Human Goodness: Pragmatic Variations on Platonic Themes

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Human Goodness Pragmatic Variations on Platonic Themes Human Goodness presents an original pragmatic moral theory that successfully revives and revitalizes the classical Greek concept of happiness. It also includes in-depth discussions of our freedoms, our obligations, and our virtues, as well as adroit comparisons with the moral theories of Kant and Hume. Paul Schollmeier explains that the Greeks define happiness as an activity that we may perform for its own sake. Obvious examples might include telling stories, making music, or dancing. He then demonstrates that we may use the pragmatic method to discover and to define innumerable activities of this kind. Schollmeier’s demonstration rests on the modest assumption that our happiness takes not one ideal form, but many empirical forms. Paul Schollmeier is professor of philosophy at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. He is the author of Other Selves: Aristotle on Personal and Political Friendship and the coeditor of The Greeks and Us: Essays in Honor of Arthur W. H. Adkins.

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Human Goodness Pragmatic Variations on Platonic Themes

PAUL SCHOLLMEIER University of Nevada, Las Vegas

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cambridge university press Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge cb2 2ru, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521863841 © Paul Schollmeier 2006 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published in print format 2006 isbn-13 isbn-10

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To the Spirit of Iver C. Berg My Geometry Teacher Who Taught Me What Congruence Is

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Contents

Acknowledgments

page ix

Preface

xi

Schema

xv

1 2

An Apology The Method in Question

1 32

3 4 5 6 7

Human Happiness Moral Freedoms Moral Imperatives A Question of Cosmology Human Virtue

68 114 152 192 238

8

A Symposium

274

Select Bibliography of Works Cited or Consulted

289

Index

295

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Acknowledgments

I extend my heartfelt thanks to the Departments of Philosophy at the University of California, Berkeley, and at the University of Oregon. The archaic, if not anachronistic, courtesy of granting visiting appointments to wayfaring scholars is alive and thrives at both institutions. I also express my sincere gratitude to the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, for a sabbatical leave. This respite from my pedagogical duties enabled me to begin to pull together my thoughts on the themes of the present work and to organize them into their current form. I wish to acknowledge two anonymous referees for Cambridge University Press. With their comments they saved me from several errors of both substance and style. The remaining errors may serve to illustrate a theme of this book: Human knowledge, despite our concerted efforts, remains decidedly finite. Nonetheless, should you, my reader, spot any mistakes, I would be grateful to be informed of them. We surely ought not to let our limited abilities unduly limit our aspirations. But I must not fail to thank my family, friends, and colleagues for their kind offices. The present enterprise and its success or lack thereof depended in innumerable ways upon our many informal conversations and discussions. Indeed, these informalities at times eclipsed in their insightfulness the formalities of more scholarly research. I had the pleasure of discussing three papers on themes central to the present work at scholarly meetings when my thoughts were still nascent. I presented “Kantian Imperatives and Greek Values” during a symposium in honor of Arthur W. H. Adkins, who was a professor of mine at the University of Chicago. Robert B. Louden and I subsequently published the paper in a Festschrift entitled The Greeks and Us (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), pp. 145–160. I presented “Happiness and Luckiness” at the XXth World Congress of Philosophy in Boston. This essay is available on the World Wide Web in The Paideia Project On-Line at . I presented ix

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“Practical Wisdom and Empirical Principles” at the XIIth InterAmerican Congress of Philosophy in Buenos Aires and at the annual meeting of the Ohio Philosophical Association. It was published in The Proceedings of the Ohio Philosophical Association (Delaware: Ohio Wesleyan University, 1989), pp. 92–103. To those who were kind enough on these occasions to offer me their comments and encouragements, I am very grateful. One paper based on passages taken from the book manuscript has already found its way into print. “The Pragmatic Method and Its Rhetorical Lineage” was published in Philosophy and Rhetoric, vol. 35 (2002), pp. 368–381. Another paper, a spin-off from the manuscript, has also been published. “Ineluctable Slavery” appeared in Skepsis, vol. 12 (2001), pp. 134–141. I presented this paper at the XIth International Symposium of Philosophy. A request to write a book review inspired me to rethink the ancient doctrine of the mean. The result is a new interpretation that shows how closely allied are Aristotle’s concepts of the practical intellect and the moral mean. The book was Aristotle, Virtue, and the Mean, and my review came out in Dialogue, vol. 38 (1999), pp. 610–614. I thank the editors for this little scholarly assignment. A final word on the paraphrases and translations. The translations and paraphrases of passages from the primary texts in the Greek or the German are my own versions of modern and contemporary translations. These versions, please note, are of greater or lesser originality, depending on my facility with the language of a text, on the apparent difficulty of the passage in question, and on my perception of the abilities exhibited by previous translators.

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Preface

You shall find, dear reader, no new ideas in my book. At least, I trust not. If you seek novelty, you had best search another volume for the pleasures of your diversion. I cannot presume on a topic of so great an importance as ethics to have discovered a truth not yet known to my fellows, whether philosophically inclined or not. Even this very point others made centuries ago. Immanuel Kant did, for example. If, however, you are a seeker of self-knowledge and its pleasures, read on. I have attempted to explore knowledge of this variety, and I do believe that I have met with some success. But I must offer you a word of caution at the very outset: Any success in an endeavor of this alluring sort is at best rather elusive, and whatever success one might actually claim could quite possibly be illusive. But how can I hope to gain self-knowledge without discovering a new truth? you may ask. This book, I would respond, is merely an experiment in the analysis of ideas about human goodness. But the ideas I intend to analyze are not at all unique to me. I propose to take a concept of happiness gleaned from the ancients and to see what the consequences might be if we were to take it seriously as a principle of moral philosophy. What could happiness tell us about ourselves, our autonomy, our obligations, and our circumstances, not to mention our virtue? One might be tempted to think that an experiment with self-knowledge is itself a novel idea. But proponents of the experimental method for the moral sciences have in the past century made the idea very current. I am thinking of William James and John Dewey, especially. These philosophers themselves claim an ancient lineage for the procedure. They trace its origins through David Hume and John Stuart Mill down to Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. In my experiment I shall elaborate a hypothesis that is rather limited. I pretend to no divine knowledge of any eternal or necessary sort. One cannot but at times feel that certain ideas do provide a glimpse of eternity. But even xi

