By the end of the 19th Century, Gilmore writes, several “rules” of Contract law had been attached to what were once specific cases.  The rules “had been generalized into abstractions that had little or nothing to do with the cases themselves.”  (Ch. 1).

In the case of Stilk v. Myrick, two seamen deserted a ship and the master promised the remaining men the divided wages of the deserters if those remaining would continue on without additional help.  When the master ultimately refused that promised payment and the seamen sued, the judge ruled that the plaintiffs were entitled to no more money than they originally signed on for.

In 1920, Professor Williston, in his treatise on Contracts, used the case name to label a rule on contract modifications, stating that no new contract can be formed based on work already required by a contracting party.  Gilmore complains that Williston’s rule from Stilk v. Myrick makes no sense in light of the facts from the case, as, indeed, the seamen presumably took on much more difficult and different roles down two men.  Gilmore dedicates 7 pages to the question: How did the name from one case came to stand for an abstract and un-fully-related rule?  He explores maritime law and the “vagaries of early nineteenth century English case-reporting.”  My impression from Gilmore’s telling is that something like a conventional wisdom built up around the reasoning in Stilk.  By the time Williston used the case, the facts had dissolved and a common understanding remained – a nugget-sized principle that sparked in heads when hearing the case name arose.  Sort of like Marbury’s sparking the notion of judicial review.

In any event, Gilmore runs the reader through a couple more case-to-rule transformations.  As the cases become rules, the forgotten facts seem to rub akwardly against the rules.  Also, the rules conform with the theory of consideration that Williston believed essential to contract formation.  In his second lecture, Gilmore discusses Justice Holmes’ belief that “the inevitable process of legal development” was from subjective to objective; from particular cases to generaly applicable rules.  The trend amplifies what Gilmore noted in his first lecture as he described cases becoming rules.  It is also clear that, if subjective/specific cases become objective/general rules, someone does the synthesizing – someone objectifies the legal principles.  Gilmore makes that point, though I didn’t notice him making the point outright.  Rather, we see consideration, a general avoidance of damages, and a hesitation to contract formation as what must have been biases among those that cemented Contract rules.

I am inclined to believe that public comments provide the directly democratic input to agency rulemaking.  This is particularly so if those comments provide substance to the agency’s cost-benefit analysis supporting the rule’s adoption or abandonment.

Before going forward with a major rule, most agencies must submit the rule to the President’s Office of Management and Budget.  Does vigorous OMB oversight of agency rulemaking (from Reagan forward) add to the democratic-ness of an agency’s cost-benefit analysis and the review of public comments?  Do courts provide sufficient oversight with judicial review; to wit, in their review that agency decisions stemming from cost-benefit analysis and comment review are not arbitrary and capricious?

Lest we move forward skipping too many assumptions: How much democratic-ness do we want from agencies?  Are they supposed to be expert agencies or agencies of the popular will?

This doesn’t have anything to do with legal history in the surrounding posts.  Rather, it just struck me that Sen. Ensign’s current difficulties with the husband of the woman with whom he had an affair (the husband asked for cash) seem similar to those of Alexander Hamilton’s.

The forward’s writer to my edition wonders whether Grant Gilmore might have parodied the central criticism of the book: creating legal theory with oversimplified and fabricated legal history.  To be sure, Gilmore presents, in Death of Contract, an approximately 100-years’ history of the law.  And, his account of contract theory is tidy  (the chapters are telling: Origins, Development, Decline and Fall, Conclusions and Speculations).

Gilmore’s history of contract law sets up, ultimately, his broader statement that the law reflects its socio-political environment.  That, alone, is not spectacularly insightful.  Gilmore couples the thought, though, with his observation that legal theoretical structure swings between classical and romantic trends–between, that is, tidy categorization (classical) and improvised chaos (romantic).  In the law of “civil obligation,” Gilmore believes contract law was shaped into a classically organized theory beginning shortly after the Civil War, and then, after that order decayed, reached the height of romanticism in the late 1970s.  The book ends with a predicted return to order.  Gilmore, as I read him, did not appear dedicated to either.  But before we tackle the substance of that debate, it is worthwhile to linger on Grant Gilmore’s account of legal history.  And, as history requires characters to manifest a story, Contract is the protagonist in this tale.

