WHY SHOULD I CARE ABOUT
MORALITY?
By
Let’s
inquire into the nature of morality--and, more particularly, into the authority
that it seems to have in the judgments of most of us. I think a certain story
can help us in raising the question of where it gets that authority.
Imagine
that someone we shall call Gyges, after the character similarly used by Plato
in a basically similar story, is seated at a table. Just before him on the
table is a small console with a single button on it. Let’s say he knows that if
he pushed that button a distant stranger, who would otherwise be fine, would be
killed. Gyges also knows that if he pushed that lethal button, he, Gyges, would
be given £10 that he otherwise would not have. We are going to look into
whether Gyges has any reason based purely on morality not to push the button.
It
is vital that we rule out of our story, if it is to be useful to our
questioning of the authority of morality, any possibility that Gyges be
punished if he pushes the button or that he in some way be rewarded if he
doesn’t push it. For if we give him the fear of punishment or the hope of
reward as reasons not to push the button, we have not then clearly isolated
whether he has a reason not to push the button in its being morally wrong to do
so. We are wanting to know whether morality in itself has an authority here for
him, but his own punishment or reward carries only the authority of the sort of
obvious self-interest that is often distinguished from moral motivation.
Therefore we shall say something like Gyges can be sure that the death he might
choose to cause would have the perfect appearance of an accident having nothing
to do with Gyges. So Gyges would be perfectly safe. Let us add that the
remoteness of the stranger insures that there would be no other possibilities
of personal loss or gain for Gyges in either the stranger’s death or his
continued life.
The
question, then, is this: Gyges has a slight but undeniable reason to push the
button, the self-interested reason that he will by doing so acquire £10 that he
otherwise would not have. But does he have a reason not to push the button?
Let
me now mention that I have often had occasion to pose this question to people
with some interest in philosophy, since I have often used this problem as a
topic for discussion in interviews with applicants to our department. In these
interviews, after I have described the situation in which Gyges finds himself,
I add that, although he perhaps sounds a bit nasty, in that he is sitting there
considering whether to kill someone for £10, Gyges can at least be credited
with being open-minded: and he will always be genuinely interested in any
advice he may be given about whether it makes sense for him to behave one way
or another. And, I continue, my interviewee is now to have an opportunity to
offer to Gyges (for whom I will be speaking) any such advice that seems
appropriate.
In
a small number of cases the interviewee will say at the start that Gyges only
has reason to press the button and collect his £10. In a still small but larger
number of cases the interviewee will arrive at this conclusion after some
attempts to come up with a reason for Gyges to refrain from the killing. But
most people will first make attempts to explain how Gyges has a reason not to
push the button and then, while more or less confidently retaining the belief
that there is such a reason, will feel forced to quit trying to find it. These
people, and some of the others, often seem not just surprised but also somewhat
relieved when I say I can offer my own answer to the challenge. And I shall do
so here after I have first considered the sorts of attempts people make and my
criticisms of them.
These
criticisms take two general forms. Sometimes I argue that an attempted solution
amounts to merely reintroducing the problem in other terms. Perhaps the
simplest example of this is when the interviewee points out that the killing of
the remote stranger is morally wrong. In response to this I bring out that Gyges
knows that pushing the button would be a sort of action that is regarded as
morally wrong. Let’s say he himself regards it as “morally wrong”. But what he
wants to know is whether this description of the action carries with it for him
a reason for not performing the action. If it does, that reason has yet to be
explained. Similarly, if the interviewee has said something about violating
rights or the sanctity of life, I say on behalf of Gyges that he is extremely
interested in these as possible sources of a reason for him not to push the
button, but he still needs to have explained to him not only what such alleged
rights or sanctity are, what they consist in, but how they are supposed to
compete with the straightforward self-interested motivation of £10 by giving
him a reason not to push the button. So these are just ways of raising the main
question again without yet answering it.
