A preface to tortoise philosophy

For a time when I was young, I brooded on an issue within political philosophy discussed noisily at the time by radical philosopher Robert Paul Wolff. As I recall, it was the conflict he found in, on the one hand, recognizing an individual’s political obligation—perhaps it was an obligation to accede to the state’s demands (paying taxes, adherence to law, etc.)—and, on the other hand, the individual’s moral autonomy, which he conceived as, among other things, a disinclination, arising from competent moral agency, to hand authority (to act on one’s behalf ) over to others (e.g., the state).

I’ll have to get up to speed on that, but it was something like that.

I was intrigued by the issue, but I was never convinced that Wolff had fully made his case (he seemed to leap from the reality of this conflict to the necessity of embracing anarchism!). Years later, when I worked with the late Professor Greg Kavka (he was one among my advisors), he briefly mentioned to me his take on Wolff’s point: it was a simple reductio ad absurdum. I think it all happened within two or three steps as we walked. Typical Greg.

I think I understood Greg’s point—as I say, he only mentioned it to me—something to the effect that, if Wolff’s understanding of the moral implications of autonomy were correct, even promises would be verboten. Absurd.

Well, yes, I supposed. I suspected that something was wrong with Wolff’s account. Maybe Greg nailed it. But I was equally convinced that there was something there in Wolff's worries and that Greg’s reductio utterly missed it. I’m sure I didn’t try hard enough to articulate the “something”—to Greg or to anyone else.

I’m sure I couldn’t have, anyway. It was nearly thirty years ago, and I was what I was.

* * *

I’ve always been attracted to a loose doctrine or set of doctrines that one might call “communitarianism.” I am referring (I suppose) to those philosophies that give to “community” and membership in a community an important, perhaps central, place in thinking about individuals and society. Maybe it would help to note that, in communitarianism as I conceive it, individuals have a “sense of community” and routinely view the actions (etc.) of the community as their own. This way of thinking has always made sense to me (and, by that, I do not mean that it isn’t ultimately cracked through and through) and, it seems, led me to sense, albeit nebulously, big, fat issues at the heart of politics as it concerns the individual. Something—or some range of problems—concerning the communitarian individual and the state has stuck in my craw at least since I was a third-year student at U.C.I. (c. 1976-7). At this moment, I feel some pride in this fact, for, at that time, I had not been exposed to any systematic treatment of political philosophy or of “a” political philosophy. I was pretty much just thinking my own thoughts in my own way. That I took such thoughts seriously and kept brooding amazes me now. (I won’t even mention here even greater obstacles to my progress as a thinker originating in my peculiar membership in a strange and blinkered northern wolf clan.)

Naturally, this communitarian tendency in my thinking, which, as I say, extends back at least to my undergraduate years—and seems to have predated my college-era philosophical influences—is generally foreign or worse to liberal theory, especially liberal theory that tends to the right (libertarians). It is unfortunate, I suppose, that I generally learned of political philosophy in the Analytic Philosophy milieu, and, within that, a generally liberal/libertarian environment (of the kind exemplified by Wolff, more or less), one that never seemed to take community seriously. It was only later, in grad school, with the rise of Scottish philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre and his political ideas, that I came across some communitarian thinking, though I believe that my professors were ultimately bewildered by that man. Not sure. (I was bewildered, too, but mostly because he was just difficult, like quantum physics, not because he was deeply foreign, like Scottish haggis; I heard the man speak once at a local college. I stared at him. It didn’t help.)

I can tell you now with some amusement that I have a mind like a popcorn machine. Or perhaps I have such a mind if you imagine a world of youthful popcorn machines that grow old and that eventually settle down to some staunch cooking (of corn, I suppose). So I’m this older corn-cooking gizmo looking back at some seriously youthful poppery. It is very nearly a useless mind that pops as mine did (and still does, mostly). I would have some flimsy (or sadly profound) grasp of something good and important, but it was utterly undone in the world as it is by all that crazy popping that went on around it in my head. Imagine a painter who is determined to paint something fine and great and who would do so were it not for his endless finger-brush spasms, peppering the canvass with riotous color and texture that really and truly amount to nothing but lurid disorder and wanton chemical wastage.

Imagine a nurseryman trying to sell his odd trees that, he says, are wonderful and beautiful, really they are, but that undergo a very lengthy development entailing ugly branches and leaves and even an offensive odor. But one must have faith, he says, that such trees will come through in the end, exploding into bushy and majestic and fragrant glory, but only after growing stolidly and hideously in the corner of one’s garden for twenty or thirty years, stinking up the place and scaring children.

I am such a tree, I think. Not that I have anything beautiful to offer. Perhaps I should adjust my metaphors a bit. (In truth, the old machine still pops, hideously, like those super-heated kernels in the daring extra seconds of the popcorn bag in the microwave.) It isn’t beauty or glory or genius that I offer. What I offer is, rather, simply that which I have to offer, and have had to offer all of these years, such as it is, but a thing only newly available, after a lifetime of inarticulate blatherings and unpleasant passionate scribblings and lunatic monologues.

I am quite serious about this. I am happy not because I have anything special or deep to say, but because, after all this time, I can foresee settling my mind long enough to finally say “it,” the “something”—that thing I have, in some sense, always needed to say. It may be rubbish, this “something,” though I doubt it. It is what it is. It is important to me. I give no thought whatsoever to whether it is important to you, dear reader. (Read on, you fool, if you must.)

This, of course, is only a preface (you may now burst out with laughter). I have no intention of revealing the “something” to you, for I cannot, since I only sense it, and I only sense that it is time to begin to work it out. I’ll say this: the feeling of the reality of this problem for the individual—in such times as ours—is, for me, strong still. It is the same feeling, and, times being what they are, it is a feeling worth working out and affixing to the expansive white wall, thus revealing all of its parts and the fine whole it creates across one’s living room and down one’s hallway and in one’s mind and throughout one’s life.