A hundred years before Gilmore’s lectures, “classical” contract theory arose.  That it arose irks Gilmore, and he dedicates the tone and asides in the first two lectures to emphasizing his disapproval.  The first lines refer to Professor Langdell’s casebook on Contracts, published in 1871; the first casebook on the subject, and the beginning, according to Gilmore, of an unnecessary and damaging exercise in legal categorization.  Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. and Samuel Williston carried, cleansed, and made absolute the theory of Contract with publications in 1881 and 1920, respectively.  But, by 1950, Professor Corbin was dismantling the artificial edifice of Contracts theory.

Langdell, then, did little more than launch the idea that there was – or should be – such a thing as a general theory of contract.  The theory itself was pieced together by his successors – notably Holmes, in broad philosophical outline, and Williston, in meticulous, although not always accurate, scholarly detail.  At this point it is necessary to give some content to what we may call the Holmes-Williston construct – which I shall attempt to do impressionistically rather than scientifically.  Having accomplished that chore, we can return to the far more interesting business of speculating on why Langdell’s idea, brilliantly reformulated by Holmes, had the fabulous success it did instead of going down the drain into oblivion as a hundred better ideas than Langdell’s do every day of the week.

Gilmore refers to the Langdell/Holmes/Williston line as “classical contract” theory, and I’ll do the same.  What is classical contract theory, and why jurists create it?  In his chapter, the “Origins,” of classical contract theory, Gilmore goes into the details of a few cases that were picked up in early Contracts treatises “because … the devious process by which the ‘cases’ became the ‘rules’ of the general theory of contract can be understood only microscopically.”  Indeed, that transformation of “cases” to “rules” is crucial element to the artificial building up of contract theory.

(I’ll continue this post presently.)

The writing.

In chapter 3, Gilmore describes some vague language in the Uniform Commercial Code:

With such magnificently open-ended drafting we need not fear that the further development of the law will be in any way inhibited.

I’ve always been slow on the uptake to new news, in general, and in jazz in particular.  In college, I subscribed to Jazziz because a coffee shop had some promotion going for the Jazziz blend and a reduced-price subscription.  So, in the scheme of things, I suppose I’m not too late to the party and am happy to send along the following link to the non-weekend-edition listeners out there.  NPR has a good jazz blog.

For folks like me that went into law school following four years in the liberal arts, a tough transition was that from a semester of a couple dozen light paperbacks to only five, heavy, hardback casebooks.  The latter add gravity (in every meaning) to your bookcase, but the former are far more pleasurable to carry into the coffee shop.  Moreover, in college it is your job to read your professor’s several favorite gems – something our lacking diciplines allow too little time for outside the academy.

Fortunately, law school provides as much history, philosophy, and so on that you want to take from it.  Not knowing that, though, I remember my relief in the August before my first semester.  Having picked up the requisite volumes for Torts, Civil Procedure, Criminal Law, and Property, I saw next to the casebook for Contracts that the professor added one familiar gift to liberal arts set: a little paperback.  My hopes were fulfilled upon thumbing through the little book and seeing that it was a book of legal theory.  Not cases, not outlines, and not tips for passing a test; but theory.  And it had a bold title: The Death of Contract.  How, I wondered, was my Contracts professor going to apply this?

He didn’t.  We never read it, and it gathered dust on my bookshelf for the past six years.  My copy has an unappetizing grey/blue cover and I assumed it was simply a book about contract law, which I was happy to avoid.