Some
other ways of merely reintroducing the question inspire a response from Gyges
that illuminates further the character of the challenge. For example, the
interviewee might simply claim that Gyges should
refrain from pushing the button. This demand leads Gyges to distinguish between
moral and non-moral uses of the word ‘should’. Gyges says he understands very
well how the advice that he should
take up skiing is pointing out that he has some sort of reason to do so. The
idea would be that Gyges himself would benefit from skiing. That gives him his
reason. This use of ‘should’, however, has no moral significance and carries
none of the supposed authority of morality. But the command (rather, it seems,
than advice) contained in saying that Gyges should
refrain from pushing the button bids him to sacrifice a benefit, the £10, in
order that a remote stranger not suffer a loss. Why should Gyges do that? How could he have a reason to do it?
Also
illuminating is his reply to the following attempt to give him a reason not to
push the button: The interviewee asks Gyges to put himself imaginatively into
the shoes of the remote stranger he might kill. “How would you like it if someone pushed such a button on you?” Gyges replies
that he’d hate to have someone do
that to him. But that’s just the
point. In this case it would be
somebody else, not Gyges, who died and it would be Gyges, not somebody else, who
received the £10. Of course, Gyges would have every reason not to want someone
else to push the button on Gyges. But how can that fact possibly give Gyges any
kind of reason not to push the button on somebody else? He can put this in a
somewhat different way. It is obvious why it is bad for the remote stranger if Gyges pushes that button. The
stranger loses his life. But how does this being bad for that stranger somehow
(perhaps magically?) spread itself across to it being bad also for Gyges if he pushes the button? Gyges understands the
force in the non-moral uses of ‘good’ and ‘bad’, but not yet the moral use.
An
interviewee will sometimes say that the enormous value to the stranger that the
rest of his life is likely to have, and perhaps also the value of his
continuing to live for the stranger’s family and friends, can be presented to
Gyges as giving him a reason not to push the button--especially when in pushing
it Gyges would be gaining only the relatively microscopic value of £10. Gyges
replies to this that he completely agrees that the value of the stranger’s life
for the stranger would be likely by far to outweigh the value to Gyges of
getting £10. Yet, Gyges asks, how is such value for the stranger to be counted
as any value at all for him, for Gyges? The value of the £10 isn’t much, but
its value would be value for Gyges. And, if the enormous value of the
stranger’s life cannot be counted as any value at all for Gyges, then how can
that value in itself give Gyges any reason to be acting with regard to it?
Often
an interviewee will make a point in some ways related to the one about putting
oneself in the other’s shoes: Is it not a good thing for Gyges himself that at
least many others in his society are not as dismissive of morality as he is
considering being, even in cases where they could get away with being immoral?
How would Gyges like it if he lived in a society of self-centred schemers?
Gyges replies that he would hate living in such a society. He is very happy if
other people are somehow so respectful of morality that they would not push the
button on him. Moreover, he sees the advantage to himself in making others
think that he too subscribes to morality; they’ll tend to treat him better if
they think that. But how does any of this give him a reason not to push that
button when he can do so with perfect impunity? Since the killing will seem
like an accident, there is not even the extravagant worry that it would somehow
add to a general undermining of the moral values he is happy for others in his
society to hold. What he does regarding the button is simply distinct from any
question of how society will treat him. Perhaps one wants to try the point that
the morally good behaviour of others makes it unfair for Gyges to ignore morality.
One might want to claim that it places him under an obligation. But this just
raises the questions, how does otherwise being unfair or betraying an
obligation give Gyges a reason for not pushing the button and giving up £10?
So
far I’ve criticised attempts to provide such a reason for Gyges on the ground
that instead of meeting the challenge they merely encourage Gyges to ask his
question about the authority of morality in somewhat varying terms. But there
is a second kind of criticism that I often find myself making. It applies
already to one element in the last-discussed attempt, the anyway mistaken
notion that Gyges somehow is in danger of losing the benefit of living in a
society in which others wouldn’t push the button on him. My criticism is that the
interviewee is smuggling into what is supposed to be a reason for not pushing
the button that is based purely on morality a threat of punishment or a
prospect of reward, the sort of obviously self-interested motivation that we
have been trying to eliminate from our story in order to see what authority
morality in itself may possess. Sometimes an interviewee points out that such
killing as Gyges is contemplating seems to be against the will and commandments
of God. (Occasionally God is brought in as standing behind rights, obligations
or the sanctity of life.) My response is that the involvement of God seems to
me to take two possible forms. It may be that God is thought to give Gyges a
reason not to push the button because to do so would bring down punishment from
God and count against receiving God’s rewards for the good. But this is
precisely the sort of self-interested motivation that distracts us from the
question of morality’s own authority. This kind of calculation has no more to
do with the authority of morality than would Gyges being worried that the devil
might punish him for not pressing the
button if he thought that the devil was more powerful or more interested than
God. So we must eliminate this distraction by adding to the story that Gyges
has a special deal with God, who will be turning a blind eye to whether Gyges
presses the button. But the other form that God’s involvement might take is
that one might think that there is a reason for obeying God in that God has a
perfect understanding of morality. But that point just returns us to my
criticism that we have not yet explained how morality itself gives Gyges any
reason not to push the button.
