postphilosophical theorists. Three closely interconnected features of this attitude seem to be modesty,⁴ irony, and equanimity. These constitute, so to speak, the core of the virtue ethics of social systems theory.⁵

Modesty

The period of the European Renaissance and the Enlightenment brought about the reemergence and re-creation of “greater science”—in the sense of the German term Wissenschaft: an organized and institutionalized effort, including all academic disciplines, that is, natural and social sciences and the humanities alike, for the sake of producing knowledge and making it available to society. In early modernity, philosophy was still perceived as—and thought of itself as—being at the helm of this endeavor.⁶ This was certainly true for Kant and Hegel and was not essentially different for Marx or Darwin. Modern philosophy, up to and including at least the nineteenth century, was epistemologically optimistic. It was generally believed that “greater science” would discover all sorts of truth and thereby enlighten and empower humankind. It was to be the driving force behind social, technological, and ethical improvements. Historically speaking, philosophy has been at the center of the modern ambition to produce knowledge and, thereby, to progress.

In the twentieth century, philosophy was increasingly pushed to the margins of what was considered scientific activity. Notwithstanding this decline, and the increasing detachment of philosophy from science, it is still rather common to identify our times with terms such as “information age” or “knowledge society.” In this way, the semantics of Enlightenment philosophy lives on. To have knowledge and to possess information is seen as the key to social success and to personal development. In order to be a democratic citizen, an autonomous human being, a free individual, one needs to know things and to have access to information. Education is generally believed to be the most important foundation for building a thriving society and for becoming an independent individual. The German term Bildung, which plays a central role in Hegel’s philosophy, expresses this nicely: it means both education and edification, both the imparting and acquisition of knowledge and the “building” (the German term’s etymological counterpart in English) of a person’s character or a nation’s culture. Bildung, once identified with philosophy, has become a general project and ambition of any modern society. In this way, we still live in a “philosophical” society. Modern society conceives of itself as being permanently engaged in its own Bildung through the production of knowledge and the continual quest for self-improvement and the discovery of truths.

From the perspective of theory, however, the epistemological optimism involved in a “knowledge society” is questionable. Theory describes the production of knowledge as a form of communication, of social construction. It does not, to be sure, replace the philosophical epistemological optimism with a simple pessimism, denouncing the usefulness of knowledge altogether. However, from the perspective of theory, the soteriological hopes that are connected with the increase in the production of knowledge seem unwarranted. As a social construct, knowledge enables society and individuals to do a lot of things that they would otherwise have been unable to do—I could not, for instance, write and publish this book if society were not interested in knowledge production—but this does not mean that society or individuals actually get closer to truth. In a functionally differentiated society, science cannot do what philosophy was once assumed to do, namely to initiate an encompassing process of Bildung in the sense outlined above.

The traditional philosophical approach toward the production of knowledge assumed that there was both a collective subject and an individual one to be improved. From the perspective of theory, no such subjects exist. No one “has” knowledge as an internal component of himself (or herself). Knowledge functions, like money and like power, as a generalized medium of communication. And one “has” it in the ways one has other media (in systems-theoretical terms) that are attributed a certain value in a particular social context. Knowledge allows society to function, but does not essentially improve an individual or a society as a whole. From the perspective of theory, more knowledge does not lead to more Bildung anymore than more money or more power does.

The inflation of knowledge seems an excellent example of this. No person—and no nation or country or social system—is able to coherently accumulate or store knowledge. In fact, knowledge only counts if it is exchanged and thus given away or spent. It is exchanged communicatively (in academic publications, for instance) as well as temporally: new knowledge replaces old knowledge.⁷ The idea of “absolute knowledge” (to use Hegel’s term) is no longer tenable from the perspective of theory. If knowledge is a medium, like money or power, then those who take part in its production have no reason to believe they are taking part in an ultimately self-improving endeavor. In other words, theorists have to be more modest than the philosophers of old. They can no longer proudly consider themselves all-important lovers of wisdom. Instead, they must consider themselves traders at the knowledge exchange marketplace. Theorists will have to let go of a lot of the pretension that used to be attached to the profession of philosophy.