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these ideas, though they may fill us with ecstasy, we cannot take for certain. They may perhaps approach the ideas of a god, I concede, and we ought surely to treat them with some diffidence. But I must ask, How could we ever be sure that we have stumbled upon any idea truly divine? My hypothesis concerns human knowledge. I take our knowledge to rest on a feeble intellect and on frail senses. Our faculties with their contingent natures can hardly grasp even their proper objects. What is more, these objects themselves are apparently contingent. They not infrequently change under our very gaze. How could one ever hope to grasp their truths with much confidence? Nor dare I attempt an experiment that would tie all truth, if only human, into one tidy bundle. Truth, if it is one, is too grand a thing for our mind to grasp. We must therefore choose our experiments and choose them carefully. I have chosen to elaborate a hypothesis that sheds some light on truths now forgotten by many. There are surely good reasons for our forgetfulness. But our lapse has consequences that appear to me equally great, if not grave. The truths by which we presently live do have their advantages. But because they are not exhaustive, these truths also have their disadvantages. If you wish, you may think of this book as dedicated to the idea of an ephemeral teleology. An ephemeral teleology?! Yes, the phrase does sound oxymoronic. We are today much accustomed to thinking of teleologies, especially moral ones, as requiring eternal, fixed forms. But need they? I for one do not think so. We are surrounded by plants and animals whose forms of life are very obviously teleological and yet constantly changing over their lifetimes, not to mention their species evolution and extinction. I wish to remind you that we ourselves are of these fleeting forms as are the ecosystems within which we dwell. And so I shall ask, What are the implications of a temporal teleology, autochthonous and almost evanescent by comparison to its alternative, for moral theory and practice? I shall, then, have repeated recourse to the ancient Greek philosophers. I mean Plato and Aristotle. They expound a natural and moral teleology that we would do well to take into consideration. Many philosophers, of course, would argue that their teleology requires eternal forms for its foundation. I am not convinced that it does. But my reservations need not trouble you. My purpose is to trouble you with a larger question. I wish to ask, Need a moral or a natural teleology rest on invariable forms? I think not. What I shall do, then, is take the ancient concept of teleology and make use of it as if it were of variable forms. David Hume and Immanuel Kant provide extraordinary confirmations of this principal idea, especially if one considers how inimical their philosophies seem to be to those of the Greeks. With his distinction between relations of ideas and matters of fact, Hume echoes the ancient distinction between knowledge and opinion. Kant advocates a moral teleology that includes a concept of value very similar to that of the ancients, despite its

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transcendental form. His teleology also contains other concepts useful for my analysis, such as freedom, imperative, and cosmology. But Kant and Hume remain the Scylla and Charybdis of our efforts to understand the Greeks. These gentlemen are veritable demigods who cast conceptual shadows so long as to obscure our vision of ancient philosophy. I suspect, for example, that our tendency to attribute fixed rational forms to moral teleology arises in large part from Kant. From Hume would appear to arise our reluctance to accept a rational teleology of any sort in moral matters. I shall borrow from the American philosophers their method, albeit with some modification. I shall also attempt to reconstruct their general philosophical outlook. My intention is to apply the experimental method to moral problems with the purpose of advancing intellectual teleologies and not emotional ones. A moral experiment, I shall argue, is successful if its hypothesis is conducive to the enriched activity of our mind rather than to the enhanced passivity of our emotions. The consequences of this change for our felicity are not insignificant. My hope, then, is that by recalling an idea, almost archaic by contemporary standards, and by arraying it before you, gentle reader, with other ideas, both ancient and modern, I can foster in your soul a forgotten moral outlook and attitude. But I must now ask you, if you be of kindred spirit and so inclined, to peruse my book itself.

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A Schema of Topics Analyzed

Human Ephemer

Theoretical Reason (Chapter 1)

a

Practical Reason

Method (Chapter 2)

Poetical Reason (Chapter 8)

Hypotheses

Formal Cause (Chapter 3)

Efficient Cause (Chapter 4)

Mater ial Cause (Chapter 7)

Final Cause

Human (Chapter 5)

Divine (Chapter 6)

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1 An Apology

1. ΓΝΙ ΣΕΑΥΤΟΝ! Who cannot remember the very first time when he or she heard these words uttered? KNOW THYSELF! I know that I can distinctly recall when a high school chum announced to some fellow classmates and me that this pronouncement, together with the injunction NOTHING IN EXCESS, was the most famous and the most important utterance of the Delphic oracle. Nor can I forget the quizzicality that immediately followed this revelation. NOTHING IN EXCESS surely appeared to be a reasonable, if at times a difficult, maxim to follow. But KNOW THYSELF? This great injunction rang hollow. Know thyself, when there are so many other intriguing things seemingly waiting to be discovered? Not to mention the ingenious things no doubt waiting to be invented? How could a nostrum seemingly so empty be the summation of ancient Greek wisdom? You may imagine our consternation when this same friend kindly informed us in almost the same breath that the Greeks highly esteemed a playwright who wrote a play about a man who murdered his father and married his mother. They had even given him a prize for it, he claimed. We were apoplectic! The Greeks, we had been taught, were the very paragons of our culture. They had fought so valiantly against so many at Marathon and Salamis.1 Yet what better inspiration for philosophy than these ancient paragons who appear so paradoxical! Who better to invoke for my present undertaking than these haunting spirits? Whether we will or not, we are all obliged to concede that the Greeks present paradigms that overshadow our culture. Every philosopher – nay, every person – must somehow come to grips with these ancient ones. We may ponder them, we may applaud them, we may deplore them, we may attempt to ignore them, but escape them we cannot. 1

The mischievous friend was Michael Jay Williams, Esq., and his language was more colorful than my own. This incident remains indelibly engraved in my memory.