Now, more than ever, my society (my community, my state, my colleagues, my people) seems a monstrous thing, an idiot, a maker of disasters and pain (but not only that). Individuals generally, though not universally, seem utterly oblivious to this monstrous quality as I see it. And, no, I don’t claim to have special insight here. It is, rather, the odd acuity of a tortoise who persists in noting a puzzle in the sky or trees or grass, day after day, throughout his lengthy and unassuming tortoise life. And because only he has devoted such time and energy to this subtle mystery, it eventually dawns on him what sort of thing it is. It’s inevitable. His is the victory, not of genius, but of obsession, or perhaps, to be more charitable, of some mild intellectual virtue wedded to an absurd willingness to keep staring at those trees, those clouds, that grass, each day, decade after decade, generation after generation, absent any guarantee there is anything there at all, but only wind and mundanity and a tortoise life ill spent.

The tortoise will now lay out his idea. Slowly. In his own time, in his own way. We must find a way (says the tortoise) to think about what it is to live in this society, such as it is, populated now, more than ever, with lunatics and liars and thoughtless bleating lambs. Where are we? What ought we to do? What could anything we do mean?

I realize now that I have misdescribed my project, for it is only a subtle help that I hope to offer, no great answer. In fact, I feel now that it is not that I have come to some answer to an old problem; it is more that I see that I have refused to think about that problem, to really think about, despite its being so obvious a problem. And I’m getting older. And I am among young people, and that helps me to see my younger self and to like the silly, clueless but earnest guy. And I have these fleeting recognitions of the calmer, mirthful thinker inside; he’s the wise, old uncle who cannot help but love those wacky kids with all their folly and energy; and who, perhaps, can now at long last manipulate himself into some brief articulateness and clarity of thought.

Dr. Laura and the use/mention distinction

     [This originally appeared in Dissent the Blog, August, 2010. For some reason, I neglected to include it here, where it surely belongs. And so, belatedly...]

kraut [krout] noun informal sauerkraut. • (also Kraut) informal, offensive a German.*

     I suppose you’ve heard about Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s so-called “rant” in which she repeatedly “used” the “n-word.”
      No she didn’t. She only mentioned it.
      If I tell you that using the term “kraut” to refer to a German is offensive, I have not “used” the term “kraut.” Rather, I have done something else with it. In my field, we say that I have mentioned it.
      See the point?
      Let me cut to the chase. There’s a big difference between Jim’s remark and John’s remark:

Jim: “Get away from me, you Kraut!”

John: “Using the term ‘Kraut’ to refer to Germans is usually offensive.”

     What Jim said is offensive. What John said is anything but offensive.
     Philosophers (and, evidently, linguists) are taught this distinction because it is very important to maintain if one is to avoid confusion. It ain’t rocket science: it is one thing to use a word—that is, to use it in an ordinary sense of using. It is quite another to approach a word as a word (or a phrase as a phrase or a sentence as a sentence, etc.) and to discuss it as such. If I say that “nigger” (depending on the context) can be a highly offensive term, I am commenting on the term. I am saying that its use can be very offensive. I am in no sense expressing any attitude or judgment about African-Americans! (See also Can a White Person Ever Legitimately Use the N-Word?—a Penn State linguist making essentially the same point.)
      In fact, in saying that “nigger” is an offensive term, I am making an important (albeit an obvious) point.**
      I Googled the “use/mention distinction” and found many entries. Wikipedia seems to offer a decent account of the distinction (I skimmed it).
      Linguist Bill Poser has a good discussion of exactly this point—namely, political correctness running afoul of the important use/mention distinction—in this post. He discusses a case in which a professor was found guilty of racial harassment (by his university, Brandeis) for saying in class such things as:

“Mexican migrants in the United States are sometimes referred to pejoratively as 'wetbacks'.”

     According to Poser,

His offense is described as having used the word 'wetback'. This is false. He did not use the word 'wetback'; he mentioned it. That is, he did not choose the word 'wetback' for his own communicative purposes. Rather, he referred to its use by others. This is not a mere distinction of terminology: there is a vast difference between the two. When someone uses a word, he or she is responsible for what it conveys, but when one mentions a word, one assumes no such responsibility.

     Let’s get back to Dr. Laura. What was offensive—or, as I’d prefer to put it, what was ridiculous—was Schlessinger’s position and arguments. Schlessinger seemed to be arguing that, since some blacks freely use the term “nigger” [or "nigga"] in referring to themselves and others (arguably at times without offensive intent), it follows that anyone may use that term. But, obviously, context (including evident intent) is important. That’s so basic, I’m embarrassed to have to say it.
      Schlessinger’s point was that the caller, a black woman, who was offended by things her husband’s white friends did around her (asking her how black people like this or do that) was over-sensitive.
      If Schlessinger can’t see why those crackers and their questions would make a perfectly reasonable (i.e., non-oversensitive) person uncomfortable or worse, then she is an idiot. (OK, I'm having a little fun with you. They might not be crackers. Could be cookies.)
      Well, no. Not literally an idiot. You know what I mean.
      But do pull your head out of your ass, lady.


      *(From my Mac's dictionary.)
      **(Naturally, some terms are so toxic that one must take care even to mention them. For instance, it would be foolish to loudly discuss this matter at a cafeteria, freely mentioning the word “nigger” or, say, “fag.” Indeed, some terms are so toxic [to some ears] that even mentioning them produces cringing. Decent people generally seek to avoid causing cringing, though obviously there are exceptions. Healthy and reasonable people can usually make the necessary adjustments and their cringe response soon ceases. We sometimes discuss people as though they were all experiencing PTSD. And that’s just ridiculous. Let's encourage people to be strong and healthy, not neurotic. But let's be decent and sensitive, too.)

“Dick” is a four-letter word (On Vulgarity)

Vulgarity appreciated by the non-vulgar

MSNBC Suspends Halperin Over Obama Slur (New York Times)

vulgar |ˈvəlgər|adjective• dated characteristic of or belonging to the masses.

     OK, so now we hear that reporter Mark Halperin got suspended from his MSNBC job because, during an appearance on a generally jokey and informal morning political talk show, he said that the President, during a recent news conference, acted like “kind of a d*ck.”