When Marx claimed to have flipped Hegel from his head to his feet, he meant not only that he had converted Hegel’s idealism into materialism, but also that he finally made “philosophical science” (Hegel’s philosophische Wissenschaft) practically applicable rather than merely spiritually enlightening. Marx stated this succinctly in thesis eleven on Feuerbach: “Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it.”⁸ The idea of changing the world through philosophical science, however, is no less Hegelian than Marxist. Philosophical interpretations, for Hegel and his predecessors, were always supposed to change the world. It was the very project of a “philosophical science,” or, in Kantian terms, of a “future metaphysics that will be able to present itself as science.” Once philosophy succeeds in overcoming the “scandal of philosophy” and transforms itself into science, it cannot fail to change the world. Hegel often uses the expression wirkliches Wissen, which means “true knowledge” (as opposed to apparent and thus false knowledge) and denotes “effective knowledge” (wirken means “to be effective”). If scientific philosophy is true, it cannot but have an immediate effect on the world. In this way, Enlightenment philosophy was not only about the production of knowledge, but, right from the start (and not only with Marx) also about changing the world.

Philosophy not only implied that knowing the world was possible, but also that intervening in society and foreseeing and directing its change and development was a possibility. For Kant, philosophy would eventually show the way to “eternal peace.” For Marx, philosophy would help to bring about the end of class antagonisms. The figure of the philosopher has thus been regularly identified with a visionary, a secular alternative to the religious messiah. The visionary attitude of philosophers can, as with Kant and Marx, be found on the level of “grand theory,” but it can also be detected on a much smaller scale in the pronouncements of countless normative philosophers of our day. Political philosophers and applied ethicists typically feel competent to present suggestions for social or moral change.

Theory disconnects itself from the interventionist heritage of philosophical science. Theory admits, however, that it does change the world. The world—and, in particular, society—is slightly different once this very book is published, for instance. Whatever happens within society contributes to its evolution, just as whatever happens within an ecosystem has an effect on its further development. The difference between interventionist philosophy and noninterventionist theory is not that the latter would deny that philosophizing and theorizing make a difference, but how they evaluate and analyze their making of differences.

Luhmann’s theory is neither idealist nor materialist; it is constructivist. Like idealists who claim that different ideas change society and materialists who claim that material changes change society, constructivists claim that different social constructions constitute social change. This is not the issue. The issue is that ideas and material conditions are supposed to be something more essential than a social construct—in other words, whereas ideas or material conditions are supposed to be foundational first causes of social change, social constructs are radically immanent within society and no more a cause of social change than its effect. Theory is, at the same time, both about society and within society. A theory of society (in the grammatically ambiguous sense of genitivus objectivus and genitivus subjectivus) is a product of the very society it theorizes about.⁹ Theory cannot initiate a specific change toward a certain goal; it simply plays a (relatively minor) part in the continual self-modification of society.

Social theory, in the strict sense of the word “theory,” unlike political philosophy, cannot conceive of a difference between “merely” interpreting the world and changing it. For Marx (as well as many non-Marxist political philosophers) political theory should not simply provide another idle interpretation of society, but do something essentially different, namely introduce material change. For theory, however, society consists of nothing but communication. Theory, therefore, cannot directly change the world, it can only change society, and in a hypercomplex world, it is never predictable in what ways social changes will change the world. While, on the one hand, it is unavoidable that theory changes society and the world, on the other hand, there is no mechanical causal link between changes in theory and changes in the world. Thus, in a strict sense, any normative theoretical intervention in the world is impossible. Theorists change the world, but they cannot claim to be in a position to control, predict, or even speak truthfully about these changes. Such is what constitutes Luhmann’s radical theoretical modesty.