I picked it up the other day while shifting some books around to make room on the shelf.  Since I was supposed to be cleaning, I naturally began idly reading the forward to the book.  Hmm, so this is a response to Oliver Wendell Holmes’s The Common Law.  This is about how law develops.  This is about law and language’s intertwined relationship.  And it’s so short.

So I brought Grant Gilmore’s The Death of Contract along for plane reading en route to a recent wedding, and have read about half now.  In a nutshell, he uses the rise of the common law of contracts to talk more generally about common law, or, judge-made law.  Really, it is not so right to say “the rise of the common law of contracts,” and this gets to Gilmore’s point.  There has long been plenty of useful law to talk about when arguing over contracts.  Gilmore’s gripe, if I am accurately getting to it, is with the manner in which the history of contract cases was solidified into a common law worthy of solidification into a treatise.

I will come to his attack on Holmes in a later post.  This one is just an introduction – if you have the book handy, have a quick read and join the book club.

I’ve heard Ted Olsen speak a few times.  One can’t really claim to know a person after hearing them publicly speak; but, one can at least draw a few conclusions toward the speaker’s intellect.  So, it was not surprising to me to learn that Olsen is on the right side of history.

In mid-May, the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Government Affairs held a confirmation hearing for Cass Sunstein, the pick to head up the Office of Information and Regulatory Affairs.  OIRA is the sub-office within the Office of Management and Budget that reviews proposed rules and the accompanying analyses that explain the need for those rules.  We noted below the news on Sunstein’s supposed appointment, and on April 20 Obama made it official.

Most legal-punditry I read on the appointment noted Sunstein’s allegiance to cost benefit analysis.  Used in a policy context, a cost benefit analysis quantifies to the extent possible all the costs and benefits that result from a regulation.  How will Americans benefit, and what will Americans have to pay, if, say, the DOT requires all roads to have those reflective things between lanes?

One immediately sees a problem – while the term “benefit” allows some descriptive breadth, “cost” is a restrictive term that anchors us to a numeric dollar amount.  And because you can’t compare apples to oranges nor warm fuzzies to greenbacks, both sides of the cost and benefit equation are restricted to $$.  Also, does it matter who gets the benefits and who has to pay?  Do we count benefits that apply to animals, to an ecosystem, or to what we perceive as a benefit to Earth?

Most cost benefit analyses reach a quantified value for things like aesthetic beauty, avoidance of risks, and life with sociological experiments that ask subjects to declare how much they would pay to protect something or avoid something.  A study of salaries and risks in the workplace, for instance, gives us EPA’s value of a human life: $6.1 million.

So, how will Cass Sunstein treat cost benefit when he walks into OIRA?  We have the opportunity to see Cass Sunstein defending cost benefit analyses against the above concerns in his New Republic book review that we noted below.  Sunstein reviews Priceless: On Knowing the Price of Everything and the Value of Nothing,Frank Ackerman’s and Lisa Heinzerling’s attack on the use of cost benefit.  Sunstein acknowledges their concerns…

The authors raise several good questions about cost-benefit analysis. Certainly regulators should care not only about reduced fatalities, but also about the health gains produced by regulation. They should take account of all the potential benefits, such as protection of ecosystems and animals, including members of endangered species. It is quite crude to say that every life is “worth” $6.1 million; some kinds of risk, and some kinds of death, produce heightened concern.

…but he does not buy their proposal to abandon cost benefit.  By and large, Sunstein’s reaction to the book is much as Sunstein’s typical thinking, as far as I can tell in what I have read: measured.  Yes, quantification can handicap cost benefit analyses, but it is still worthwhile to take costs and benefits into account.

One can see in the book review that Sunstein is keenly aware of slippery slopes and logical conclusions.  Cost benefit analyses, for him, block those slopes.  If, for instance, DOT went ahead with the rule to place reflectors between every lane, how many do we use?  At what point (4 feet apart, 1 foot apart, 6 inches apart) do more reflectors become ineffective and simply a waste of money?  We need some sense of the costs as compared to the benefits to prevent overprecaution.  That, I think, is basically Sunstein’s point in the review.