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And so I must ask, Why? Why must every philosopher explicitly, and every person implicitly, grapple with these Greeks? Could the phenomenon be a cultural conundrum of some intransigent sort? Or does it have its origins in human nature itself? I wish to suggest that this chronic problem has its origins within our very nature, which we share with the Greeks. If they were anything, the ancient Greek philosophers were surely astute observers of the human frame and fabric. More particularly, I believe that they may serve to remind us, despite ourselves perhaps, of an important fact about ourselves. This fact, we soon shall discover, is an organicism that lies deep within us as well as without us. We also know that these Greeks claim to be the children and the grandchildren of the gods. This claim alone, I should think, would be sufficient to render them worthy of our attention. Who are we to doubt their word? They surely ought to know who their own ancestors are, to paraphrase an ancient argument. At the very least, one ought not to dismiss their claim out of hand. We might even find, should we deign to give it serious consideration, that we ourselves are nearer and dearer to the gods than we may have imagined. We do, after all, trace our lineage back to the ancients. But I am getting ahead of myself. Before we can hope to fathom them, we must first make an effort to become better acquainted with these ancient ones. And with ourselves. 2. The divine injunction to know myself, I confess, I did not take as seriously as one ought for a time considerably longer than I would care to admit. But I did early on make a concerted effort to get to know the Greeks, and Socrates quickly became a focus of my endeavors. His claim that the unexamined life is not worth living was a source of many spirited discussions among my college classmates and me (Apology 37e–38a).2 I well remember that our debates almost always ended in frustration, though I no longer recall why they did. Nor am I entirely sure that we divined a connection with the Pythian oracle. But I would like to think that we did. Even now an examination of the Apology can be an occasion for philosophical frustration. One would think that a reasonable procedure for considering this monologue would be to ask, How does Socrates himself implement his claim about the unexamined life? After all, he does give us an account of an examination that he made regarding his life. But this procedure, ingenious though it appears, soon gives us additional grounds for reflection. What we discover with it initially seems not terribly profound and not a little puzzling. When we approach the Apology with our question in mind, we find Socrates recounting at his trial his attempt to understand another 2

More literally Socrates asserts that an unexamined life is one not to be lived by a human being ( ). The implication is that an unexamined life is less than human!

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pronouncement made by the oracle at Delphi. He explains that a bold friend of his had asked the oracle whether someone was wiser than he, and the oracle had responded that no one was (Apology 20c–21a). He found this response to be less than credible, and he decided to undertake an inquiry and to see whether he could not find someone wiser. He actually thought, he tells us, that he might refute the oracle (21b–c). He soon discovered, however, that the oracle was in fact irrefutable. He was forced to conclude that he was the wisest of all because he was unable to find anyone who was wiser. What was this great wisdom of his? His wisdom was merely that he did not know and did not think that he did ( . . . , )! But this meager knowledge was sufficient to make him wiser than all the others. He sought out and tested numerous people who had a reputation for wisdom, among them politicians, poets, and handicraftsmen. He found that he was wiser than they were because they each thought that they knew something though they did not (21c–22e). Socrates, then, demonstrated with his examination that he was indeed wiser than anyone else. But he also showed that his wisdom was merely ignorance! This ignorance we have in fact come to know as Socratic ignorance. His example thus suggests that an examined life is worth living because it is one that we knowingly live in ignorance. I suppose that a life of this sort might be a smidgen better than an unexamined life, which, presumably, one ignorantly lives in ignorance. Yet one cannot but wonder, How worthy is any life of ignorance? What is more, you may perchance have noticed that we again encounter the Delphic oracle and its more troublesome injunction. Our ability to know ourselves would seem to be rather dubious. Through Socrates the oracle is apparently telling us something about human knowledge. To the consternation of his jury, Socrates professes his belief that the oracle meant for him to be taken as an example for us all. What she appears to be saying, he asserts, is that our wisdom is worth little or nothing (Apology 22e–23b). Need I also mention the little paradox of how one might know that one does not know? If we know that we do not know, then we would know at least one thing, would we not? But if we do not know at least one thing, then we would not even know that we do not know. Socrates’ discovery, whichever way we take it, seems at best oxymoronic. Let us persevere, nonetheless. We can learn another fact or two about Socrates and his wisdom even from Plato’s account of his trial. Socrates informs us that his knowledge is of one kind only. Eschewing divine wisdom of any kind, he asserts that he does not even know of any wisdom that might be greater than human ( !). The knowledge that he himself claims to possess is merely human wisdom ( " !) (Apology 20d–e). Wisdom of our sort it is which is worth little or nothing (23a).

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Unfortunately, he does not bother to explain what the difference might be between wisdom of these two kinds. But we can see that the people whom he examined apparently thought that they had knowledge akin to divine knowledge. At least, they thought that they knew something beautiful and good (# $ ) (21d or 22b–c). Could divine knowledge thus be to know that one actually knows? And could human knowledge, again, be to know only that we do not know, if we know anything? That is, could our knowledge be to know that we are ignorant? Perhaps we ought to ask, Have we ever encountered a similar distinction between these kinds of knowledge? I believe that we have. Where? In Plato’s Republic, of course! When he discusses the qualifications for an ideal ruler, Socrates obviously distinguishes several kinds of knowledge if we take the term in its widest sense. He recognizes a distinction between knowledge and opinion, and he further differentiates understanding from reasoning and belief from conjecture. With these distinctions, if carefully analyzed, we shall see what divine knowledge might be and, more important for us, what human knowledge is. Consider the famous paradigm of the divided line, which Socrates uses to make his distinctions. With this figure Socrates represents indifferently our intellectual powers and their objects. But we need consider only our powers. Socrates asks us to imagine a line divided into two unequal sections. These two sections, we may say, represent opinion (%&) and knowledge ($' ) (Republic 6. 509d, 510a). Opinion, of course, concerns the multiplicity of visible and audible objects, and knowledge the unity of an intelligible object, which is an idea (Republic 5. 476a–b). He asks us to imagine further each section subdivided into two unequal segments (Republic 6. 509d–e). To the lower segments he assigns conjecture (() and belief ( ), and to the upper segments reasoning ()) and understanding (%" ) (511d–e). Conjecture and belief concern sensible images and their objects, but reasoning and understanding concern intelligible objects and their principles (509e–510c). I want to focus not on the lower but on the upper portion of this figure. I would like to draw your attention to the fact that the upper segments of the line both concern hypotheses and how to use them in intellectual inquiry. With these two segments Socrates illustrates two ways in which we can so use them. He is at some pains to show that one may use a hypothesis either to establish a conclusion or to establish a first principle. Consider the use of a hypothesis to arrive at a conclusion. This usage is one familiar to any high school sophomore who has signed up for a geometry course. One starts from hypotheses (*& + ,), assuming them to be true without argument, and then from them one draws a conclusion (*#./). For example, our geometer might assume the definitions of a triangle and a square and then proceed to make an inference about these

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concepts. When we use diagrams for this purpose, we use them only as images of the concept under consideration (510b, 510c–511b).3 Consider now the use of a hypothesis for arriving at a first principle. We may find this procedure less familiar, but college students who have studied mathematical logic have an inkling of what it is. One goes from hypotheses (*& + ,), such as geometrical definitions, to a first principle that is nonhypothetical (*