A
very common attempt to give Gyges a reason not to push the button is an appeal
to his conscience. How can he live with himself if he takes a life? My response
to this has the same double character as my response to invoking the will of
God. The pain of conscience might be meant here as nothing more than an
internal punishment that Gyges may inflict on himself. Fear of that is not
moral motivation. It may be that I would love to eat a luscious dessert but I
know that if I do I will suffer from indigestion. That would give me a reason
to refrain from eating the dessert. But if I had a pill that would fend off
indigestion I would no longer have that reason for not eating the dessert. So
we need something like a pill that Gyges could take to forestall the pain of a
bad conscience if we can regard that as nothing more than an internal
punishment that distracts us from considering purely moral motivation. And I
have just the pill we need. There is a hypnotist standing by who can hypnotise
Gyges into forgetting perfectly that he pushed the button. The result could be
Gyges finding £10 in his pocket and not remembering, ever, how it got there. Or
Gyges could have the hypnotist make him believe, after he has pressed the
button and done the killing, that by pressing the button he had saved someone’s
life and then also received the £10 as a reward. So Gyges could end up with £10
and a warm glow of virtue, while, as would then be unknown to him, the remote
stranger is dead. What reason could Gyges have for passing up that? On the
other hand, conscience might have been invoked with a deeper significance. It
might be thought that Gyges somehow has a reason not to do away with a properly
informed conscience because his conscience connects him with morality and
morality in itself must have importance for him. But such an invoking of
conscience in a reason not to push the button depends, of course, on the very
understanding of the authority of morality that has so far eluded us. So this
deeper involvement of conscience falls into the category of merely
reintroducing the challenge.
But
what if Gyges is the sort of person who tends to feel sympathy for others? That
could give him a rather powerful reason for not pushing the button. Now, it may
be, as Hume argues, that when I deal with others purely on the basis of a
feeling of sympathy (also referred to by Hume as “disinterested benevolence”),
I cannot be thought of as acting from what we usually call “self-interest”. If,
for example, I give my life for others out of sympathy for them, is that
naturally described as acting from self-interest? Yet, as Hume himself
stresses, it is merely an accident of my character whether, and to what extent,
I possess such motivation. And that is why Kant, unlike Hume, rejects sympathy
as accounting for the authority of morality. In the case of Gyges, for example,
we want to say that he has a reason not to kill the stranger that is based
purely on morality quite apart from whether he happens to feel sympathy for the
stranger.
Let’s
approach this consideration of sympathy from another angle. Does Gyges have a
reason to indulge any feelings of sympathy he may have when doing so would
stand between him and acquiring £10? Recall that there is a hypnotist standing
by who could hypnotise Gyges into forgetting he has acted against his
sympathetic responses or, better yet, who could hypnotise him into thinking
that he has indeed indulged his sympathetic feelings and also received £10 for
doing so, though the stranger is dead. If sympathetic desires for the good of
others are thought of as really aiming at nothing more than a feeling in the
desirer that the desires have been gratified, then the option of the hypnotist
would always be preferable to not pushing the button even for a strongly
sympathetic Gyges.