     Now, I doubt that the President, a well-tempered gent, acted badly during that press conference. But let’s not get into that. For the sake of argument, let’s say that the President did act badly. Please understand that I want to talk about Halperin—or, rather, about Halperin’s statement—not about the President.

     How did he act badly? Well, let’s say (for argument’s sake) that he was a bit of a jerk. That is, he was “contemptibly obnoxious,” for that is what “jerk” means, according to my Mac dictionary.

     What if Halperin had opined instead that the President acted like “kind of a jerk” at the press conference? I think you’ll agree that, in that case, few would have objected. He might be criticized for (supposedly) opining about the President’s character—that's not his job, they'll say—but not by many and not for long.

     I submit that, in some sense, “jerk” and “d*ck” are synonyms. When I’m talking among friends, I sometimes convey the jerkitude of a person—in an anecdote or whatever—by saying that he’s a “d*ck.” In my mind, I would convey almost exactly the same assessment (or accusation) were I to use the word “jerk” instead.

     “D*ck,” when it isn’t someone’s name or a reference to a detective, is a four-letter word, and “jerk” is not. (You know what I mean.) “D*ck” is, or can be, a profanity.

     But what does that mean?

     Uh-oh, this is liable to be complicated.

* * *

     Obviously, this use of the word “d*ck” is vulgar. Let’s focus on that.

     To say that a word (or person, etc.) is vulgar is to say that it is “lacking sophistication or good taste”; it is “unrefined” (my Mac dictionary).

     Yes, yes. But I have known lots of people, and I’ve known the sophisticated and the unsophisticated. Roughly speaking, in my experience, sophisticates do not observe dictionaries’ “vulgarity” rules. Many of these people—well educated, mild-mannered, usually thoughtful—are happy to spout so-called vulgarities, though, in their mouths, such words do not drag them, or the moment, or the company to some mean or lowly state.

     Sophisticates love “The Sopranos.” That show was loaded with profanities and vulgarities. Bumpkins love stuff like “Walker: Texas Ranger.” Dang.

     My view is that many of us, an apparent minority, recognize the power of much “vulgar” language. And so we are attracted to these words. No one who loves words (as so many writers do) hates “vulgarities” and that is because vulgarities often say so much and sometimes say things better than their refined correlates. They tend to be loaded with lots of nifty “extras.”

     Naturally, some vulgarities say things, or are tied to attitudes, that are intrinsically ugly and wrong. Perhaps some vulgarities are beyond the pale. (Think of the “c” word used against women.) It is possible that there is no way to detoxify some vulgar words or phrases. If we “use” such language, we do so while manifestly adopting a persona. Decent people don’t just use them, unless they're at the end of a twenty-foot pole.

     But it’s one thing to call your girlfriend a “c***.” It’s quite another to describe some jerk as a “d*ck.” I’m here to defend d*ck, not c***.

* * *

     Most of us are multilingual in the sense that we speak differently to different audiences. For instance, the way that one speaks with one’s parents and the way that one speaks with one’s close friends are often very different.

     Such multilingualism is appropriate. I can tell my best friend that Mr. X is “kind of a d*ck,” but generally I can’t use that word to, say, dress down an obnoxious student in class. I can inform my brother that, owing to recent events, “I’m f*cked,” but I can’t make that point in the same way talking to my dean. It just wouldn't do.

     Notice that, despite my making these adjustments, I can manage to be myself and to be open with people. For instance, I might tell my dean that my new circumstances are decidedly unfortunate—communicating the same thing I told my bro, though without the assumption of closeness and deep mutual understanding that prevails when I’m with my bro. I might prefer to convey my point as I do with my brother—for that way conveys more and manages a more severe punctuation—but there’s liable to be trouble if I do that, since my relationship to my dean is (mostly) professional.

* * *

The vulgar prefer vulgarity eschewery

     So what are we to make of Mr. Halperin’s remark?

     Remember, we’re assuming (for the sake of discussion) that the President really did act like “kind of a d*ck.” And suppose that Halperin observed this and was asked by friends what he made of the President’s press conference performance.

     Well, says Halperin, he was “kind of a d*ck.”

     Well, OK. 

     It makes a difference that Halperin was (it seems) among friends. The particular program in which Halperin made his remark tends to bring friends and colleagues together for informal chats about politics. Its charm (I’ve seen it a few times) depends to some extent on chumminess and informality. It generally eschews dead seriousness. 

     So (asks Mr. Host): Halperin, friend-to-friend, what did you really make of the President’s performance yesterday?

     Well, to be honest, he was kind of a d*ck.

     Sure, whatever.

     But there’s more. The hosts of this program seemed to be egging Halperin on. “Go ahead! Tell us what you really think! We can bleep it out!” And so he said it.

     But, for some reason, they didn’t bleep it out. (Somebody should talk to the man with the button. He's a screwup.)

     Given the nature of this program and the nature of this particular conversation (between friends), Halperin’s remark strikes me as utterly unobjectionable.

     —Except that it was broadcast on TV. So, in a sense, the conversation included all those ears out there in the dark, hundreds of thousands of ‘em. Given that circumstance, it really won’t do for this journalist to call the President a “d*ck.” The journalistic community does best when it presents its members to the world as though whether or not the President acted like a jerk just isn’t important. It does best when it presents its members sans vulgarity.

     And here’s journalist Halperin saying that the Prez acted like a d*ck. Oh my.

     Journalistic professionalism is not fostered by presenting absurd fictions—e.g., that journalists do not notice jerkitude when it occurs or that they do not use vulgarities. It is, however, fostered by journalists’ suspension of these things when they present themselves before the world. Halperin, insofar as he was “before the world,” messed up.

     That judgment is understandable, even inevitable. It’s a little dishonest. It reeks of marketing and piety and similarly unseemly pursuits. And yet we understand it. Anybody with half a brain can see that journalists can “be professional” despite noting jerkitude and even calling the President a d*ck. But we don’t want to get into all that. It’s too complicated. Better to insist on certain standards to avoid all this complexity and distinction-making. Keep it simple. Act like this. Wear this mask. (The teaching profession is similar in this regard.)