01 .% ). One then goes back to the original and other hypotheses. We might, for example, go from the postulates of Euclidian geometry to the concepts of set theory and then back to the postulates of Euclidian, Riemannian, and Lobachefskian geometries. We use no images for this purpose. Our thinking is “of ideas, through ideas, and to ideas” (510b, 511b–d).4 I would like to emphasize two points about this analysis. Socrates suggests, first of all, that we undertake an inquiry of either type only by hypothesis. We merely assume a hypothesis to be true for the purpose of drawing a conclusion from it. Or we can use a hypothesis as a “steppingstone” or “springboard” in an attempt to arrive at and to establish its truth with a first principle (Republic 6. 511b–c). That we can understand a hypothesis by means of a first principle, he explicitly asserts (511c–d).5 Second, we use a hypothesis in either way according to Socrates for the purpose of a conceptual inquiry. In the one way we attempt to draw out the implications of a concept, and these implications are themselves conceptual. Images, if used, merely reflect conceptual content. In the other way we attempt to organize our hypotheses with a first principle, but this organization is conceptual, too. Images are not even under consideration (511b–c).6 3

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Incidentally, the divided line itself functions as a geometric diagram does. It serves to illustrate epistemological and ontological concepts. Nagel is a contemporary philosopher who expresses this concept quite succinctly, though he does not connect it with Plato. “An advance in objectivity,” he asserts, “requires that already existing forms of understanding should themselves become the object of a new form of understanding, which also takes in the objects of the original forms” (View 5. 74–77). Few contemporary translators would appear to translate these passages consistently with the term “hypothesis.” But Reeve did in his recent revision of Grube’s translation (Cooper). So did Lindsay and Bloom before him. Most contemporary philosophers, however, would agree about these two functions of a hypothesis. Irwin does, for example, though he uses both the terms “hypothesis” and “assumption” (Ethics 16. 274). Annas also agrees about these functions (Introduction 11. 277–278). Tait discusses the objects represented by the divided line, and he shows in some detail how knowledge can have this conceptual purity. He argues that Plato is defending what we would call exact science, and that science of this kind is “true of a certain structure which the phenomena in question roughly exemplify but which, once grasped, we are capable of reasoning about independently of the phenomena which, in the causal sense, gave rise to it” (11–12, 15–16).

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We may now distinguish, I think, human from divine knowledge. Divine knowledge I would take to be ultimate, nonhypothetical, knowledge of first principles. If they have any knowledge, would not the gods have knowledge of first principles and not merely knowledge that they assume to be true? Indeed, they would presumably have knowledge of the one and only first principle of anything and everything.7 Human knowledge I take to be hypothetical knowledge. Following Socrates, I would argue that our hypothetical knowledge is of two kinds. We can not only reason hypothetically, but we can also understand hypothetically. That is, we can not only use our hypotheses to arrive at conclusions, but we can also arrive at prior principles as best we are able with the aid of our hypotheses. Or dare we presume to do more than to aspire to a knowledge of a principle that is truly first?8 If there can be knowledge so wondrous! Socrates himself professes not to know if knowledge of a nonhypothetical sort is in fact possible. He actually expresses some skepticism about any knowledge of an ultimate first principle. His skepticism extends explicitly to the ne plus ultra idea of the good (2 3 $ 3 (,), which, he states, is “the last to be known and hardly to be seen.” “God only knows if it happens to be true!” he declares. This idea 7

8

Contemporary physicists would call knowledge of this sort a Grand Unifying Theory (GUT) or a Theory of Everything (TOE). In their hope to develop a theory of this sort, they are currently attempting to reconcile the hypotheses of general relativity with those of quantum mechanics. Their general theory would advance a principle concerned with only a single science, however. With a different method we thus arrive at a distinction very similar to that which Vlastos makes between knowledge that is certain and knowledge that we attain by elenchus. Vlastos argues that certain knowledge absolutely cannot be otherwise, and that elenctic knowledge depends on our dialectical skill and on our opinions (Socratic 2. 48–58). Socrates, Vlastos also points out, relies on an assumption that elenctic knowledge is a consistent set of beliefs. But need Socrates assume that our beliefs, though shown to be consistent on a given occasion, are true, as Vlastos argues (Socratic 1. 25–28)? Not in any absolute sense, I would think. Human knowledge, if open to dialectical challenge, can be true only by hypothesis. Our knowledge must remain hypothetical whether we attempt to reason or to understand. Brickhouse and Smith argue that Socrates does have divine knowledge, revealed to him not only by the oracle but also in his dreams (Socrates 2. 105–107). They allege two facts in support of their claim, that Socrates trusts the oracle because a god would not lie, and that he evidenced his trust in divination when he concludes that the poets produced their works through divine knowledge (105–106). I can only respond that Socrates explicitly denies himself any grand claim to wisdom greater than human (Apology 20d–e). More particularly, he implies that he did doubt the veracity of the oracle when he undertook to disprove it (21b– c), and he in fact criticizes the poets and others for their very claim to possess knowledge of the beautiful and good (22a–c; see 21c–e). Brickhouse and Smith agree, however, that Socrates also possesses human knowledge, which they, too, call elenctic knowledge, and that elenctic knowledge is less than certain. Knowledge of this kind has its limitations, they argue, of both an inductive and a deductive nature (Socrates 2. 133–135).

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constitutes “for him appearances that thus appear ( . . . *- !% 4 !)” (Republic 7. 517b–c)!9 We have to admit, then, that human knowledge does amount to precious little. All knowledge that we might presume to possess is merely hypothetical, whether we use our hypotheses for understanding or for reasoning. Nor may we exempt this very distinction between hypothetical and nonhypothetical knowledge. We can know only hypothetically that we do not know nonhypothetically. Our knowledge is worth little or nothing, as Socrates declared. We cannot truly know a single thing. We can see, too, that an examined life is more worthy for us than an unexamined one. An examined life is a life not without some diffidence about our intellectual powers, which are rather fallible. At least, a life examined in a Socratic manner is. To know that we do not know is to know that we are apt to err. But an unexamined life is a life of foolish confidence. To think that one knows when one does not is to court disaster. A life of this sort can only be the stuff of tragedy, or, if we happen to be lucky, the stuff of comedy. Finally, we resolve our little paradox about human knowledge. In one breath Socrates uses the word “knowledge” in two senses. We can know humanly that we do not know divinely. Or we can know hypothetically that we do not know nonhypothetically. This usage is surely pardonable if the resulting paradox garners our attention. And I believe that it did, did it not?10 We find, then, that Socrates can indeed help us understand the Delphic injunction to know ourselves. We are obliged to conclude that we can know ourselves only by hypothesis. If we had other than hypothetical knowledge, we would know who we are through divine eyes. But only through our own eyes can we come to know who we might be. Our self-knowledge can be only hypothetical. But we now find that we must accept yet another conclusion. Selfknowledge turns out to be merely self-ignorance. We have seen that we must acknowledge our ignorance about the objects of our intellectual endeavors. But our ignorance about these objects surely entails an ignorance about our very selves. Or may we presume to know ourselves in some way other than that by which we know any and every other thing? Our self-knowledge, too, is worth little or nothing! 9

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Shorey wryly remarks that Plato is “much less prodigal about metaphysical ultimates” than his interpreters sometimes are (Republic, vol. 2, pp. 130, n. b). He also argues that the nonhypothetical first principle is not to be taken in an ontological sense, but that this principle is for us only an ultimate hypothesis. It is “an unrealized methodological ideal” (Idea 229–232). I take his argument to be a reminder that the nonhypothetical can be for us merely a dialectical assimilation of our hypotheses. It only appears to be nonhypothetical, as Socrates says. Vlastos agrees about the ambiguation (Socratic 2. 64–66).