But
this conception of the aim of sympathy seems to me crucially incomplete. I have
a strong desire that my brother, who lives on the other side of the Atlantic
Ocean, be doing well in his life. I also would like to know that he is doing
well--and knowing this would make me feel good. But it is a mistake to think
that the real point of my wanting my brother to do well is that a consequent
thinking he’s doing well will give me a nice feeling. Imagine that I am asked
to choose among the following possibilities (and that immediately after my
choosing I will be hypnotised into forgetting that I was asked to make a
choice): I can choose between, on the one hand, my brother doing well while I
am guaranteed always to believe falsely that he is doing badly, and, on the
other hand, my brother doing badly while I am guaranteed always to believe
falsely that he is doing well. Now, my feelings do have some value in these matters. By far the best situation would be my
brother doing well and my believing that and feeling good about it. But from
the less appealing choices I have been given, it makes perfect sense for me to choose
my brother doing well while I suffer thinking he is doing badly. This is
because my sympathetic desires don’t have to be aimed at producing some
gratification in me. They can be aimed directly at a situation outside me--in
this case the situation of my brother. In fact, if the only point of my
desiring good for my brother was that I come to feel the gratification of the
desire (and that I escape a feeling of its frustration), that strikes me as
degenerate.
So,
if Gyges happens to be a sympathetic sort, he could have a reason not to push
the button even if he’d not only lose the £10 but be hypnotised into thinking
falsely, and painfully, that he did
push the button. The reason could be simply the desire that the stranger not
suffer harm. But, once again, that reason is dependent on whether Gyges happens
to be sympathetic--and sympathetic in the non-degenerate way, in the way that
aims directly at the good of the stranger. He might just as well be
disinterestedly malicious in a way that aims directly at the harm of the
stranger. And that could give him a reason beyond the £10 to push the button.
So we have not yet arrived at a reason for not pushing the button that is based
purely on morality. Our consideration of how desires can aim directly at objects
outside of us, however, is, I would maintain, turning us at last in the right
direction.
I’ll
begin my account of Gyges’ reason not
to kill the stranger by using another example. Imagine that I have before me on
a table a cup containing a thick, brown, steaming liquid. I want to drink that
stuff because I think it is hot chocolate. But it is really hot mud. Well, in
that case I don’t really desire to be
drinking that stuff. And neither is it in my self-interest to do so.
This
example brings out the way in which desires depend on beliefs. I only ever
desire a thing because of what I believe it to be. And since beliefs are
correctable, so are desires.
From
this observation I arrive at a sweeping principle: My only real desires are those I would have if I had a perfect grasp of
everything involved. If there is any desire I have only because my grasp of
what’s involved is less than perfect, then that cannot be among my real
desires. And gratifying that desire cannot be in my real self-interest. The
principle going along with this that governs my actions must tell me to act, as far as possible, as I would want myself to be acting with a perfect grasp
of everything involved.
This
perfect grasp that defines my real desires and my best course of action, what
is it like? It would have to be like the all-penetrating knowledge that is
often attributed to God. It would have to embrace not only the full experience,
from behind the eyes (or other sensors), of every sentient being but also every
potential development of experience. It would include within it, then, all the
motivation of all of the various systems of desire, but it would also have the
correction of all that motivation in light of the perfect grasp. The overall
result must be a desire for the reconciliation of all systems of desire. And
that, I would claim, is the concern that defines morality.
What
I am saying, then, is that everyone’s real self-interest merges together as
what would be wanted in the single perfect grasp of everything. What Gyges
really wants, whether he realises this or not, is to do what he would want to
be doing if he were grasping the full value of the life of the stranger as well
as £10. And even from the actual, limited perspective of Gyges, he may easily
calculate the overwhelming likelihood that a perfect grasp would reveal an
immeasurably greater value in the life. That life isn’t Gyges’ life, but in the
perfect grasp of things that must define what Gyges really wants, all lives are
equally included.
Let
me try to deal with a couple of problems people have with this view.
“Surely
we can’t have the perfect grasp that you claim is so desirable.”
I
am not claiming either that a perfect grasp is desirable or that we can have
it. What I am saying is crucially more subtle than that. I am saying that what
is really desirable now, for me with my limited grasp of things, is what I
would recognise to be desirable if I did grasp everything perfectly. But we can
know that the perfect grasp itself would not be discovered within itself to be
desirable, since it would have to include within it all actual and potential
miseries. The perfect grasp would rather discover that many a limited grasp
would be far more desirable than the perfect grasp as a state to be in. But
only the perfect grasp could define the set of real desires that must belong to
any being with any grasp.
“Many
things are desirable only because my perceptions are limited. Crossword puzzles
would be no fun if I already knew the answers, and there are good foods that I
couldn’t enjoy with too vivid an awareness of what they were or where they came
from.”