     So Halperin messed up. Is that a big deal? I don’t see how. Still, everybody now needs to go through the motions of upholding the “standards of objective journalism.” Yes, yes. Halperin will be immediately suspended. MSNBC will issue an apology. Yadda yadda.

     But let’s hope that this Halperin guy is back in the harness after a few days.

     C’mon. 

For the sake of our gravest desiderata

     I occasionally write for the Mission Viejo Patch. One of my colleagues on the Patch (the admirable Mr. Shripathi Kamath) recently posted a brief discussion of the “ethics of torture” in which he seemed to argue for the moral necessity of torture under special circumstances. (See The Ethics of Torture, June 10, 2011)
     I joined in the discussion, which was a mix of the good, the bad, and the ugly (mostly good though).
     Eventually, I posted the following:

     IF WE GRANT THAT

G: There are occasions in which opting for the use of torture (on, say, a captured terrorist) will increase the chances of acquiring information – specifically in cases in which such information possibly would prevent moral disaster (e.g., the detonation of a nuclear bomb in a city)

—then (and I take this to be Shri’s core insight) it is morally odd (and by no means incontrovertably wise) to adopt an absolute prohibition/condemnation against the use of torture, for such prohibition would seem to allow moral disasters—situations even more regrettable (from a moral perspective) than the instance of torture.
     Philosophers have long known that, in contemplating extreme circumstances—as actually arise in, say, the setting of national leadership—paradoxes (I use the term somewhat loosely) emerge. Thus, for instance, Gregory Kavka* once argued that, to bring about the morally best outcome, it may be necessary for some individuals within a society to become morally corrupt—in order to act under special circumstances in a manner in which no decent moral being would act (namely, by retaliating against a nation’s nuclear onslaught with a reciprocating [and pointless] nuclear onslaught, for the sake of effective deterrence).

     A utilitarian (of a classic variety) always acts to bring about the greatest happiness for the greatest number. But it would seem that, in doing so, he or she will be obliged on occasion to violate individuals’ rights (e.g., one will sacrifice a healthy hospital orderly in order to save three patients by employing his healthy organs). But if everyone were a utilitarian, and if that were known, then everyone would live in fear of becoming the next utilitarian sacrifice to “the greatest happiness”—and this would ipso facto lower the level of happiness in society considerably.
     Thus, paradoxically, a utilitarian would not seek that everyone be a utilitarian.
     Many years ago, some philosophers began considering morality and moral principles from two perspectives: from the individual’s perspective and the perspective of a moral being who has the opportunity to decide on the rules and practices that would be adopted by everyone in society. Arguably, one would be in a much better position to maximize happiness (or minimize violence, pain, etc.—or, indeed, to achieve any overarching goal) if one had the latter perspective and could somehow enforce it or cause individuals to act accordingly. (Example of such theorizing: John Rawls’ mid-50s essay, “Two Concepts of Rules.”**)
     It seems clear that no society can flourish in which free and informed members are permitted acts of violence (including torture) as means to their goals, however noble. On the other hand, arguably, a community can together reflect on that general perspective mentioned above and in this way see the wisdom or desirability of permitting torture for cases such as G above.
     In a sense, we already approach some matters in this fashion—or at least some of us individuals do. I would argue that no large society (perhaps there should be no large societies!) can survive (and thus flourish) without a military and a substantial army. Further, no large army could function if it allowed its soldiers to exercise moral autonomy. And in fact, actual armies (certainly ours) operate in a manner that discourages autonomy among individual soldiers. (Unsurprisingly, we are not very honest with ourselves about this.)
     I have generally refrained from applying my usual demand (of persons) that they exercise moral autonomy in the case of soldiers (and other classifications) exactly because of this recognition that, as a matter of practical fact, no military can function if it encourages precisely the sort of character that, normally, we hope to instill in our children.
     So my perspective (here) parallels Kavka’s.

     I am somewhat of a communitarian, and so I (in some sense) hope that my fellow-citizens will be moral and will encourage virtue in their children. I would be pleased by the prospect of a society in which the norm among individuals is moral seriousness and the attending of one’s moral character. In such a society, individuals would be encouraged (presumably by their parents, but perhaps also by “society itself”) to achieve moral autonomy—i.e., the ability and disposition to act with moral seriousness and own responsibility for themselves and their actions. (Please excuse my informal language.)
     But I don’t see how a large army could function (especially during time of war) were that autonomy to be permitted or encouraged for soldiers qua soldiers. And so one confronts a kind of dilemma.
     And, for me, the dilemma is mitigated or alleviated by that higher perspective that sees the necessity of soldier non-autonomy relative to our society’s gravest desiderata. That is, that perspective is in some sense compelling, from a moral perspective. It is as compelling, perhaps, as the need for the condemnation of torture.
     I offer the above with no slight tentativeness.

   *Some Paradoxes of Deterrence (Gregory Kavka, 1978)
   **Two Concepts of Rules (John Rawls, 1955)

The same old irrational exuberance

     This morning, I noticed the above video posted at the Orange Juice Blog. It is a brief and interesting presentation by Internet guru Jim Gilliam entitled, “The Internet is my Religion.”

     Well, I watched it and left the comment below:

     I enjoyed Gilliam’s presentation and will acknowledge that he has quite a story to tell, but I do wonder about the label “humanism” applied to him and, frankly, about his philosophy also. Humanism—yes, a notoriously ambiguous term—is often viewed as a non-theistic (godless) philosophy that embraces the notion of the power of human faculties—especially reason. Gilliam has surely abandoned theism and embraced human capability, but his embrace of reason is questionable, for he does seem to embrace “faith,” or something very like it, and it is faith (one might argue) that makes religion religion more than does embrace of the supernatural. Yes, Gilliam was saved in part by internet activists, but his rescue had more to do with medicine and the phenomenon of individuals choosing to make their organs available to others—both pre-dating the Internet. And so why does he attribute the miracle of his rescue to the Internet and not to these other things, which surely are more fundamental to the event? At a certain point, Gilliam reminds one of the charismatic preacher who, having roused his audience with stories of happy accident, human kindness, and whatnot, commits the usual non sequitur: it’s Jeeeeeesus.