Irony

By being engaged in the production of knowledge and its exchange, theory produces and trades meaning, or sense (which is perhaps the better translation for the German term Sinn used by Luhmann). To be sure, all communication constructs sense in the systems-theoretical meaning of this term. Sense is the most general medium of society as conceived by Luhmann, and, moreover, is essential for making the structural coupling between psychic systems and communication systems—between human minds and society—possible. Sense is constructed when we think and when we communicate. Specific social systems operate by constructing specifically meaningful media (such as money in the economy). In this way, what the economy is all about, is making money. In the same way, the science system (in which theory and philosophy are housed) is all about making truth. The meaning of these systems is their specific construction of social sense. They provide society with unique sources of sense. Other systems do the same. Religion, for instance, contributes religious sense to society; the legal system makes the distinction between legality and illegality meaningful; and the health system makes health a sensible social concern.

The very plurality and incommensurability of sense in society, however, makes sense, in a certain way, meaningless and makes it run counter to what is perhaps the most simplified traditional definition of philosophy. In Plato’s Apology, Socrates famously declares that the unexamined life is not worth living.¹⁰ This pronouncement could serve as the locus classicus for understanding philosophy as a systematic effort to discover the meaning, or, as I should say here, the “sense of life” (Sinn des Lebens). In this traditional philosophical context, sense is grammatically singular. Strictly speaking, for philosophy—particularly in the German-speaking context to which Luhmann reacted—sense could not be diversified without being in danger of becoming nonsense. In the plural, the German word der Sinn turns into die Sinne, which does not mean “meanings,” but “the senses.” From a Platonic perspective, this signifies that a pluralized sense loses its intellectual and rational meaning and degenerates into something physical and irrational. The pluralizing of sense thus amounts to its bastardization and a paradoxical reversal into its opposite.

In his later writings, Luhmann typically avoided referencing Husserl when using the term Sinn, turning instead to Deleuze’s Logique du sens.¹¹ The “logic of sense,” in theory, is, so to speak, a perversion of the philosophically inherited logic of sense. Instead of being devoted to die Logik (in the singular) and der Sinn (in the singular), theory explores the various possibilities of multiple and simultaneous logical and sense constructions. The radical pluralizing of sense not only marks a conspicuous departure from the quintessential philosophical attempt to discover the meaning of life, but also a shift in style or attitude. Socrates, although from time to time operating with Socratic irony, was dead serious about the examination of life, as is well illustrated in the Apology. Compared with Socratic irony, theory, when shifting to a plurality of sense, introduces a far more radical way of being ironic. Luhmann states: “Self-critical reason is ironical reason. It is the reason of ‘the gypsies who constantly vagabond around Europe.’”¹² In direct opposition to his earlier master Husserl, toward the end of his life Luhmann identified himself with the gypsies of reason—those who violate the unified pattern of sense-making and live outside of what is generally considered the norm. Luhmann’s shift from Husserl’s Sinn to Deleuze’s sens can be understood as an indicator of what I am calling the shift from philosophy to theory. It goes along with making reason ironical.

In my personal definition, irony is not simply saying (or communicating) something that is supposed to be understood as the opposite of what is actually being said (such as to say “great!” when something that is obviously not great is happening), but rather saying something that is at the same time, and to the same extent, both serious and not serious, both valid and invalid. It makes sense, but at the same time and to the same extent it also “makes nonsense.” An example of this is the sentence at the end of Luhmann’s preface to The Science of Society: “It remains only to say, as usual, that any remaining errors are chargeable to me—with the exception of errors in this sentence, obviously!”¹³ Luhmann, obviously, does not indicate, to the contrary of what is being said, that the responsibility for errors in his book rests with those whom he has just thanked for their help and assistance. Instead, he fully assumes the responsibility for the remaining errors in his book, but, at the same time, and to the same extent, he points out the stereotypical and, from a theoretical perspective, meaningless character of such a rhetorical gesture. The sentence constructs sense (assuming the responsibility for errors) and nonsense (pointing out the meaninglessness of such an assumption of responsibility) at the same time and to the same extent. The sentence is therefore not only perfomatively ironical, but also expresses the ironical aspect of Luhmann’s theory: if the scientific construction of knowledge (which is the very topic of the scientific book that this sentence is included in) is a contingent construction of (in the traditional philosophical sense) ultimately meaningless sense, then to point this out in the context of a scientific theoretical treatise is ultimately meaningless as well. At the same time, however, the fact of communicating this makes a lot of sense, which is the very point of theory. Ironically, this point becomes its ultimate meaning.