Yes,
and a perfect grasp would have to include a perfect appreciation, as I’ve
already indicated, of the values of limitations on awareness. Such limitations
are part of what would be recognised as desirable in a perfect grasp.
For
a much fuller discussion of the view I am presenting let me refer you to my
paper, “Morality as What One Really Desires”, which can be found in volume 20
(1995) of the journal Midwest Studies in
Philosophy.
Let
me briefly draw together some of the parts of what I’ve been saying. The nearly
universal approach of philosophers to the question of the nature and authority
of morality is to assume a contrast between, on the one hand, the concerns in
individual systems of desire (including, perhaps, not just self-interested
desires but also disinterested desires like those expressing disinterested
benevolence and disinterested malice) and, on the other hand, the concerns of
morality. Self-interest, they think, may be brought into line with moral
concerns through threats of punishment and prospects of reward; but in
circumstances in which these cannot operate it must seem impossible to give a
reason to be moral, unless, perhaps, a motive of disinterested benevolence happens
to be present.
This
usual view contrasting individual systems of desire and morality represents the
individual systems of desire as containing tough indissoluble cores. What I
have argued is that, since desires must be thoroughly based on beliefs, systems
of desire, down to the centre of their cores, are correctable with those
beliefs. And the corrected, real desires belonging to all those systems simply are the concerns of morality.
Two passages from “Morality As What One Really Desires”
(Midwest Studies in Philosophy,
volume 20)
By Arnold Zuboff, University College London
FIRST PASSAGE
Now let’s ask, should I scratch my
badly itching sunburned back with this backscratcher I am holding in my hand? A
perfect grasp of possible experiences such as those that are relevant to this
decision about scratching must include a comprehension of what those
experiences would be like for the possessor (or possessors) of them. This part
of having a perfect grasp of such possible experiences must be subjectively
just like having the experiences themselves.
The perfect grasp of everything
relevant to this decision about scratching must include at once a perfect grasp
of the way it would be both if I don’t scratch and if I do. It must include the
full frustration that goes with not scratching and also the great but brief
relief from the itch that I’ll have if I do scratch as well as the terrible
pain that would follow that relief while the itch was returning.
Such a perfect grasp would thus have
to comprehend at once, and perfectly, states of consciousness that essentially
exclude one another. Perhaps this means that our hypothetical perfect grasp of
reality is logically impossible. But, possible or not, omniscience is the
inevitable ideal of our knowledge and the perfect grasp of reality is the
inevitable hypothetical basis of an appropriate responsiveness to reality,
which is the whole point of action. The perfect grasp need not be logically
consistent to have this significance.
Let me mention a further feature of
the perfect grasp that may make it impossible. Even as the grasp is perfectly
comprehending the possible future experiences of scratching and of not
scratching, it must comprehend also that these are as yet merely potential
experiences and that only one could become actual. And the perfect grasp must
appreciate fully that what is important in the actual world is that the better
possible experience become actual. In other words, although each potential
experience must be fully grasped with all its compelling character, it must
still be valued with regard to whether it should be made actual through action,
as though the experience has not yet been had, as, indeed, it has not.
In my actual limited state of
consciousness, of course, I shall experience the pain only if I first have had
the relief of scratching, or else I shall experience the frustration of not
scratching but also be spared the pain that would have followed scratching. And
let us just say that in the perfect grasp of all these experiences I would have
found that the relief from the itch was not in fact worth the pain that would
follow it. This hypothetical judgment within a perfect grasp would, then,
define my best real action, or in this case inaction; I should refrain from
scratching.
Notice, by the way, that it would be
ridiculous to regard the possession of the perfect grasp as a particularly
desirable state to be in. In the actual, limited state of consciousness I
happily have the option of avoiding any close acquaintance with either the frustration
of not scratching or else the pain that follows scratching. The perfect grasp,
however, must comprehend fully all the things I might want to avoid, combined,
perhaps impossibly, with a full appreciation of all the escapes from them that
might be had.
So the principle of best action is
badly misunderstood if it is taken to be recommending an actual perfect grasp or an actual feeling of one’s real desires,
which would anyway be unattainable for us and perhaps contradictory. Neither
does the principle, considered in itself, recommend truth, knowledge or an
increased perception, appreciation or grasp of things in any degree whatsoever.