     Gilliam simply replaces Jesus with the Internet. So, what we have here is not humanism but a new, but a typical, religion—a thing with an utter failure of logic at its core.

     (Note: someone with a sounder training in the Humanities would not have made Gilliam's mistake—namely, conceiving and exhorting his godless, human-centered philosophy as a religion—something relying on "faith.")

“Absolutely, you have rights—just not absolute rights”

Absolut vodka

     In order to win the election the candidate must make a deal with a dishonest ward boss, involving the granting of contracts for school construction over the next four years. Should he make the deal? … He is extremely reluctant even to consider the deal, puts off his aides when they remind him of it, refuses to calculate its possible effects upon the campaign….
     Because he has scruples of this sort, we know him to be a good man. But we view the campaign in a certain light, estimate its importance in a certain way, and hope that he will overcome his scruples and make the deal. It is important to stress that we don't want just anyone to make the deal; we want him to make it, precisely because he has scruples about it. We know he is doing right when he makes the deal because he knows he is doing wrong. I don't mean merely that he will feel badly or even very badly after he makes the deal. If he is the good man I am imagining him to be, he will feel guilty, that is, he will believe himself to be guilty. That is what it means to have dirty hands.

—From “Political Action: the Problem of Dirty Hands,” Michael Walzer (1973)

Smith

     Suppose you are conversing with friends, including Smith and Jones, and you find yourselves discussing moral philosophy. In particular, you are discussing the notion of rights. At one point, Smith says, “Just because you have a right to your property—which entails a right that others not take your property—it doesn’t follow that I may never take your property!”
     Jones is perplexed. “What do you mean?” he asks.
     Well, says Smith, we can all agree that people have rights, and among these rights is a right to one’s property. I’m an absolutist about this. I believe that everyone everywhere has rights, including this right.”
     “OK,” says Jones. “I’m with you so far.”
     Smith continues: And if we say that people have a right to their property, we mean something like this: normally, nobody may take their property unless they give them permission to take it.”
     “What do you mean by ‘normally,’?” asks Jones.

Jones

     When we say that X has a right to his property, we mean, roughly, that everyone should refrain from taking it. But that isn’t quite correct, because rights and other moral considerations can come into conflict. What if there’s a terrible accident and I need to get someone to a hospital? But the only way I can do that is if I just take X’s car—she happened to leave her keys in it. It seems to me that, under the circumstances, I’m in a kind of dilemma, for if I honor X’s right to her property, I will allow this person to die. And surely we can all agree that the importance of preventing the person’s death (she’s a delightful person, I assure you) overrides X’s right to my not taking her car! So, even though I’m in a dilemma in which something’s got to give, it’s pretty clear what ought to “give” here.
     “So you’re saying that, under the circumstances, X’s right evaporates into nothing?,” says Jones.
     No, says Smith. X, like everyone else, really does have the right not to have her property “borrowed” or molested, and so on. But, there’s a conflict, and something’s got to give. The best thing to do, all things considered, is to violate X’s right in order to save a life. Naturally, we owe it to X to explain ourselves as soon as possible. We really feel bad about having to take her car. But, under the circumstances, that’s what had to be done. It would be different if, say, the only way to save the accident victim is by hurting X in some way. It wouldn’t be right to help the victim by hurting X. But we didn’t do that. We only “borrowed” X’s car.

X

     “So X’s right becomes nothing,” says Jones.
     Not at all! The fact that we owe her an explanation and even an apology shows that her right does not become “nothing.” It still is what it is, it’s just that life can get complicated, and it became necessary to use her car, to violate her right to her property in a limited way. We didn’t want to do that, but there was no alternative. And we aren’t willing to do just anything, relative to X’s rights, to save the accident victim. But we are willing—regretfully—to violate her right to not have her car used without permission—for the sake of saving an innocent life.
     “So you’re saying that her right to her property is not absolute!,” offers Jones.

Accident victim (all better now)

     Well, in one sense, yes; in another sense, no. That we have an obligation to her to treat her with respect is, I think, absolute. And, in this case, we’re honoring that, for we resist taking her car, we don’t want to take it. But we feel that we must take it, regrettably, to save a life. And the proof that her right did not become nothing is the fact that we feel the need to contact her as soon as possible and explain and even apologize for what we did. (We might even offer to compensate her in some way.) That’s the proof that her right, though violated, did not “disappear.” It’s still there. We still recognize it. And so X absolutely has a right to her property, her car. But that doesn’t mean that her right is “absolute.” We’re not saying that her right is absolute in the sense that it must always be honored or accorded, no matter what! No. We’re not saying that she has an “absolute” right in that sense. We are saying that, absolutely, she has a right to her property. That is, we should proceed with the idea that her ownership of her property must always be respected, if not accorded, even when it is taken from her, temporarily.
     See?

The case of torture

You

     I feel very strongly that torture is barbaric and unacceptable. I think it is inhumane and appalling. I always feel this way—i.e., there are no circumstances in which I do not find torture inhumane and appalling. I am, in that way, an anti-torture absolutist.
     And yet, in another sense, I am not an "absolutist" about torture. For circumstances are conceivable in which, though one does have that value/perspective, one reasonably judges that the morally best thing to do is to torture someone. If, for instance, terrorists have hidden a nuclear weapon in the city and we have compelling reasons to suppose that it will be detonated in a few hours, and if we have captured one of the terrorists, who refuses to divulge the location of the weapon—it is conceivable that the only prospect of getting the crucial information is in torturing the terrorist. (That this circumstance ever occurs is somewhat controversial, I suppose. This example is Walzer's, essentially.) If we were to do that, we would do it with profound regret. We would be appalled by our conduct. We may find it difficult to live with ourselves having done it. All of this is the "presence" of our rejection of torture; it is our "anti-torture" conviction. And yet (perhaps) we have done the morally right thing, the best that we can do, under these special circumstances, by torturing the terrorist.
     I might choose to describe my stance in this way: I am an absolutist about rejecting torture in the sense that I believe that one always has extremely powerful reasons to seek to avoid using torture—i.e., to "reject" torture. Nevertheless, it is at least conceivable that this horrendous circumstance could come about: despite these very powerful reasons not to torture the terrorist, reasons to torture him also exist, and these reasons outweigh the reasons against torture.
     I am an absolutist "against torture" in the sense that I believe that there is always a very powerful reason not to torture; but because I recognize the possibility of extreme moral dilemmas—who could deny it?—I am unwilling to say that one must never torture. So, in that sense, I am not an absolutist. There is always a reason not to torture; and yet sometimes one must torture—just as, there is always a reason not to kill the innocent, and yet, sometimes, one must kill the innocent (e.g., to defend one's family or home from an innocent threat).
     I’m rejecting "no exceptions" absolutism while embracing "always a reason" absolutism. And my thesis is that this is not an inconsistent position. It is a coherent position.

