Is the Majority Always Right? — Democracy and Rationality Part II

Read the first part of the following article here.

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‘Justice’ and Quantity

Representative democracy, compared to ‘pure democracy’, limits the application of the quantitative principle—primarily by applying it only to the selection of the ruling elite. However, even if we were to apply only rules (1), (2), and (4), while ‘forgetting’ rule (3), it remains doubtful that the agreement of 51 per cent, versus the disagreement of 49 per cent, necessarily proves the majority to be right.

To sharpen the point further: even if 99 per cent agreed on an issue, but the truth happened to reside with the remaining 1 per cent, this overwhelming majority would still not provide an indisputable basis for the final decision—unless we equate justice with majority opinion.¹ Yet such an assumption is no more rational than believing that either the majority or the minority is always right.

However, while the quantitative principle does not recognize the criterion of ‘justice’, there is no ground for appealing against the numbers, as the principle is indifferent to the non-egalitarian criterion of quality.² Yet, if we hold to some substantive concept of justice and wish to avoid falling into the ‘trap of relativism’—where anything and its opposite can be equally justified—we cannot claim that truth is simply what the majority wants.³ Why, critics might ask, and on what justifiable basis, would the majority have more right to the truth than the minority? In a hypothetical election, it is entirely conceivable that the 33 per cent of voters who supported the losing party are ‘right’, even though the party supported by 67 per cent will take power. According to the two-thirds rule adopted in most democracies today, the winning party is also granted extensive power—power it can wield in an almost unlimited yet legitimate manner to implement the ‘non-truth’ it represents.⁴

Another consequence of the quantitative principle is that, in many cases, competing parties seek popularity by appealing to certain human tendencies—such as hatred, envy, or credulity—in order to secure more votes. On the one hand, they attempt to discredit their opponents as much as possible; on the other, they make sweeping promises to their own voters.

If we examine the case of general elections under the system of universal suffrage, the following picture emerges: in theory, anyone who meets certain (often extremely minimal) criteria—regardless of any special qualifications—can participate as both an active and passive subject of voting, based on the principle of equality. These elections, however, are typically confined to a relatively narrow sphere: the theoretically equal political power of ‘the people’ is exercised only in the selection of governors, that is, in parliamentary elections.

What should, in theory, be an advantage from society’s point of view—that the governed choose those who govern them, supposedly ‘from among themselves’—can also become a disadvantage. In practice, it is not representatives of civil society who seek positions of power, but rather certain elite groups who put themselves forward as candidates. These groups are, on the one hand, already separated from the majority by the process of ‘natural elite formation’ described earlier, and on the other, they compete with one another for the favour of the voters.

According to critics, the more populist a group is, the greater its statistical likelihood of gaining power—that is, of securing more votes. In other words, those who promise the most to the greatest number of people tend to have an electoral advantage. In such a system, the less honest candidates often have a better chance of winning office than the more honest ones. As a result, a process intended to select the best can easily become counterproductive: the worst are more likely to rise to power, and even the honest may be tempted to adopt dishonest tactics in order to succeed.

‘Those who promise the most to the greatest number of people tend to have an electoral advantage’

At first glance, it appears to be an undeniable advantage of the representative system that a bad elite can be replaced, and that the principle of representation can prevent the emergence of ‘unlimited power’—provided it establishes a realistic counterbalance. It is true, however, that forming an effective counterweight to a poorly functioning elite does not necessarily require representation based on universal suffrage. In other words, the principle of representation is not a prerequisite for the application of the quantitative principle.

If only a small segment of society sends representatives to parliament, and if that parliament possesses sufficient authority, then the limitation of power can already function. Paradoxically, one might say that what strengthens the principle of power limitation in representative democracy is, above all, representation itself—not democracy. After all, the principle of representation alone does not constitute democracy; representative bodies existed even under feudal monarchies.⁵

The ‘Recallability’ of the Elite

The fact that the elite can be checked and replaced through elections and theoretical recallability is actually an advantage only if the elite has already very clearly brought the country ‘to the brink’, launched a losing war, engaged in arbitrary legislation, or caused total economic bankruptcy. Otherwise, replacing it is more of a disadvantage than an advantage. For example, it would not be rational to replace a relatively good or at least not clearly bad elite simply because it has been in power for ‘too long’. Not only does this make planning for the long term pointless, but under such circumstances, it is also unlikely that, during a cycle that is too short, voters will even be able to convince themselves that what they think is wrong at the moment is truly wrong.⁶

It is in the interest of the opposition to come to power under ‘all circumstances’. Stability and continuity do not favour egalitarian systems, as they tend to raise suspicions of excessive concentration of power. There is no doubt that the rotational mechanism of elections is not the only method of limiting power; systems of unelected or only partially elected concentrations of authority can also serve to check absolute power.

