Postema's article discusses, lucidly and probingly, a central jurisprudential idea, which he calls the autonomy thesis. In its general form it is shared by many writers who otherwise support divergent accounts of the nature of law. It is, according to Postema, a thesis that is meant to account for a core idea, that the law's “defining aim is to … unify public political judgment and coordinate social interaction.” In some form or another this core idea is probably supported by Postema himself. However, in this article his concern is to criticize what he takes to be the widespread belief that it is explained by the autonomy thesis. The autonomy thesis is flawed and must be rejected. In arguing to that conclusion he succumbs to one of the unattractive tendencies of contemporary legal and political philosophy, namely he does not discuss anyone's view, but a family of views. This allows one to construct one's target by selecting features from a variety of authors so that the combined picture is in fact no one's view, and all those cited as adhering to it would disagree with it.

In Law's Empire Prof. Ronald Dworkin has advanced a new theory of law, complex and intriguing. He calls it law as integrity. But in some ways the more radical and surprising claim he makes is that not only were previous legal philosophers mistaken about the nature of law, they were also mistaken about the nature of the philosophy of law or jurisprudence. Perhaps it is possible to summarize his main contentions on the nature of jurisprudence in three theses: First, jurisprudence is interpretive: “General theories of law… aim to interpret the main point and structure of legal practice” (LE, 90). Second, legal philosophy cannot be a semantic account of the word “law.” Legal philosophers “cannot produce useful semantic theories of law” (id.). Third, legal philosophy or jurisprudence “is the general part of adjudication, silent prologue to any decision at law” (id.).

In the movie Regarding Henry, the main character, Henry Turner, is a lawyer who suffers brain damage as a result of being shot during a robbery. Before being wounded, the Old Henry Turner had been a successful lawyer, admired as a fierce competitor and well-known for his killer instinct. As a result of the injury to his brain, the New Henry Turner loses the personality traits that had made the Old Henry such a formidable adversary.

H.L.A. Hart's The Concept of Law is the most important and influential book in the legal positivist tradition. Though its importance is undisputed, there is a good deal less consensus regarding its core commitments, both methodological and substantive. With the exception of an occasional essay, Hart neither further developed nor revised his position beyond the argument of the book. The burden of shaping the prevailing understanding of his views, therefore, has fallen to others: notably, Joseph Raz among positivists, and Ronald Dworkin among positivism's critics. Dworkin, in particular, has framed, then reframed, the conventional understanding, not only of Hart's positivism, but of the terms of the debate between positivists and him. While standing on the sidelines, Hart witnessed the unfolding of not only a lively debate between positivists and Dworkin, but an equally intense one among positivists as to positivism's (and his) core claims. The most important debate has been between so-called inclusive and exclusive positivists: a debate as much about Hart's legacy as about the proper interpretation of legal positivism.

Social groups claim authority to impose restrictions on their members that the state cannot. Churches, ethnic groups, minority nations, universities, social clubs, and families all regulate belief and behavior in ways that would be obviously unjust in the context of a state and its citizens. All religions impose doctrinal requirements; many also enforce sexist practices and customs. Some universities impose stringent speech and conduct codes on their students and faculty. Parochial schools discriminate in their hiring practices. Those who complain about such internal restrictions on the liberties of members might well be told to “love it or leave it.”

What one ought to mean by “speech,” in the context of discussions of free speech, is whatever it is that a correct justification of the right to free speech justifies one in protecting. What one ought to mean, it may be argued, includes illocution, in the sense of J.L. Austin. Some feminist writers, accepting that free speech includes free illocution, have been led to take the notion of silencing seriously in discussions of free speech.

Even to disagree, we need to understand each other. If I reject what you say without understanding you, we will only have the illusion of a disagreement. You will be asserting one thing and I will be denying another. Even to disagree, we need some agreement.