The agency of a soundly struck billiard ball

     Recently, I opined that, though one may well have good reasons to vote (in elections), one reason that one does not have is precisely the reason most commonly given—namely, that “one’s vote counts”—i.e., one’s vote is causally significant. This claim, of course, is manifestly false.
     It is a characteristic of our time that we often believe things—often false things—for manifestly specious reasons. I've grown accustomed to it.
     Recently, I came upon some writers who make similarly obnoxious points. For instance, political philosopher Jason Brennan, author of The Ethics of Voting, argues that citizens do not have a duty to vote (indeed, some of them have a duty to not vote). But, if they do vote, they have a duty to vote intelligently, something that most actual voters clearly fail to do:

     Before Canadians head once again to the polls, they should do their homework. This election is an opportunity to make Canada even better, but it’s also a chance to make it worse. Bad decisions at the polls can lead to increased poverty, a stagnant economy, lost opportunities, worse pollution or unjust wars....
     Casting an informed vote is hard. Knowing what the problems are is not enough, because the solutions to Canada’s problems are not obvious. Reading parties’ platforms is not enough. Knowing what policies the different political parties favour is not enough, because a voter needs to know which policies have any real shot of working. The Conservatives, Liberals, New Democrats, Greens and others each want Canada to be healthier, happier and stronger. They’re like doctors each offering different prescriptions to cure Canada’s illnesses. Some of these prescriptions will work, some will have no effect and some will make Canada sicker. Voters need to learn how to evaluate these prescriptions....
     Voting is not like choosing food from a menu. If a citizen makes a bad choice about what to eat in a restaurant, she alone bears the costs of her decision. But if she makes a bad choice at the polls, she imposes the costs on everyone. Voters are not just choosing for themselves, but for all. If a restaurant offers bad food, diners can walk away or get their money back. This is not the case with public policy. Political decisions are imposed on all and enforced by law. Fellow citizens can’t just walk away from a menu full of bad policies.
     Voters face some choices. They can form their beliefs about politics in a self-indulgent way. They can ignore evidence and form policy preferences based on what they find emotionally appealing. They can treat voting as a form of self-expression and ignore what damage they do. Or they can be good citizens. They can form their policy preferences by studying social scientific evidence about how institutions and policies work, and by using reliable methods of reasoning to study the issues. They can work to overcome their personal and ideological biases and choose in a smart, thoughtful way.

     I’m not sure about Canadians, but, near as I can tell, most Americans are utterly incapable of being good citizens, as Brennan understands that.
     Does this mean that we Americans have a duty to stop being a country? Gosh!
     On the other hand, if one’s vote “doesn’t count” (i.e., is inefficacious), in what sense can it be said that unintelligent voting is harmful?
     Plainly, the widespread phenomenon of unintelligent voting is harmful. But that is consistent with the “harmlessness” of any given unintelligent vote.
     On the other hand, there is, I think, a special sense of moral agency that defies ordinary causal agency. My moral agency is not like the agency of a soundly struck billiard ball.
     But that is a topic for another day.

The politics of "colored people"

NAACP graphic

“I have never been able to discover anything disgraceful in being a colored man. But I have often found it inconvenient….”

—Bert Williams

     Earlier today, I heard a great little news story on NPR about the NAACP and the so-called “new diversity” (listen to the story here).
     The gist of the piece is that the NAACP—i.e., the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People—had gone into decline but is now rebounding, in part because it in some sense embraces a “new diversity” such that the “colored people” of its name is increasingly understood as including, not only African Americans, but “people of color”* (i.e., all non-whites) and even gays.
     I say “in some sense” because, as the NPR story reveals, some blacks resist or reject this new diversity and regard the phenomenon of non-blacks—e.g., Hispanics—leading NAACP chapters as a kind of “hostile takeover.”
     Meanwhile, some African Americans in the NAACP establishment seem to welcome and celebrate the new diversity.
     Philosophically, this is a delicious issue, a real smorgasbord of reasonable but conflicting perspectives with no resolution in sight.
     The NAACP was in fact founded by blacks—and whites!—at a time (1909) when the term “colored people” was the least offensive term for blacks, but that, in fact, was also (sometimes?) thought to include Native Americans and even other non-whites.
     Sheesh.
     But, unless I’m very much mistaken, the NAACP was and has been dominated by African Americans (not Native Americans) and, during most of its century-long existence, it has focused on African Americans. And so, whatever the peculiarities of its philosophical origins, at some point before I came along (I’m 55), it had become the single most prominent organization of and for African Americans.
     And further, one might suppose, it is good that such an organization—one by and for African Americans—exists. That is, if there were no such organization, then—one might suppose—there ought to be one.
     Part of the trouble here is the term “colored people,” which is loaded with cool (and not-so-cool) issues. One such issue is the term’s curious status as both offensive and inoffensive. When used by clueless residual rednecks (who may or may not be racist), it is offensive, owing to that usage’s historical links to a racist past. On the other hand, when used (viz., in its name) by the NAACP, it is inoffensive, owing to the organization’s origins—at a time when the term “colored people” was the clear choice among the decent and progressive.
     But, again, unless I am very much mistaken, the NAACP continues to “use” the term (justifiably, I think) despite the term’s (otherwise) long ago ceasing to be appropriate for the group for which it was created. And, somehow, the term—remembered now by most of us as an artifact of an unfortunate past—has I think narrowed in meaning, no longer referring to Native Americans (et alia) but clearly only to African Americans.
     So it is understandable, I think, that some African Americans view the NAACP as an organization specifically for African Americans. It undeniably had become that kind of organization (many decades ago), and its very name arguably refers to African Americans, its century-ago meaning to the contrary notwithstanding.

