Although modern societies generally entrust enforcement of the criminal law to public prosecutors, most crimes in premodern societies were prosecuted privately. In classical Athens, ninth-century Germany, and England before the nineteenth century, there were no public prosecutors for most crimes. Instead, the victim or a relative initiated and litigated the cases. This article is the first rigorously quantitative analysis of private prosecution. It focuses on thirteenth-century England and uses statistical techniques, such as regression analysis, to show that changes in the treatment of settled cases can explain the rate of private prosecution.

At the root of most land titles in America outside the original thirteen colonies sits a federal patent. The validity of government title, in turn, rests on “[t]he great case of Johnson v. M'Intosh,” which held that a discovering sovereign has the exclusive right to extinguish Indians' interests in their lands, either by purchase or just war. Yet both legal and historical scholarship on this “great case” is surprisingly thin. There are no studies examining the litigants or the actual acreage under dispute (surprising for a real property dispute). There are also a number of unanswered legal questions surrounding Chief Justice Marshall's opinion in M'Intosh, perhaps none more glaring than the failure to pin down the legal basis for the decision. This article endeavors to fill in these gaps.

When Hannah Arendt came to Jerusalem in 1961 to attend the Eichmann trial she expected to find Evil incarnated in the person of Eichmann. How surprised she was to see the man in the glass booth. The word she used repeatedly to describe him was “mediocre,” referring to the very average qualities of his person. To Arendt the dissonance between Eichmann's horrifying actions and the bureaucratic character of the man demanded an explanation. Like so many of us, Arendt's conception of evil had been informed by great works of art, but the reality of this villain did not fit her expectations.

The Rudolf Kastner trial was one of the three great scandals that rocked Israeli party politics in the 1950s (the others were the negotiations with Germany for Holocaust reparations and the so-called “Lavon affair”). Although Leora Bilsky describes it as an “almost forgotten trial,” it has not been forgotten by subsequent writers: it makes an important cameo appearance in Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem; it features prominently in Tom Segev's The Seventh Million (1991); Yehuda Bauer's Jews for Sale? (1994) takes pains to refute the charges against Kastner; and it inspired two novels—Amos Elon's Timetable (1980) and Neil Gordon's cerebral thriller The Sacrifice of Isaac (1995). But the legal opinions have never until now attracted the thought or analysis they warrant, and Bilsky deserves gratitude for remedying this omission. With admirable insight and ingenuity, Bilsky focuses on the construction of the legal opinions as a form of literature. Her reading of Judge Halevi's and Justice Agranat's opinions centers on the way in which law is driven by metaphor—in Halevi's case, the metaphor of contract; in Agranat's, the metaphor of administrative decision making. Her article is a major contribution to our understanding of the Kastner case and to the way that, in a situation of intense moral ambiguity, legal analysis can be predetermined by a choice of metaphors.

In The Failure of the Word, Richard Weisberg asks how legal scholars can “justify the substitution of imaginative for legal prose.” By way of response, scholars such as Martha Nussbaum and Weisberg have sought to demonstrate the power of literature to better render moral ambiguity and situational complexity than the language of the law. The most attractive images of the art of judgment, these scholars argue, are not to be found in the decisions duly compiled in the Federal Reporter, but in works of the literary imagination. These works, by capturing a world of nuance largely absent from the Manichean terms of law, offer a critical “school of moral sentiments” and, as a consequence, can help the legal scholar to better appreciate the law's exclusion and to extend the law's discursive ken.

What is the relationship between judging and understanding? Does the process of understanding undermine our ability to judge? Or maybe the contrary is true, that judgment is possible only when its subject is understandable? If judgment requires distance and understanding requires empathy (overcoming distance), is there an inherent impossibility in trying to judge the Holocaust by trying to understand it? Language itself betrays a sense in which understanding and judgment conflict. The popular saying tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner rings true in our everyday experiences. What are we to do when the subject of our inquiry is of such moral magnitude that understanding becomes a duty we owe to ourselves, and yet any progress in understanding seems to be meaningless if it does not enhance our capacity of judgment. The two thoughtful responses by David Luban and Lawrence Douglas to my essay “Judging Evil in the Trial of Kastner” are directed at disentangling this complex relationship between judgment and understanding. Luban asks for more judgment. Douglas insists on more understanding.