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No wonder Socrates had such a difficult time with his jury! His jurors would appear to lead lives unworthy of human beings, thinking that they know themselves when they do not. He more than once becomes the object of their indignation when he asserts that the certainty of others about themselves makes them less wise than his ignorance about himself (Apology 20c– 21a, 29b–31c). He must admonish the jury even when he reminds them of his penchant for dialectics (17c–18a, 27a–b). Perhaps we can now better understand the accusation of impiety (24b–c, 26b–c). What becomes of our traditional gods if we have no divine knowledge of them? Socrates argues that he is following the divine oracle when he practices philosophy. But he also avers that he must test the utterance of the oracle to see for himself whether or not it might be true. Stop and think for a moment. If we have only human knowledge of our gods, we are in effect left on our own with the dreaded dialectical daimon whom Socrates claims to serve (31c–d). A strange divinity, indeed! 3. Contemporary philosophers, I have since learned, long after the late-night debates with my college companions, take an even less sanguine view of our sagacity than does Socrates. Yet these very philosophers, excepting the more obstreperous among them, do frequently present the appearance, at least, of being able descendants of our Athenian. I would like now to draw upon an American philosopher of this able sort for support in our endeavor to understand ourselves. This philosopher exhibits not only the diffidence of Socrates but also the dialectical acumen. I refer to none other than William James. One might imagine that James would find a life of ignorance, when viewed as a life of hypothetical knowledge, quite familiar and quite possibly congenial. He would surely applaud Socrates for the view that human knowledge is merely hypothetical. In fact, the American and the British philosophers were among the first moderns, if not the first, to observe how successful the hypothetical method is in the natural sciences and to advocate its adoption in the moral sciences. Their hope was to free us from our moral prejudices and to put us on our way toward moral progress. Nonetheless, James would likely feel a residual discomfort about a Socratic life of ignorance. What would make him uncomfortable, I think, is the purpose for which Socrates employs the hypothetical method. Socrates uses the method in intellectual inquiry exclusively for the sake of our concepts themselves. We understand with a hypothesis, on his account, when we arrive at a first principle for concepts. Or we reason with a hypothesis when we draw conclusions about concepts. In either way a hypothesis enables us only to relate our ideas to one another. I have, I admit, some sympathy for this philosophical antipathy. You no doubt do, too, if you have any empirical tendencies. Our uneasiness arises from the fact that we are accustomed to using a hypothesis for inquiry not

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about conceptual but about perceptual objects. That is, we tend to make an inquiry about the intangible and invisible objects of our intellectual life a secondary concern. Our primary concern is to inquire about the visible and tangible objects of our quotidian life. Of course, if inquiry about concepts can advance inquiry about percepts, so much the better. But are we right to indulge our ontological predilection? What reason might we have for supposing that the more rational conceptual entities are less appropriate objects of our cognitive concern than more the ephemeral perceptual entities? Can we defend our decision, if it was a decision, to assess human understanding and reasoning by their bearing upon things apparently physical? I would suggest that we might mitigate our metaphysical qualm by returning to our ancient dialectician. Curiously, if we can see how Socrates defends the practice of employing a hypothesis in conceptual inquiry, we shall be in a better position to examine how James defends the practice of applying a hypothesis in perceptual inquiry. What I intend to show is that the ancient and the contemporary concepts of knowledge, despite their considerable differences, do have some rather astounding similarities. We shall also see that, despite these similarities, the contemporary concept of knowledge resembles most of all the ancient concept of opinion. Plato presents in the Republic another paradigm that will prove helpful for addressing our present quandary. This paradigm is the simile of the sun. Socrates uses this simile as an illustration of the good and its role in determining our epistemology and our ontology. Though urged to do so, he admits that he is not able to explain what the good itself might be. His fear is that he would not be of the sort able to succeed in the attempt, and that in his eagerness he would only make himself look ridiculous (Republic 6. 506d–e). His reluctance apparently bears no irony (504e– 505a). He argues instead that the good, whatever it might be, has a nature and function in the intelligible world similar to the nature and function of the sun in the visible world. This point is especially worthy of our consideration. The sun, he explains, lavishes its world with light, and its light serves as a medium for human vision (Republic 6. 507c–508a). The light of the sun obviously gives vision to our eyes and makes objects visible. Without light our eyes can hardly see and objects can scarcely be seen (507d–e). The good, too, he continues, causes a medium, but its medium serves human intellection. This medium, he implies, is truth ( #/ ) and being ( 5) (508d). In truth and being we now encounter nothing less than the famous idea of the good (2 3 $ 3 (,) or the form of the good ( $ , ). With its form the good gives both intelligence to a knower and intelligibility to an object known. That is, its form is the cause not only of truth and knowledge as they are known but also of truth and, presumably, being as they are (508e–509a).