Luhmann’s theory is about the contingent social constructions of sense that have no ultimate meaning, no transcendental or transcendent anchorage, and do not manifest or conform to a unified reason. In this way, theoretical reason is ironical reason: what it says is rooted in contingency and not necessity, and this is also the case “autologically.” Self-critical reason takes into account that it is ironical, and one of the ways to take this into account is to use ironical communication. Ironical reason is not only “logically” ironical, it is also ironical in style. In this way, for Luhmann, irony is not simply a didactical or dialectical method, as it was for Socrates or Plato; it is an integral aspect of the “autological” character of theory. In traditional philosophy, irony was a tool and could be applied or not. Theory is an exercise in ironical reason; it is, so to speak, a performance by the gypsies of reason.

A centerpiece of all of the philosophical sciences has always been moral science, or ethics. If theory ironically undermines philosophical meaning, then it cannot fail to ironically deconstruct this field that has usually been taken as most serious by those engaged in it. The ironical attitude toward ethics is therefore potentially the most controversial, provocative, and radical aspect of Luhmann’s theory.

Luhmann’s redefinition of ethics is another example of his irony.¹⁴ He first defines morality as the communicative distinction between, and distribution of, esteem and disesteem. He goes on to define ethics as the “reflective theory of morality” (Reflexionstheorie der Moral). Whereas philosophical ethics, according to Luhmann, tried to identify to what extent reason was inherent in morality, Luhmann’s reflective theory takes a different approach: It shows that traditional attempts to identify moral reason have failed, and that the function of theoretical ethics, as opposed to philosophical ethics, can only be to warn of morality. The shift from philosophical ethics to theoretical ethics is a shift from serious ethics to ironical ethics. Ethics is no longer the scientific (in the sense of philosophical science) search for moral reason, but the “deconstruction” of moral communication.¹⁵ Ethical theory shows the sense and nonsense of morality at the same time. Philosophical ethics had focused on its sense alone.

An ironical ethics is also self-critical. This does not mean, in a traditional moral sense, that an ethicist should critically examine his or her own moral behavior, but that ethics must include a reflection on the limitations and contingency of its meaning. Philosophical ethics, simply speaking, attempts to identify the correct application or meaning of the moral distinction between good and bad, or, more precisely, between good and evil. Theoretical ethics, on the other hand, outlines how this very attempt is, to use Nietzsche’s phrase, “beyond good and evil.” Ethical philosophy cannot but assume that it is good and advocate the goodness it establishes. Ethical theory, on the other hand, looks at morality as one form of contingent sense construction. The theoretical reflection on this sense construction is itself just as contingent as morality. From this perspective, neither morality nor its theory is good or bad. Ethical theory does not and cannot tell society what is ultimately good or bad, only what sort of nonsense is implied in ethical sense-making.

In the case of Luhmann’s ethics, he points out the dangers of moral communication and its social pathologies. Ironical reason, when applied to ethics, results in “negative ethics.” Luhmann’s proclamation that ethics is supposed to warn of morality thus has to be understood ironically: if taken too seriously, if taken as the ethical claim that morality is ultimately bad or evil, it would have to warn of itself and no longer be self-critical. In this way, perhaps the most important aspect of the shift from philosophical ethics to theoretical ethics lies in a shift from advocating a serious morality to an exercise in (self-)ironical reason. A major problem with traditional philosophical ethics is that it lacks the capacity to seriously consider its own nonsense. In this way, not only science, but even ethics, can now become, at least in theory, “gay” (in the Nietzschean sense of fröhlich).