In practice, it is difficult to justify the premise that the power of the unelected elite is unlimited simply because it is not elected. Likewise, it is doubtful that if an elite is elected, its power will necessarily be limited. The growth of ‘time preference’—which the libertarian economist Hans-Hermann Hoppe emphasized when analysing the transition from monarchy to democracy—also raises serious concerns about the overly rapid rotation of elites. According to him, an elite elected for a limited term will tend to extract the maximum benefit from its position in the short time available, prioritizing short-term exploitation over long-term planning.

‘An elite elected for a limited term will tend to extract the maximum benefit from its position in the short time available’

‘Instead of maintaining or even enhancing the value of the government estate, as a king would do, a president (the government’s temporary caretaker or trustee) will use up as much of the government resources as quickly as possible, for what he does not consume now, he may never be able to consume. In particular, a president (as distinct from a king) has no interest in not ruining his country. For why would he not want to increase his confiscations if the advantage of a policy of moderation—the resulting higher capital value of the government estate—cannot be reaped privately, while the advantage of the opposite policy of higher taxes-a higher current income—can be so reaped? For a president, unlike for a king, moderation offers only disadvantages.’⁷

According to Hoppe, however, the most shocking consequence is that democracy ultimately does not reduce, but in fact increases, the power of the state and the degree of possible concentration of power—arriving at exactly what it claims to avoid. The principle of equality blurs the distinction between the governors and the governed, a distinction that remains clear in other systems. Yet, the actual differences between the two groups do not disappear. Because of the illusion that ‘anyone can be included’ among the governors, resistance to arbitrariness ultimately diminishes.⁸

Conclusion

In addition to justifying democracy, we find that most arguments in its favour are not strictly rational. Supporters, however, can still offer arguments such as the need to limit power. This can be done through a negative argument in support of democracy—one that does not begin with what can be achieved through democratic voting, but with what can be protected by it.

Due to the indirect nature of such arguments, they are more difficult to refute than quasi-mystical declarations about human nature, the ‘good will’ of the people, or the supposed wisdom and prudence of voters. The typical claim in this context is as follows: ‘Unless we make a concession that allows us to make the power of the state dependent on the agreement of the widest imaginable consensus, there is a danger that arbitrary and completely unchecked power will emerge.’ A completely unchecked power is obviously not the goal of any rational political actor. In line with the views of classical political philosophers such as Cicero and Aristotle, completely uncontrollable and absolutist power (in ancient terms: tyranny) can, in fact, be paralleled with both anarchy and anarchistic democracy.

However, the central question remains: is it truly necessary to rely on the broadest consensus—as expressed through voting, and as implied by the principles of modern mass democracy—in order to limit state power? The argument that begins with ‘everyone is suitable for everything’ still contains an implicit anthropological assumption, namely optimism.

If our goal is to create the most optimal political system possible under given circumstances, then relying on such an uncertain premise—one which may or may not be true—seems rationally unjustifiable. Instead, we might imagine a political system that is not grounded in any kind of faith or mystical hope, but rather one that can establish a hierarchy of values based on already existing, empirically verifiable qualities, qualifications, and abilities.

Regarding the theory of democracy—whether direct or representative—no other criterion can override the quantitative one. In the end, numbers always decide. However, in representative systems (or in the case of par excellence ‘liberal democracy’), this is true only in a more limited sense.

Applying the quantitative principle can, in practice, lead to counterproductive solutions and procedures. It renders direct democracy almost impossible to function effectively, and in representative democracy, it often favours demagogues. As a result, the main beneficiary of such a system is rarely ‘the people’. In existing democracies, those who benefit most are typically the interest groups with the greatest lobbying power, along with professional political elites who are largely separated from ‘the people’.

Paradoxically, democracies in their current form are not ‘strict’ democracies at all. Although they may appear to adhere to democratic principles, they do not consistently apply their own rules. They are, in fact, compelled to incorporate certain safeguards or ‘brakes’ into the system—measures that the strict application of the quantitative principle would not permit.⁹

Existing democratic systems based on the principle of equality are thus forced to allow, to a greater or lesser extent, for the ‘quality-differences’ between individuals—that is, ultimately, for a non-egalitarian principle. This principle manifests, for example, in the role of supreme courts, in the veto power of the president of the republic, and, in some presidential systems, in the authority and ‘charisma’ associated with presidential power.