Frederick Douglass

     NAACP’s (slightly troubled) embrace of all people of color (and even gays) as the referent of the phrase “colored people” strikes me as generous, magnanimous, and forward-thinking. I like the spirit of the “new diversity” crowd in the NAACP. But I am not inclined to carp about those blacks who want and value an organization specifically for African Americans—and who, for obvious reasons, take the NAACP to be that organization.
     Part of me wants to call this a “dilemma.” But, of course, if it is a dilemma, it isn’t my dilemma. This is an issue (if it is an issue) for, well, “colored people,” whoever they might be.

The man who has suffered the wrong is the man to demand redress . . . the man STRUCK is the man to CRY OUT—and … he who has endured the cruel pangs of slavery is the man to advocate Liberty. It is evident that we must be our own representative and advocates, not exclusively, but peculiarly—not distinct from, but in connection with our white friends.

—Frederick Douglass

*I hope that it goes without saying that “colored people” and “people of color” are very different terms, despite their grammatical similarity.

See also

• Lohan calls Obama ‘colored’, NAACP says no big deal
• Tea Party Express' Mark Williams: NAACP's Use Of 'Colored' Makes It Racist

NAACP graphic

This is your brain on drugs

     OK, I don't usually do this sort of thing, but, today, I'm gonna mention some paradoxes. Some philosophers love paradoxes. I merely like them.
     Here's one that, like it or not, I think about all the time, owing to how I make my living:

The Surprise Quiz Paradox:

[Y]our teacher tells you (i) she's going to give the class a surprise exam next week, and (ii) you won't be able to work out beforehand on which day it will be. Using this information, you work out that it can't be on Friday (the last day), or else you'd be able to know this as soon as class ended the day before, contrary to the second condition. With Friday excluded from consideration, Thursday is now the last possible day, so we can exclude it by the same reasoning. Similarly for Wednesday, Tuesday, and finally Monday. So you conclude that there cannot be any such exam. This chain of reasoning guarantees that when the teacher finally gives the exam (say, on Wednesday), you're all surprised, just like she said you'd be. (The Surprise Examination Paradox)

     As a teacher, hearing about this paradox is a little like receiving a notification from your insurance company that your policy is cancelled now that your dead. You're pretty sure you're not dead. But then there's this notice. Cool.  
     Here’s a paradox (or a set of paradoxes) that I often refer to in my lectures:

Puzzles (paradoxes) attributed to Eubulides of Miletus:

The Heap: Would you describe a single grain of wheat as a heap? No. Would you describe two grains of wheat as a heap? No. ... You must admit the presence of a heap sooner or later, so where do you draw the line?*
The Bald Man: Would you describe a man with one hair on his head as bald? Yes. Would you describe a man with two hairs on his head as bald? Yes. ... You must refrain from describing a man with ten thousand hairs on his head as bald, so where do you draw the line? (Sorites Paradox)

     Students imagine that every word can be defined with a precise definition.
     Nope. Imagine a series of slight modifications (removal of small amounts) of a chair. When does it cease to be a chair? Any answer will be unacceptable because it is arbitrary.

     VOTING. More than one thing is referred to as the “paradox of voting.” The particular “paradox” I have in mind (roughly) is discussed in the encyclopedia entry below:

The paradox of voting … is that for a rational, self-interested voter the costs of voting will normally exceed the expected benefits. Because the chance of exercising the pivotal vote (i.e. in case of a tied election) is tiny compared to any realistic estimate of the private individual benefits of the different possible outcomes, the expected benefits of voting are less than the costs. The fact that people do vote is a problem for public choice theory, first observed by Anthony Downs. (Paradox of Voting)

     Now, don’t get me wrong. I believe in voting. I vote (most of the time). I think that I have good reasons to vote.
     But, in my view, one reason that I do NOT have for voting is the one we most often hear, namely, that “one’s vote counts!”**
     Unless one will countenance the fallacy of equivocation, one cannot really defend the notion that one’s vote “counts,” for, to say (in the relevant contexts) that one’s vote “counts” is to suggest that it will make, or it quite possibly will make, a difference to the election’s outcome (winning/losing). (I'm not particularly interested in the issue of self-interest; I'm interested in a point about efficacy.)
     Here’s where the so-called paradox*** of voting comes in. Obviously, for typical government elections (I’m not referring to elections involving small numbers of people—department elections and the like), the chances that one’s vote will make a difference to the outcome are extremely small.
     Consider the recent election for the “board of trustees” seat now held by TJ Prendergast, which was unusually close. The final tally was the following:

115,304 Prendergast
111,197 Muldoon

     As it was, Prendergast received 4107 more votes than Muldoon did. Suppose that Smith voted for Prendergast. Had Smith not voted, the outcome would have been only very slightly different: Prendergast’s total would have been 115,303, not 115,304.
     So, in fact, Smith’s vote, if it “counted,” it did not “count” in the sense that it made a difference (of any consequence) to the outcome. To be sure, his vote was “counted.” Nevertheless, it did not “count.” (Remember: equivocation is verboten.)
     It is true, of course, that it could have counted, though, in fact, it did not count. But, clearly, the odds of one’s vote “counting” are infinitesimal. Very likely, all of you who read this (hundreds!) will go through your entire lives voting and, in the end, there will not have been even one election in which any of your votes “counted” or even came close to counting in any meaningful sense.
     Some will respond to this by noting that, in recorded history, there have been elections in which a single person’s vote “counted” in the way I have in mind. (For an illustration, see Examples of Why Your Vote Counts.)
     Of course this occurs. Given the great number of elections that occur, this goes without saying, I think.
     But the occurrence of these events does not respond to the point at hand, namely, that, though it is possible that one’s vote will “count,” it is extremely unlikely that it will count. Given that one could live a great many lifetimes before encountering even one election in which one’s vote “counted,” in what sense is one being told anything true and motivating**** when one is told that one’s vote “counts”?
     In my view, when we seek to persuade people to vote on the grounds that their “vote counts,” we are either confused (i.e., we think we have a valid point when we do not) or we are lying/manipulating (we know that we have no valid point, but we offer it anyway perhaps because [we think] our end is good).
     My guess is that confusion more than lying is afoot.
     On the other hand, there are so many instances in which our “teachings” are manifestly (or nearly manifestly) invalid, we should consider the possibility that, yes, we offer this false point not “knowing” that it is false—but, still, it must be said that we have good reasons to suspect that, often, what we “teach” is logically hinky at best, and so, quite possibly, this is logically hinky too.
     Organic muffins, anyone?

Footnotery:

   *So what's paradoxical about this? Well, you start with a heap of sand. Plainly, after removing grains of sand for a sufficient period of time, you end with a non-heap (one grain). And yet there is no "line" that you cross to get from "heap" to "non-heap." You cross a line, but there is no line to cross.

   **To act to influence large numbers of voters—something sometimes available to leaders—means the difference between a significant number of people voting for X or not. Here, whether or not “Smith’s vote counts,” the leader’s urgings might count a great deal. It will remain true, however, that not one of those votes counted.
   “Yes, but what if everyone thought that way.” It is of course true that what (say) 50,000 voters in state X do during a particular election can make all the difference. And that is why those who care about the outcomes of elections rightly concern themselves with persons and events that influence large numbers of voters. But all of that can be acknowledged without falsely supposing that each voter’s vote “counts.” That the collective vote of 50,000 voters “counts” does not imply that each of those votes “counted.”

   ***What is “paradoxical” here? It is, I suppose, that, though it matters a great deal how everyone votes, in fact it matters not at all how any given voter votes. That Americans in general voted for candidate X matters to the outcome of the election. That any given voter voted for candidate X does not matter to the outcome of the election. To endorse both statements might seem to be the endorsement of a contradiction, but it is not.

   ****Obviously, one is not being told anything of significance if one is being told merely that one's vote could mean something like the difference between Prendergast's receiving 115,304 and 115,303 votes. Why would anyone care about that difference?

Fookin’ Prawns

Guest writer: Alex Villarreal

     My girlfriend Katie and I were in the tub drinking martinis one night when our conversation drifted to the topic of District 9. For those unfamiliar with D9, it involves a group of malnourished and sick aliens found in a ship hovering above Johannesburg. The aliens (derogatorily referred to as "prawns") are taken to a government camp where the humans treat them with particular brutality.
     Katie commented how horrible it was the way the humans treated the aliens because the aliens were clearly intelligent beings so they deserved the same rights as humans.



     This got me thinking; what is it that makes a being worthy of so-called human rights?
     It seemed to me that Katie’s comment was implying that intelligence alone gives a being this privilege.
     The potential implications of that idea seemed interesting to me so I said for the sake of argument let’s assume the following:

1. A ‘being’ deserves fundamental rights on the basis of possessing some capacity or attribute

2. Furthermore, that attribute is intelligence

     Now wait a minute. Given those assumptions it appears to me there are whole groups of people in our society not deserving of human rights. Whether I refer to infants or the mentally disabled, certainly there are some unintelligent humans. Are those people unworthy of fundamental human rights?
     At one point in our conversation Katie claimed that infants and the mentally challenged do deserve rights because they are humans and humans are generally defined as being intelligent. Therefore they should be treated as intelligent (and consequently be worthy of natural rights).
     Now this reminded me strikingly of something professor Bauer said in ethics class concerning the nature of definitions according to Wittgenstein. He argued that you could never arrive at a set of necessary and sufficient conditions to define a word (for example try to find such conditions for the word game*). Bauer, following Wittgenstein, instead compared a word’s meaning to a system of family resemblances, pointing out that we could merely identify things that are generally true within the family but not exhibited by all its members.
     For example, in my family, the Villarreals are generally defined as being good motorcycle riders. But, you put my uncle on a motorcycle and you’re likely to donate a new hood ornament to some unsuspecting truck driver. So it would be ridiculous to treat every Villarreal as if they were all good motorcyclists.
     I think the same point holds true for humans. Just because humans are generally defined as intelligent does not mean we should treat every person as if they were intelligent. Clearly it would be ridiculous to treat a brain dead individual in a vegetative state as if they were intelligent. Distributing ballots to such individuals for the next elections would be an overtly absurd and wasted gesture.
     Regardless of where the line is drawn between an intelligent being and a non-intelligent being, there are certainly individuals who fall into the latter category. Consequently, if given that intelligence is the only thing that makes a being worthy of human rights, these individuals are not worthy of such rights.
     I definitely don’t like the sound of that. Of course I feel there is reason to give basic rights to infants (perhaps on the grounds of potential intellect) or to the mentally disabled (perhaps by a matter of degree or on some grounds independent of intellect) but if we assume that intelligence grants rights it comes down to the question: Where do we draw the line for intelligence? Is it some staggered hierarchy where the greater the intelligence of a being the more rights it deserves? Or is it some on/off switch where at hypothetical intelligence level “5” you have all your human rights and at level “4.99” you have none?
     Seems rather arbitrary to me… and particularly heartless. I just hope intelligence isn’t the only basis for human rights.
     I sure do love bath time =)

     —Alex Villarreal

    *Consider for example the proceedings that we call "games". I mean board-games, card-games, ball-games, Olympic games, and so on. What is common to them all? -- Don't say: "There must be something common, or they would not be called 'games' "-but look and see whether there is anything common to all. -- For if you look at them you will not see something that is common to all, but similarities, relationships, and a whole series of them at that. To repeat: don't think, but look!

—From aphorism 66, Philosophical Investigations