Though an increased grasp of things will often be useful in deciding which
actions are endorsed by the principle, and in carrying them out, and some
increases in grasp would be discovered in a perfect grasp to be inherently
desirable, the purely hypothetical perfect grasp that is mentioned in the
principle is merely employed for its aptness in defining the best course of
action for an actual, limited consciousness.
An ideal grasp of reality only lends
itself to defining ideal actions because having a grasp of the sort here
invoked would constitute being fully and correctly responsive to reality. It is
this responsiveness to reality and nothing else about the perfect grasp that
gives it such relevance to action. Let me therefore paraphrase what I earlier
said about rationality: perception, appreciation and grasp are not worshipped
here.
In fact, though a perfect grasp is
necessary in the hypothetical state that would define best action, knowledge
that is merely propositional will often be far preferable as a basis for the
actual carrying out of such action, as I shall now explain. Returning to my
itch, let’s say that I with my ordinary state of consciousness do know
propositionally that “the relief from the itching would not be worth the pain”,
but I find that I still want to scratch because the insistence of the itch is
exerting a disproportionate force in my actual state of consciousness at this
crucial time of my decision. The possible pain is now not fully grasped; it is
now not fully perceived in all its power; and possessing the propositional
knowledge that “the relief from the itching would not be worth the pain” may
not be all that I need to make myself behave appropriately. A genuine perfect
grasp of a pain, since it would contain within it the pain itself, would have
all the motivational force of that pain. By contrast, the mere entertaining of
a proposition, which only refers to or describes the pain with its words, will
not in itself carry such motivational
force.
Yet there is a way I could try to
bring to bear on my actions at least some of the absent force in the perfect
grasp. I could try to oppose the current insistence of the itch with a vivid
imagining of the pain I would be feeling soon after scratching. I would be
creating an image of a missing content of the perfect grasp of what was
relevant to my choice so that this missing content might yet throw some of its
weight against the actual temptation in my current perspective.
But rather than to attempt such
unpleasant efforts of the imagination, it should be open to me as a rational
agent simply to allow the mere proposition that “the relief from itching would
not be worth the pain” to function in my motivation as though it were itself
the perfect grasp of these experiences. For if such a proposition can claim the
special authority of representing reality as the basis of my actions, it may
enter among my motives like a referee, slight yet capable of settling a fight
among heavyweights. And perhaps, because I am rational, I can behave as though
motivated by a pain that I do not have.
I claim that the same kinds of
consideration apply to a decision about whether I shall hand the backscratcher
to a child suffering from a similar itch. But in this case I should act as
though motivated by a pain I not only do not but will never have because it is
another’s. In a perfect grasp of the arena of my actions that pain would be
assessed in the same way as one of my own. Although any boundaries of persons
would be perfectly grasped, that what I had called “I” lay within only one set
of these boundaries must be unimportant in the perfect grasp. “I” just refers
to one among the conscious beings each of whose full reality would be equally
comprehended there. Who I am in my ordinary consciousness is, as would be
discovered in a perfect grasp, not relevant to my real desires.
SECOND PASSAGE
Socrates in Plato’s dialogue the
“Protagoras” claims that all virtues are really knowledge. As an example he
uses courage, a virtue that may have seemed instead to be emotional. The
coward, says Socrates, makes a mistake in judging the real importance of the
objects of his choices. Consider how one’s own hand, because it is closer, will
fill much more of one’s vision than will a great but distant mountain. The
cowardly soldier mistakenly judges the dangers that are close to him to be
greater in importance than the truly greater danger of the temporarily more
distant lifetime of shame that is the consequence of his cowardice. The
courageous soldier is exercising the art of measuring, says Socrates, much as
the man who is rational in his visual judgments exercises the art of measuring
regarding the sizes of the objects he sees, by correcting for the effects of
perspective.
What I have done is to extend
horizontally Socrates’ art of measuring, so that it reaches into the lives of
others as well as the future. This is the dimension of morality.
Morality amounts to dealing with other conscious beings in a way that corrects for the perspective of an individual’s experience. What I have been describing in this paper is what all of us do when we practise consideration for others from the motive that it is morally right to do so.