To understand H.L.A. Hart's general theory of law, it is helpful to distinguish between substantive and methodological legal positivism. Substantive legal positivism is the view that there is no necessary connection between morality and the content of law. Methodological legal positivism is the view that legal theory can and should offer a normatively neutral description of a particular social phenomenon, namely law. Methodological positivism holds, we might say, not that there is no necessary connection between morality and law, but rather that there is no connection, necessary or otherwise, between morality and legal theory. The respective claims of substantive and methodological positivism are, at least on the surface, logically independent. Hobbes and Bentham employed normative methodologies to defend versions of substantive positivism, and in modern times Michael Moore has developed what can be regarded as a variant of methodological positivism to defend a theory of natural law.

This article considers the role of conceptual analysis in jurisprudence. In responding to the earlier article of Brian Bix, Conceptual Questions and Jurisprudence, 1 LegalTheory 465 (1995), it is agreed that the purpose of the theorist must be identified in order to evaluate the merits of the practice of conceptual analysis, but the approach taken here differs from that proposed by Bix. In particular, it is suggested that Bix is wrong to limit stipulation within conceptual analysis to a default option, and Bix's suggestion that jurisprudential analysis lacks an empirical basis is challenged. The approach developed in this article relies on a clarification of the relationships among terms, concepts, and fields of enquiry. It explores the different relationships that can exist between concepts. Seven general principles of the practice of conceptual analysis are expounded, and the proper scope of an evaluative element within conceptual analysis is considered. A final section briefly examines some of the wider implications of the approach to conceptual analysis proposed in the article.

It is hard to think of a more banal statement one could make about the law than to say that it necessarily claims legal authority to govern conduct. What, after all, is a legal institution if not an entity that purports to have the legal power to create rules, confer rights, and impose obligations? Whether legal institutions necessarily claim the moral authority to exercise their legal powers is another question entirely. Some legal theorists have thought that they do—others have not been so sure. But no one has ever denied (how could they?) that the law holds itself out as having the legal authority to tell us what we may or may not do.

“Sucks and stones will break my bones,” Justice Scalia pronounced from the bench in oral arguments in Schenck v. Pro-Choice Network, “but words can never hurt me. That's the First Amendment,” he added. Jay Alan Sekulow, the lawyer for the petitioners, anti-abortion protesters who had been enjoined from moving closer than fifteen feet away from those entering an abortion facility, was obviously pleased by this characterization of the right to free speech, replying, “That's certainly our position on it, and that is exactly correct …”

It has often and correctly been remarked that the Hart-Fuller debate of 1956–1969 set the agenda for Anglo-American jurisprudence in the last half of the twentieth century. The nature of law, of legal obligation, of legal authority, and of law's relation to morality were the questions that debate made central to jurisprudence as we have since practiced it.

In a recent article Brian Leiter concluded that a useful normative theory of adjudication is impossible. A normative theory of adjudication would be a theory that, among other things, identified the moral and political norms that judges ought to follow in determining the law for any particular legal dispute. Letter's elegant and subtle argument, stripped to its bones, runs as follows: Philosophers of law regard a correct normative theory of adjudication as being dependent upon an antecedent descriptive theory. The dependence here, as Leiter describes it, is of a very strong sort and unique among philosophical theories: Any normative theory, to be acceptable, cannot depart from the actual practice of judges and lawyers. Consequently, the content of the normative side of the theory is simply to “continue to do what you've been doing,” supplemented, perhaps, by Holme's injunction to do it more selfconsciously and explicitly.

There are two questions I would like to address in this article. The first and main question is whether there are rules of recognition, along the lines suggested by H.L.A. Hart. The second question concerns the age-old issue of the autonomy of law. One of the main purposes of this article is to show how these two issues are closely related. The concept of a social convention is the thread holding these two points tightly knit in one coil. Basically, I will argue that a novel account of social conventions can be employed to reestablish Hart's thesis about the rules of recognition, and that this same account shows why, and to what extent, law is partly an autonomous practice.