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Plato’s assumption, which Socrates never quite makes explicit, appears to be that our knowledge, if adequate, would be the same as its object. The good gives rise to a form that we would grasp if we truly knew and that an object would be if it truly were. After all, a form of this type is itself an idea and, hence, at once an epistemological and an ontological entity! That which truly knows and that which truly is share an ideal identity.11 But can we ever know the form of the good? Alas, we cannot. We can, unfortunately, know an object only by means of a hypothesis. Socrates thus assumes that any knowledge of ours can only approximate a form of the good. Our hypothesis might have an object that is a cause of truth and knowledge in our minds and of truth and knowability in an object. But most likely our hypothesis does not have an object of this sublime sort. If it did, we would have stumbled upon the one and only, nonhypothetical, first principle of the all.12 Now, I would draw your attention to the fact that with his simile Plato confines the intelligible realm to knowledge and its objects only. This realm is, of course, that of being. The good causes a medium through which we can know concepts and through which concepts can be known, if only hypothetically. Socrates does not devote any attention to opinion and its objects, except to mention them by contrast. The realm of opinion, he states, is that of coming to be and of ceasing to be (Republic 6. 508d). When he develops his simile, Socrates thus concerns himself only with the realm of knowledge and knowable objects. He is obviously concerned with knowledge because it is a necessary qualification, sine qua non, he argues, for an ideal ruler, who must be a philosopher as well as a politician (Republic 5. 473c–d). He acknowledges, nonetheless, a need for opinion. He asserts that a candidate for political rule must have not only knowledge but also 11

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I take this interpretation to be nothing unusual. Annas, for example, would agree with the interpretation in its essentials. She rightly points out that the good is fundamental both in the understanding of things and in the nature of things. But she is quick to caution us not to confuse “the sovereignty of the good with shallow optimism about Providence and all being for the best.” She finds Plato extremely pessimistic “about the amount of goodness to be found in the actual world” (Introduction 10. 245–247). I am not so sure how pessimistic Plato is, but the extant world is less than perfect, to be sure. Irwin would seem to agree. He asserts that we must be able to grasp a form “by some cognitive state, superior to mere belief, that does not require knowledge of the Good” (Ethics 16. 271). But he does not indicate that this cognitive state could very well be hypothetical knowledge. Annas would appear to disagree. She overlooks the possibility that one might have hypothetical knowledge about the good, and she suggests instead that one can have opinion about it. Citing Republic 5. 506b–e, she claims that Socrates himself possesses opinion of this kind (Introduction 10. 243–244; 8. 194). But Glaucon is the one who suggests in the passage cited that Socrates might have opinion about the good. Socrates himself not only denies that he has knowledge of the good but also replies to Glaucon that opinion without knowledge is shameful. If so, opinion would hardly be appropriate to provide us with an awareness of the good.

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experience, especially in political and military matters (Republic 7. 519b–d, 520c, 539e). Plato, therefore, leaves a lacuna in his analysis. One would think that more might remain to be said about the realm of opinion and its objects. Perhaps another offspring of the good, so to speak, somehow between the good and the sun, could produce a medium for opining, similar in function to both the intellectual light of knowing and the visual light of seeing. This medium might transmit opinable forms, distinct from intelligible and sensible forms, to explain how we can hypothesize about objects of opinion. Could there be, then, an intellectual medium concerned with becoming? If so, are there intellectual functions concerned with opinion and its objects? In other words, Can we use a hypothesis to understand a first principle concerned with objects of becoming? Or to attempt to understand one? Can we use a hypothesis to reason about objects of this sort? Affirmative answers to these questions could put us more at ease about the ontology to which we have become accustomed. To answer these questions would seem a Herculean task. Could we by ourselves hope to discover a medium for opining? I myself am not entirely indiffident about my own powers, and you may not be, either. But, fortunately, we need not put our philosophical prowess to the test. Other, more able philosophers have already discovered and discussed a medium of the very kind we seek, though they fail to divine its connection with ancient philosophy. The American pragmatists now make their appearance, and in their forefront we find William James. James does not explicitly acknowledge, as far as I can tell, that his empirical epistemology has any connection with the ancient distinction between knowledge and opinion. What this pragmatic philosopher does do is explain for us how we may know objects of becoming. When he does so, he enables us to see that knowledge in the contemporary sense is essentially the same as opinion in the ancient sense. More to our present purpose, he also indicates that there is a medium concerned with opinion and its object. James speaks neither of the good nor of the sun. But he does speak of human experience. He argues that our experience provides us with an intellectual medium! To distinguish it from the conceptual light of Plato, one might call this experiential medium an apperceptual light or, less pedantically perhaps, a perceptual light.13 But James calls this medium simply knowing. Knowing, he explains, is one part of experience that connects 13

James himself follows common usage when he speaks of concepts and percepts. But he would do better to speak of concepts, appercepts, and percepts. An appercept I take to be an intellectual awareness of a perceptible object. A percept is more strictly a sensed awareness of a perceptible object. We might argue by analogy that as knowledge divides classically into knowledge proper and opinion, so perception divides into apperception and perception proper. That is to say, perception is a homonymic genus. I shall for the most part conform to common usage, but I would ask the reader to bear this distinction in mind.

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other parts of experience with one another. The parts that it connects are, I need hardly remind you, a subject who knows and an object that is known (Empiricism 1. 4–5)! He continues to argue that this medium of knowing has functions astoundingly similar to the Platonic media of intellectual light or of sunlight. Our experience is “double-barrelled,” he famously asserts. It functions, through knowing, both as an intelligence in a subject and as an intelligibility in an object! Or, as he himself puts the matter, experience separates itself into the consciousness of a knower and the content of an object known. This separation, he argues, experience brings about through different associations of a part of itself with other parts. Associations in one context play the role of a knower; in another context they play the role of a known thing (9–10). Consider his own example. A room, such as the one in which you are now sitting, is situated at the intersection of two processes. The one process is subjective, and the other objective. Both processes determine a context for the room, and they each do so with associations. Its subjective context is one of the biography of the person who happens to be in it, but its objective context is one of the history of the building in which the room is located. The one is the result of operations such as “sensations, emotions, decisions, movements, classifications, expectations, etc.” But the other is the result of such operations as “carpentering, papering, furnishing, warming, etc.” (12–15). But how can a single room be in two places at once? James explicitly answers this question with an analogy. Our room is in two contexts very much as a point can be in two lines. The room is at an intersection of two processes that connect it with associations of different kinds, just as a point, he implies, can be at an intersection of two lines that connect it with other points in different series. But the room, like the point, he asserts explicitly, “would remain all the time a numerically single thing” (12). James would thus appear to rely on an assumption curiously Platonic – namely, that our knowledge, if adequate, would be identical with its object! Our experience on his account yields an entity that is at once epistemological and ontological. Though he does, I concede, speak disparagingly of the possibility that our knowledge might be the same as its object. When he does, however, he speaks only of absolute knowledge, which he takes to be mere dogmatism (Will 1. 13–14, for example). Indeed, he clearly argues that empirical knowledge can be identical to its object. Knowing, he asserts more generally, utilizes an identical “presentation” or “a mere that” which enables a subject to know and an object to be known. That is, “the very same that” is present in the mental activities “ending in the present” and “extending into the future” and in the activities terminating in “previous physical operations” and continuing in “future ones” (Empiricism 1. 13–15, his italics).14 14