Equanimity

Nonironical ethics, particularly in social and political contexts, tends to apply rhetorical “shock and awe” strategies. In Luhmann’s immediate social environment, that is, post–World War II Germany from the 1960s to the 1990s, the new left, both in academia and in politics, used such communicative tools. First, moral outrage was created—about the Nazi background of the parent generation; about the Vietnam war and American imperialism; about the capitalist Schweinesystem (pig system); about the nuclear arms race; about unfair trade mechanisms; about human rights violations; about nuclear power plants, the dying of the forests, and other environmental disasters, and so on. Then, beautiful countervisions were suggested: political and sexual liberation, an economy based on fairness and nonprofit orientation, political justice and equal rights for all, pacifism and disarmament, wind and solar power, a green conscience, and so on. The most prominent of Luhmann’s opponents on the German left, Jürgen Habermas, the proponent of a “discourse without domination” (herrschatsfreier Diskurs), and Ulrich Beck with his reflections on “risk society” (Risikogesellschaft), are good examples of these techniques. Moral communication, as Luhmann pointed out in his writings on ethics, functions by highlighting the scandalous and by contrasting it, at least implicitly, with a cathartically relieving remedy. In this way, nonironical ethics and nonironical reason produce a lot of social and psychological heat: they are exciting. People will be shocked, be enraged, and feel threatened by being alerted to all the bad and catastrophic things around them that they hadn’t really been aware of, as well as awed, enamored, and passionate about the wonderful solutions that are just around the corner if society would only complete its own enlightenment. Nonironic shock and awe morality, in other words, operates by fuelling both fears and hopes. It depicts images of hell, but also offers a Kuschelecke for relaxation.

The Luhmannian attitude to society, with all its pain and joy, with its perils and consolations, is strikingly different. Of course, Luhmann’s theory is not blind to the suffering that “exists on a massive scale and in such forms that are beyond description” in today’s world.¹⁶ Rather than following the impulse to react to these circumstances with shock and awe, however, theory takes on an alternative stance: nec spe nec metu (neither hope nor fear), an ancient Latin phrase that Luhmann somewhat playfully uses to advocate “a kind of stoic attitude” in social theory,¹⁷ and thus, if such an extension may be allowed, toward the world in general.

In my view, this phrase can serve as an answer to the perhaps inappropriate question posed at the beginning of this chapter: where is one led by Luhmann’s radicalism? It leads one, I believe, to an attitude that combines practical (but not ontological or epistemological) aspects of several historically and geographically different, but nevertheless similar, philosophies: Stoicism, Spinozism, and Daoism. Paradoxically, or ironically, Luhmann’s radical postphilosophical theory thus connects back, in its existential dimension, with some of the most traditional teachings of wisdom in the history of philosophy.

Luhmann’s theory, as I have outlined it, confronts humankind with the “sociological insult,” the insight into the limits of social steering. We are not at the center of the cosmos, we are not the “crown of creation,” and we are not the masters of our own minds; nor are we the autonomous creators of the social world. Previous attempts to use philosophical insights and wisdom to improve society have failed spectacularly. Theory recognizes not our total impotence but the relative helplessness of philosophical and ideological interventionism. Theory does not equal a fatalistic pessimism, but a Stoic acceptance of the basic “human condition” of exposure to an uncontrollable environment. Rather than reacting to this insult with indignation and rage, with a Promethean activism, an attempt to overpower the gods, so to speak, theory opts instead for calmness and deference. This attitude is not to be mistaken for a sheepish obedience or submission. It consists in the insight of (self-)ironic reason that its power consists in making sense of and in the world rather than in deliberately changing the world into something altogether different.