Paradoxically, it appears that democracy can only sustain and protect itself from collapse—whether through tyranny or chaos—by relying on elements that are not themselves democratic. It often seems easier to justify democracy with a quasi-mystical hypothesis than with one grounded in the actual conditions of political reality. This is largely because democratic theory tends to operate according to the principle of ‘should’ rather than the principle of ‘is’. Nevertheless, many democratic theorists consider themselves realists—for example, Philip Pettit or Michael Ignatieff. Yet in the case of democracy, we can clearly observe a wide gap between the ‘ideal’ and the ‘real’, and it is precisely this gap that demands what might be called a ‘leap of faith’.

‘Paradoxically, it appears that democracy can only sustain and protect itself from collapse…by relying on elements that are not themselves democratic’

One of the fundamental tenets of democracy is the egalitarian concept of knowledge. Supporters of this theory believe that with the spread of mass education—an education in which ‘everyone’ is expected to participate—the general level of knowledge among the population will rise exponentially. However, the conditions of the modern world are increasingly unfavourable to the development of autonomous judgment, and the ideology of democracy itself often engages in a kind of pre-shaping and manipulation of opinion. This theory assumes that the ‘rational agent’ described by Kant—capable of forming sound, uninfluenced judgments—exists in reality. Yet that assumption is highly questionable.

Modern democracy—at least in the absence of a transcendent worldview and eschatology—assumes that ‘enlightened’ individuals would ultimately not require a state. If people truly govern themselves, then the state, in practical terms, ceases to exist; that is, the Hegelian ‘master–slave dialectic’ is essentially rendered nonexistent under the conditions of a realized democracy. However, this view also appears to be utopian. The theory ab ovo presupposes a moral improvement in human nature and a general increase in intelligence. It assumes that human beings have become more intelligent, more rational, braver, and better over the course of history—and therefore capable of self-governance. Yet these assumptions are not supported by any clear or irrefutable experience, empirical evidence, or scientific confirmation.

It seems from the analysis that the ideology of democracy does not realistically assess people’s capabilities and imposes tasks on citizens that exceed their capacities. Thus, in reality, there is no such thing as genuine self-government by the people, but rather governance in the name of the people, which is often called self-government. The ideology of democracy requires a certain faith in its tenets, and therefore it can verifiably be called a political religion.

If political religions are political ideas that go beyond rationality and require faith, then it is also worth discussing the origin of these post-theological ideas. The original theological idea postulated a Prima Causa that did not seek to absolutize or sacralize any immanent content of the world. Since the absolute here is truly transcendent—in the case of the coherent maintenance of the original theological idea—there could be very little absolutization of concepts as ‘other gods’ that are not inherently related to theological transcendence.¹⁰ The rise of political religions is therefore closely linked to the weakening of traditional religions: looking at the course of history, it really seems that most political religions were created as some sort of supplement to the ‘original’ religion. Faith seems to be inseparable from human existence.

Political ideas based on equality essentially express the same philosophical relativism that modern philosophical thinking—skeptical of non-material realities—holds against the existence of absolutes, such as the absolute truth of divine origins, independent of the human mind, or their possibility. Democracy, not as an actual political system, ‘the management of things’, or as a hope for the future, but as a principle, expresses something related to a profound relativism. In the principle of ‘majority rule’, which starts from the belief that ‘the majority is always right’—that truth is a purely quantitative matter—one can detect an almost superstitious respect for the omnipotence of numbers, that is, something that is not independent of what appears in philosophy as a mechanistic-materialistic conception of reality, decisively opposed to belief in a transcendent god.

To accept modern democracy is to make a leap of faith. But recognizing democracy as a political religion does not necessarily end the debate; it reframes it. The critical question is no longer whether democracy is perfectly rational, but whether it is a better faith than its alternatives. If human societies require a foundational, quasi-religious belief to legitimize political power, is the belief in the ‘will of the people’—despite its flaws and irrationalities—preferable to the belief in the divine right of kings, the infallibility of a single leader, or the historical destiny of a particular class? The critique of democracy’s rationality does not automatically provide an answer, but it forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that all political systems may ultimately rest not on pure reason, but on a foundational myth we choose, for better or worse, to believe in.