Myers does not think that James can distinguish a thought from a thing in this way. He considers James’s example of a pen, which also may, as may any object, receive its function

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We can now begin to see how James defends our ontological penchant for perceptible objects. James and Plato advance epistemologies and ontologies with an incredibly similar structure, despite their obvious differences. We may draw an analogy between the good and its function and human experience and its function. As the good provides a singular form that gives us the ability to know and enables an object to be known, so, too, our experience provides a singular form that enables us to know and an object to be known. After all, “a mere that” is a form that both a thought and a thing have in our experience. One can also see that a Platonic form and a Jamesian form are both ultimates. At least, for us they are. The good does not exist for us except as forms of knowledge and known objects. The most we can know about the good appears to be only that it is the source of the forms (Republic 6. 508e– 509a).15 So, too, pure experience does not exist for us except as forms of knowledge and objects known. We can know only the various natures that we encounter within it and not experience itself (Empiricism 1. 26–27). However, I would not dream of denying a salient dissimilarity between the Athenian and the American. The Platonic good provisions us with a conceptual form, which philosophers frequently take to be fixed, but Jamesian experience can provide us only with a perceptual form, which is fleeting. The one form is ideally eternal and necessary, but the other is empirically contingent and temporal.16 We may conclude, I think, that James supplies a philosophical foundation that can give us some confidence about our turn from ancient to contemporary ontology. As the good provisions us with an ideal medium for knowledge in the ancient sense, so human experience provides an empirical medium

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from subjective or objective associations (James 11. 309–310). He asserts that we cannot point to an undifferentiated that, which functions in both contexts, nor can we view the same pen in both contexts without contradiction (310). James, however, advances these very propositions himself. There is no undifferentiated that, which is free from any associations, except for “new-born babes” or “men in semi-coma” (Empiricism 3. 93–94). A pen or any object does have contradictory attributes in different contexts, just as a man may be “tall in relation to one neighbor, and short in relation to another” (Empiricism 2. 80–82; 3. 100–106). Myers has fallen into the pitfall, James would say, of taking for real distinctions distinctions merely verbal (Empiricism 3. 103–104). Irwin suggests that the good is “not identical to any of the other Forms” but that “it is not independent of the totality of the Forms whose goodness it explains.” The good, he tells us, is “the appropriate combination and arrangement of them” (Ethics 16. 272–273). But could we not know a combination and arrangement of this sort? Hypothetically, of course. We would thus know the good as more than a source of the forms. If only! In more contemporary terms I am arguing that Plato and James present us with two versions of what Nagel would probably call a heroic skepticism. Both philosophers assume that our knowledge has some identity with its object, and yet they both argue that our knowledge is merely hypothetical (see View 5. 68–70). Nagel, of course, does not ascribe this view to Plato. He asserts that Plato advances a heroic epistemology, which apparently presupposes an absolute identity between our knowledge and its object (69). But Nagel is hardly alone in this ascription.

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for knowledge in the contemporary sense. But, of course, a medium of either type, ideal or empirical, cannot enable us poor mortals to know anything in an absolute sense. Only in a hypothetical sense can we know. But we now encounter a philosophical prejudice that for us mortals can only border on ultimate, if it is not in fact ultimate. The Platonic good may indeed provide a foundation for our knowledge and our reality. But how could we ever know that we are so honored? Only our humble experience would appear to provide a foundation for human knowledge, however exalted it might seem. Our ideas, though they may at times appear to approach the divine, are human only, and they have their origin, decidedly modest, in our meager impressions. Within our own experience we thus find media for both conception and perception. We may employ within our experience a conceptual form to define a knower and an object known, but we may also employ a perceptual form to define a perceiver and an object perceived. But even a conceptual form for us is knowledge only in the pragmatic sense. And pragmatic knowledge is none other than opinion in the Platonic sense. Opinion for Plato concerns a perceptual object. It takes for its object becoming, and becoming is surely perceptual if anything is. We also see, even more importantly, how James enables us to fathom better our self-knowledge. Consider a simple syllogism. Self-knowledge, if we are right to follow James, surely includes knowledge of our own concepts and percepts. But knowledge of our own concepts and percepts constitutes our only knowledge of an object, if our associations be not pure illusion. Self-knowledge would, therefore, be the sum total of all knowledge not only of ourselves but of anything else, be it ideal or real! At least, it would for mortals, such as we be. I would like now to consider whether James could retain the Socratic distinction between understanding and reasoning. Can our self-knowledge include both understanding and reasoning about ourselves? Within Jamesian experience, I mean. I believe that it can. James himself retains the distinction if only implicitly. He recognizes, though applied differently, two functions for hypotheses. He rather clearly implies that we can use a hypothesis for understanding. A knower can establish a hypothesis if it leads to another part of experience that is conceived. Indeed, our ideas may form “related systems” that correspond to systems of realities, presumably experiential (Empiricism 2. 52–54, 61). Lest he seem to do so, I would again point out that he does not admit any human ability to know in a classical sense when we refer one concept to another. He might seem to suggest that our knowledge can concern concepts only. But he takes care to remind us that, when we refer our concepts to one another, we have only virtual knowledge (67–69). We can have actual knowledge only when we refer our concepts to percepts (54–58). But James also acknowledges that we may use a hypothesis to reason. This use of a hypothesis is essentially what he calls knowing. He all but asserts that

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a hypothesis is one part of experience. This part is usually a conceptual part, and it constitutes a knower. And a knower, he argues, may take a concept for true if it leads to another part of experience that is perceptual. This perceptual part constitutes a known object (Empiricism 1. 25–26; also 2. 52–58, 60–61). James thus argues that we may understand a concept by creating a system of concepts and by verifying it with other concepts. But he emphasizes that these other concepts are themselves subject to verification with percepts. Nor ought we to use our hypothesis to reason about our concepts and to use our percepts as mere images of them, except perhaps as an intermediary process. We ought rather to use a hypothesis to reason about our percepts themselves and to treat them as objects to be known. In other words, he gives lesser priority to understanding than to reasoning, and he argues that reasoning concerns not conceptual but perceptual objects. But he does concede that we do, practically speaking, rest many of our verifications on our concepts alone. We simply take them for true if they are not contradicted (Empiricism 2. 67–69). He also adds that we may take our concepts as their own objects when our concepts can never terminate in a percept. I might do so, for example, with my concept of your curiosity or anger (72–74). But I wonder whether we ought not rather to make understanding prior and to avoid an emphasis on reasoning. With understanding may not our hypotheses enable us to find a first principle for our percepts? With them we may not arrive at an ultimate, truly first principle, but we might well discover a principle that can present us with an enlarged perceptual view of ourselves and of our perceptual predicament, so to speak. May we not use hypotheses concerned with perceptual objects as a “steppingstone” or a “springboard”?17 Our inquiry would now seem complete! Indeed, you might wonder, Why did I bother with Plato? Have I not in fact repudiated him? Why did I not simply follow James from the start? My answer must be that James, though he utilizes empirical principles, neglects a rather important perceptual principle of association. He appears to reject an association of this kind because he rejects what he takes to be its customary ontology – as do most, if not all, contemporary philosophers. This principle of association is the relation of a whole to its parts. Incredibly, James assumes that the ancient Greek concept of a whole and its parts can be a concept only in a rigorous logical or ontological 17