Nowhere has H.L.A. Hart's influence on philosophical jurisprudence in the English-speaking world been greater than in the way its fundamental project and method are conceived by its practitioners. Disagreements abound, of course. Philosophers debate the extent to which jurisprudence can or should proceed without appeal to moral or other values. They disagree about which participant perspective—that of the judge, lawyer, citizen, or “bad man”—is primary and about what taking up the participant perspective commits the theorist to. However, virtually unchallenged is the view that jurisprudence is fundamentally interpretive or “hermeneutic”; that it takes for its subject a certain kind of social practice, constituted by the behavior and understandings of its participants; that its task is to explain this practice and its relations to other important social practices; and that it can properly be explained only by taking full account of participant understandings. It is, perhaps, some measure of the hegemony of Hart's influence that Ronald Dworkin mounts his fundamental challenge to Hart's positivism squarely from within this jurisprudential orthodoxy. Dworkin may have exceeded the limits of the method as Hart conceived it, but, as Stephen Perry has argued, “the seeds of Dworkin's strong version of inter-pretivism were sown by Hart himself.”

In “Professional Detachment: The Executioner of Paris,” I concluded with the cheap and some would say libelous suggestion that lawyers might accurately be described as serial liars, because they repeatedly try to induce others to believe in the truth of propositions or in the validity of arguments that they believe to be false. Good lawyers have responded with some indignation that, in calling zealous advocacy “lying,” I have misdescribed the practice of law. I wish to explain why I believe that it is the practice of lawyering that engages in misdescription.

I am grateful to Alan Madry and Joel Richeimer for their intelligent and stimulating critique of my article “Heidegger and the Theory of Adjudication.” It is the most interesting commentary I have seen on the paper, and I have learned much from it. It may facilitate discussion, and advance debate, to state with some clarity where exactly we agree and disagree. I leave to the footnotes discussion of certain minor points where Madry and Richeimer (hereafter “M&R”) are guilty of some critical overreaching.

Conversions occur in legal theory about as often as they do in religion, which is to say rarely—so rarely that they fascinate as much for the fact that they happen at all as for the reasons they happen. It should not surprise, then, that the Postscript to H.L.A. Hart's famous work on jurisprudence reveals “the outstanding English philosopher of law of the twentieth century” reaffirming, rather than revising in any significant way, the two central tenets that distinguish his theory from that of both classical natural law theorists and modern “new naturalists” like Ronald Dworkin: (1) There is no necessary connection between law and morality; and (2) judges inevitably confront cases where the decision is “not dictated by the law” and the judge “must act as a conscientious legislator would by deciding according to his own beliefs and values” (p. 273).

The American Legal Realists, as I read them, are tacit legal positivists: they presuppose views about the criteria of legality that have affinities with positivist accounts of law in the sense that they employ primarily pedigree tests of legal validity. Ever since Ronald Dworkin's well-known critique of H.L.A. Hart's positivism a generation ago, however, it has been hotly contested whether there is anything about positivism as a legal theory that requires that tests of legal validity be pedigree tests. So-called Soft or Inclusive versions of positivism are willing to relax the restrictions on the content of a Rule of Recognition to admit non-pedigree criteria of legal validity; Hard or Exclusive versons of positivism deny that such a move is compatible with the central commitments of positivism. Hard Positivism, of which Joseph Raz has been the leading proponent, thus competes with various Soft Positivisms, defended by, among others, Coleman, Lyons, Soper, Waluchow, and now, explicitly, Hart himself in the “Postscript.” If the Realists are positivists, as I claim, then it cannot be the case that Soft Positivism is a genuinely positivistic doctrine. But there is more at stake here than just labels. Realist arguments for the indeterminacy of law—arguments central to the whole Realist enterprise—depend crucially on their tacit Hard Positivism. If, in fact, positivism has a more relaxed view of the criteria of legality than Hard Positivism supposes, then Realist arguments depend on unsound tacit premises about legal validity. What is at stake, then, is not whether Realists should be called (tacit) “Positivists” or merely (tacit) “Hard Positivists,” but whether their underlying view of the criteria of legality is sound. It can only be so if the best arguments favor Hard Positivism.