Though the review came out in Spring 2004, we get a glimpse of what Sunstein might require of agencies from his desk at OIRA.  About mid-way through the review, he imagines how we might take Ackerman’s and Heinzerling’s valid concerns:

We could read Ackerman and Heinzerling to be calling for an improved and chastened form of cost benefit analysis–for an assessment that includes all benefits, not just a subset; appropriately values the future; is sensitive to issues of distribution; and is based on more accurate “translations” of social risks into dollar equivalents.

Pivoting a bit to regulatory theory, I was struck by Sunstein’s presentation of cost benefit analysis as an antonym to the precautionary principle.  Sunstein presents the development of regulatory policy as an option between two opposed approaches: the cost benefit analysis and the precautionary principle.  We’ve covered the former, and Sunstein helpfully analogizes the latter with the “better safe than sorry” approach.  In his first paragraph, he writes that the “standard account” sets cost benefit and precautionary as separate approaches- padding the notion of competing schools of thought to allow some complexity.

It isn’t clear to me, though, that these are mutually exclusive approaches to policy-making.  Government rules are begot in Congress, frequently with a precautionary mood: we can’t let governments take people’s property, so let’s halt eminent domain, for instance.  Then, agencies fine tune the law into a regulation, using cost benefit.  Given, that trajectory of precautionary in Congress to cost benefit is agency work is far too simplistic – but I wonder if the approaches are simply different phases of a single policy-making timeline.

David Brooks writes on the science of genius in his recent NY Times column.  Brooks notes that the modern research (into what exact question, I’m not sure, but edging on the creation of genius) shows that practice, rather than the “divine spark,” makes perfect.

The key factor separating geniuses from the merely accomplished is not a divine spark. It’s not I.Q., a generally bad predictor of success, even in realms like chess. Instead, it’s deliberate practice. Top performers spend more hours (many more hours) rigorously practicing their craft.

While genes probably do spurt or clog our ear for music, actual excellence results from a more egalitarian source: one’s fine-tuned automatization of the brain.

By practicing in this way, performers delay the automatizing process. The mind wants to turn deliberate, newly learned skills into unconscious, automatically performed skills. But the mind is sloppy and will settle for good enough. By practicing slowly, by breaking skills down into tiny parts and repeating, the strenuous student forces the brain to internalize a better pattern of performance.

David Brooks draws a democratic conclusion: we do not live in a world in which a select few are “hard wired” for greatness; rather, the brain is “phenomenally plastic” and a pattern of behavior, not fate, spurs what folks call genius.

One could interestingly pair Brooks’ column with Alain de Botton’s Status Anxiety.  In his book, de Botton argues that because we live in a society wherein anyone can ostensibly achieve superior status, we tend to feel unhappy and anxious about the rung on which we stand in the social ladder.  In the book, there is more about that ladder, democratic society, sources of status, and so on.  Brooks’ observation of genius, though, seems surely to add to de Botton’s brand of anxiety.  Now: That I am not a Mozart is my fault, for not hitting the practice rooms enough.

But anxious practice was not what came to mind immediately after reading Brooks’ column.  Wynton Marsalis did.  From some in the jazz world, the trumpeter has caught flack for being too perfect–all technique and no soul.  I don’t fully agree with the criticism; he has been wrongly dismissive of today’s jazz, but I think he injects something apart from scales into his traditionalist repertoire.

In any event, the notion of genius as practice raises some old questions in the arts.  What about improvisation, gut instinct, and aesthetics?  This is an old conundrum–you have to practice to perfect your craft in order to deconstruct and expand it.  A young sax player will learn that Coltrane could play every scale backwards, and a young artist will learn that Pollock painted forms before splashes.  But what is genius in art?  The practice seems to be a require dues payment to genius, but not the thing itself.

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