In the final analysis, the critique of democracy’s rationality extends beyond its flawed mechanisms to a fundamental warning about its ultimate destination. As the arch-liberal critic Erik von Kuehnelt-Leddihn argued, the modern world has mistakenly conflated democracy with liberty, when the two are in fact often opposing forces. Democracy, which answers the question of who should rule with ‘the majority,’ provides no guarantee that the rule will be just, wise, or free. True liberalism, in contrast, is concerned with how one governs—with the limitation of power and the protection of the individual, regardless of who holds that power.¹¹

‘The critical question is no longer whether democracy is perfectly rational, but whether it is a better faith than its alternatives’

This democratic system rests on the rationally indefensible myth of the competent voter. It fatally ignores the vast, unbridgeable chasm between the scita—what the average person actually knows—and the scienda—what one ought to know to govern a complex modern state.¹² By granting equal weight to the informed and the ignorant, democracy creates a political marketplace where the most valuable currency is not truth or reason, but popular appeal. According to him, this inevitably paves the way for the demagogue, the master of emotional manipulation who gains power by promising the impossible and stoking the base sentiments of the herd.¹³ The system thus enacts a political counter-selection, ensuring that the most dishonest and power-hungry, not the wisest or most virtuous, have the greatest chance of success.

The most chilling aspect of this critique is where it leads. For Kuehnelt-Leddihn, the line from democracy to totalitarianism is frighteningly direct. The principle of majority rule is, at its core, a collectivist one. It subjugates the individual, the minority, and transcendent truth to the sacred ‘will of the people’. It is a short, logical step from this political religion to the belief that a single leader can perfectly embody that collective will. In this view, the tyrants of the 20th century were not the enemies of democracy, but its most terrifying fulfilment—the final, logical expression of a mass movement built on the deification of the popular will.¹⁴

Yet, to acknowledge these profound flaws is not necessarily to condemn every democratic system to inevitable failure. Perhaps the most durable argument for democracy is not that it is inherently wise, but that it is, as Winston Churchill famously quipped, simply ‘the worst form of government, except for all the others that have been tried.’¹⁵ This is not an idealistic celebration but a deeply skeptical and pragmatic defence. It readily concedes that democracy is inefficient, often irrational, and susceptible to the very demagoguery and popular folly detailed throughout this essay. The Churchillian defence rests on the system’s unique, rational capacity for peaceful error correction. While other systems may require bloodshed or collapse to remove a disastrous leader, democracy provides a simple, routine mechanism: the vote. This functions to prevent the absolute entrenchment of tyranny and allows a society to change course without destroying itself. In this light, democracy’s value is not that it gets things right, but that it is the best system when it inevitably gets things wrong. It is a defence based not on political theology, but on political realism—a rational choice to embrace an imperfect system precisely because it is the only one that institutionalizes a right to correct its own mistakes without violence.

This pragmatic defence, compelling as it is, also faces one final, potent counterargument. The Churchillian model of error correction is designed for acute political crises, but it may be profoundly unsuited for addressing the slow, creeping poison of systemic decay. The very mechanism of electoral accountability, which serves as a check on overt tyranny, also fosters a crippling short-termism. In a system governed by election cycles, political leaders are rationally incentivized to prioritize immediate, popular gains over long-term, painful necessities. Democracy may successfully remove a leader who loses a war, but it struggles to confront multi-generational challenges like unsustainable national debt, demographic decline, or the erosion of cultural norms, as the solutions are invariably unpopular in the present. In this view, democracy does not correct these slow-moving errors; it actively feeds them. It replaces the tyranny of a single man with the soft tyranny of the present moment, where the desires of the current electorate hold future generations hostage. The system, therefore, may not be the failsafe against disaster, but rather a mechanism that ensures the decline is gradual, comfortable, and ultimately irreversible.

‘It replaces the tyranny of a single man with the soft tyranny of the present moment, where the desires of the current electorate hold future generations hostage’

Ultimately, democracy works best precisely where it is least democratic. Its survival and relative success seem to have less to do with the ‘wisdom of the crowd’ and more to do with the non-democratic institutions that constrain it: the constitutions, independent judiciaries, and liberal traditions that filter the popular will, slow it with checks and balances, and limit it with a robust legal framework. The critical question, then, is not whether democracy is a ‘political religion’, but whether this particular faith—chastened by skepticism and bound by the chains of a liberal constitution—is a safer foundation for society than the more dangerous faiths of its rivals. The system’s success, therefore, may depend not on a blind faith in its tenets, but on a constant, skeptical vigilance against the very irrational tendencies that lie at its core.

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1. As John Stewart Mill wrote in this regard: ‘If all mankind minus one, were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind.’ (John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, ed. Alan Ryan, Penguin Classics, London, 2006, p. 20.) , accessed: 27 August 2025.) ︎

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Related articles:

The Individual and the ‘Mass Man’: Oakeshottian Conservatism in a Rationalized World — Part I

Thomas Molnar’s Radical Critique of the ‘Liberal Hegemony’

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