Jusepe de Ribera lo Spagnoletto, Saint James the Greater, 1631
Who are the just? What does it mean to be just? Certainly, it is not a quality of a subject, an attribute of this or that man, this or that woman. Justice—Benjamin wrote—is a state of the world, a dimension of being, not of will or intention. Things are just, Spinoza said, when you see them not in a certain time or place, but when you see them in God. That is why justice is something you can never possess, but only contemplate. And yet, when you see things as they are in God, the flower of that flower, the smile of that smile, the innocence of that innocent being, then you feel a demand from which you cannot escape, a demand that neither asks nor commands anything, but acts within you beyond all will or intention—it simply is, and there is nothing more to be done. I will never forget the words of a young woman who was part of a resistance organisation in a country occupied by the Nazis. She had been arrested and tortured, and she had not spoken. When she was released, her comrades wanted to celebrate her like a heroine, telling her that if she had managed to endure the torture it was because of the strength of her political convictions, her loyalty to the cause, and similar nonsense. But she shook her head and said only: no, I did it because I liked it, on a whim. She had seen justice, she had felt a demand that overwhelmed her on all sides, but she had not thought for a single instant about being just, about justice possibly belonging to her. If she had only believed in the just cause, but had not seen justice, she would have succumbed to the torture, she would have spoken.
That is why, according to Hebrew tradition, the righteous, the tzadikim, are hidden in the world, hidden above all from themselves. And that is why there is something paradoxical about wanting to reward the righteous, as if it were the other side of that justice which consists of punishing the guilty. Just as punishment can never originate from justice, but only from law, neither do reward and recognition belong to justice. The righteous person recognised and rewarded, the tzadik no longer hidden, is no longer righteous.
The mystery of law, that is, the mystery of guilt and punishment, should not be confused with the mystery of justice. Therefore, it is perhaps good that the guilty be punished, but it is not equally certain that the righteous should be rewarded. They go through the world unrecognized until the end of time, and only in this way, says the legend, do they save the world.
Giorgio Agamben: Where are the just?
Who are the just? What does it mean to be just? Certainly, it is not a quality of a subject, an attribute of this or that man, this or that woman. Justice—Benjamin wrote—is a state of the world, a dimension of being, not of will or intention. Things are just, Spinoza said, when you see them not in a certain time or place, but when you see them in God. That is why justice is something you can never possess, but only contemplate. And yet, when you see things as they are in God, the flower of that flower, the smile of that smile, the innocence of that innocent being, then you feel a demand from which you cannot escape, a demand that neither asks nor commands anything, but acts within you beyond all will or intention—it simply is, and there is nothing more to be done. I will never forget the words of a young woman who was part of a resistance organisation in a country occupied by the Nazis. She had been arrested and tortured, and she had not spoken. When she was released, her comrades wanted to celebrate her like a heroine, telling her that if she had managed to endure the torture it was because of the strength of her political convictions, her loyalty to the cause, and similar nonsense. But she shook her head and said only: no, I did it because I liked it, on a whim. She had seen justice, she had felt a demand that overwhelmed her on all sides, but she had not thought for a single instant about being just, about justice possibly belonging to her. If she had only believed in the just cause, but had not seen justice, she would have succumbed to the torture, she would have spoken.
That is why, according to Hebrew tradition, the righteous, the tzadikim, are hidden in the world, hidden above all from themselves. And that is why there is something paradoxical about wanting to reward the righteous, as if it were the other side of that justice which consists of punishing the guilty. Just as punishment can never originate from justice, but only from law, neither do reward and recognition belong to justice. The righteous person recognised and rewarded, the tzadik no longer hidden, is no longer righteous.
The mystery of law, that is, the mystery of guilt and punishment, should not be confused with the mystery of justice. Therefore, it is perhaps good that the guilty be punished, but it is not equally certain that the righteous should be rewarded. They go through the world unrecognized until the end of time, and only in this way, says the legend, do they save the world.
Quodlibet, July 3, 2026