The Stoic aspect of theory allows the theoretician to develop a potential for tolerating the otherwise nearly intolerable. The insight of theory into its inability to take control in the world and steer society towards a land of milk and honey does not lead to mental paralysis or defeatism, but to relaxation and alleviation. Dramatically put, one can say that nonironic reason hardens whereas ironical reason lightens. It is not tragic that political decisions cannot essentially decide anything about the future of society or mankind; it is rather a form of pressure release. That no ultimately decisive decisions are possible makes coming to a decision less difficult, not more so. “Stoic politics” will hardly become fundamentalist; there is not enough at stake. Room for contingency leaves, metaphorically speaking, some breathing room. Or, ironically speaking, theory helps us to see—and do—things more philosophically.

It is not that we cannot do anything, nor is there any need to believe that all depends on us getting it right. Stoic theory does not discourage people from engaging in politics or social work, or, for that matter, from doing anything whatsoever, it merely aims at discouraging us from adopting the activist—and sometimes philosophical—vanity that the fate of the world rests primarily with us. Politically speaking, the Stoic aspect of theory may be equated with its anti-ideological stance. It distrusts utopian programs and agendas, and because that is so, it can ally itself rather easily with realist and pragmatic approaches to politics that try to avoid the traps of either overenthusiastic hopes or numbing fears.

A Spinozist element of theory can be found in its acknowledgment of various levels of knowledge. Theoretical knowledge may be described as an ironical transformation of Spinoza’s third kind of knowledge, that is, knowledge sub specie aeternitatis. Theoretical knowledge is different from other kinds of knowledge, namely common everyday knowledge (such as the knowledge of the way to drive to town) and nontheoretical reflective knowledge (knowledge in the natural sciences, for instance). The various kinds of knowledge are neither congruent nor incompatible with one another. To excel in one kind of knowledge is not indicative of how well one does in another. A theorist may not be good at driving or at repairing cars; a mechanic might not understand theory. This brings certain blessings. On the one hand, it makes theoretical knowledge, unlike religious or traditional philosophical knowledge, contingent. It is not necessary for anyone to have it. One can live well without it, and the world is not lost altogether if it is not being revealed. On the other hand, theorists cannot expect, unlike saints or philosophical sages, that their theoretical excellence will make them a more accomplished person than anyone else. Theoretical knowledge is innocent; it does not come with a mission, with the implicit duty to impart it to all others, or with the implication that it will change its possessor into a flawless being. In this way, it absolves those who have it from unreasonable demands, and it spares those who lack it from attempts to convert them.

Theoretical expertise is a rare characteristic among people; it is rather esoteric. It is difficult to achieve and does not necessarily bring great social prestige. At best, one may get a relatively well-paid job that leaves one with a lot of time to further engage in theory. However, it can provide its possessors with a number of mental benefits. One will be able to understand or interpret—in theoretical language, to observe—the world from a unique perspective of excluded inclusion. One will see that one’s point of observation, while certainly within the world and not beyond it in any way, is nevertheless inaccessible to those who do not do theory. To be able to look at the world, including oneself, sub specie theoriae therefore comes with some psychological benefits. It is not only an exercise in communication, but also likely to be accompanied by unique mental operations that can be experienced as extraordinarily clear and distinct. Such a theoretical state of mind may well be gratifying for the possessor since it does not give rise to anxiety or euphoria. It is also quite different from what Wittgenstein once described as the experience “of feeling absolutely safe” or “safe in the hands of God.”¹⁸

Given the nonecstatic equanimity that theorists may enjoy and display in their theoretical communication, they are well positioned to enrich society with the same. Theory operates with a radical Gelassenheit, or intellectual and communicational ease. This may be called its Daoist aspect. Thus, if Luhmann is not able to come up with a Kuschelecke, he at least offers a sort of yoga mat.