Nagel propounds an objective view of ourselves that bears some similarity to this enlarged perceptual view (View 4. 60–66). But his concept of the interrelationship between the objective and the subjective view differs from my own, as we shall see in Chapter 3. I would also agree with Nagel that we appear to possess an a priori rationalism without having any innate knowledge (View 5. 82–84). I wish only that I could have expressed the matter so well myself. But his concept of what practical function this rationalism has also differs from mine, as we shall see in Chapter 4.

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form. That is, only in the form of an eternal absolute. But he takes pains to refute any logical or ontological relations among objects and to make use of experienced relations only. He does not allow himself to begin with logical or ontological wholes and to make them prior to their parts, he explains. He begins instead with experienced parts and makes wholes out of them (Empiricism 2. 41–42). To connect these parts, he uses only relations that are themselves experienced. We must take into consideration, he argues, everything that we find in direct experience, especially experienced relations (42). He is thus able to build upon the principles of association that David Hume set forth before him. To the principles of contiguity, similarity, and causation, he adds what he calls the principle of “co-conscious transition,” by which one experience passes into another (44–45, 47–49).18 We can thus be cognizant only of objects that are contingent and temporal. We find in these objects only an epistemological continuity, not an ontological one. But this epistemological continuity, he further informs us, is not one that we know but one that we feel (49). The mere felt continuity of one experience passing into another is in fact what constitutes not only an object but its very nature, he argues (50–52).19 But it ain’t necessarily so! to repeat an old jazz refrain. I agree with James that we ought to take into account everything that we directly experience. But in experience we find, I believe, that a whole need hardly be a necessary entity. Do we not encounter organic wholes constituted by empirical interactions of cause and effect among their parts? Consider the plants and animals that surround us. Or consider your very self and my own self! We thus encounter in daily, everyday experience wholes that are not eternal absolutes in any sense. The wholes that we encounter and the causal interactions that we observe within them are nothing other than relative temporalities. What is more, the principle of cause and effect philosophers have long recognized to be a principle of association. At least, we have since Hume, whose epistemology James builds on. The origin of the idea of continuity and sameness, James does rightly assert, lies in the sense of continuity occasioned when one experience passes into another within ourselves. We cannot abstract this idea, he rightly argues, 18

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Or is this felt transition implicit in Hume’s concepts of probability and necessity (see Understanding 6–7.)? Myers takes James to be arguing that the relations among objects are “immediate perceptual data” and “distinct entities.” He appears to think that we ought to take as a literal identity what is merely an analogy that James draws between our internal feelings of relations and our external feelings of visual or tactile sensations. James claims, he tells us, that “we can literally see (hear, feel, touch) relations.” Myers accordingly concludes that James is vulnerable not to a conceptual regress but to a perceptual one (James 11. 330–332). His recommendation? That James rely not on a perceived continuity but rather on a continuity that we feel (332– 333)!

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into a static absolute concept, lest we lose experience itself (Empiricism 2. 50–52). But must we conceive of this idea, so abstracted, as an absolute concept? May we not associate this idea as a percept with an object perceived? Does not one perceived object pass continuously into another? Indeed, all objects of this sort obviously do so and do so unceasingly. We can, therefore, accept the principle of continuous transition that James advances. But we ought to regard this principle as one that we can perceive and not merely feel. As a consequence, we find that we inhabit not a universe with an unchanging, absolute order but a universe that has a changing, relative order within it. Our universe would have an order at least to the extent that it has within itself an organic unity of parts, despite any residual disorder, and this organic unity we can attribute to it as an object. Indeed, it would appear to have a plurality of organic unities within it, and they would all appear to be objective. James has a universe admittedly more chaotic. He characterizes it without one single type of connection and more as a conglomeration of connections. His most vivid metaphor is a fetish with myriad appendages. Our universe may have a core of common perception, he says, but its parts remain mostly out of sight of one another. Our universe is thus largely subjective and pluralistic (Empiricism 2. 46–47). Our ontological hypothesis suggests, what is more important, that, though we eschew what James takes to be its ontology of being, we can yet embrace the ancient ontology as if it were an ontology of becoming. We may set aside any concept of an alleged unchanging whole and take up a concept of a changing whole. Why could one not entertain the Greek hypotheses concerning natural objects as if they had an ontological nature of a merely transitory sort? One could then ask, Is our universe an organized whole? and, Are we ourselves organized wholes? James’s reliance on Hume, incidentally, gives us another, more familiar perspective from which to view the difference between Plato and James. Consider how Hume distinguishes relations of ideas from matters of fact. Relations of ideas, he suggests, are logical relations subject to the principle of contradiction. But the principles of association, or custom, govern matters of fact known solely by experience. Why? Relations of ideas we know to be true because their contraries are false. But matters of fact can be either true or false because their contraries may also be true or false (Understanding 4. 1. 25–26).20 20

Myers recognizes that James follows Locke and Hume in distinguishing relations of ideas from matters of fact. He observes that James attempts to trace our knowledge of ideas as such back to the organic structure of our brains (James 10. 281–283). But Meyer has reservations about James’s deployment of this distinction. He argues that the distinction is not “abrupt or clear-cut” because we may, James argues, incorporate our knowledge of ideas into our knowledge of empirical facts (288–289). He thus forgets the fact, though he mentions it, that the distinction between concepts and percepts rests with our intention.

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With this distinction we can see more clearly the dissimilarity between the Platonic and the Jamesian concepts of knowledge and the similarity between the Platonic concept of opinion and the Jamesian concept of knowledge. I take the Humeian relations of ideas to bear a rather close resemblance to knowledge in the ancient sense, and opinion in the ancient sense I take to resemble closely our impressions of matters of fact. After all, the Platonic dialectic does concern ideas themselves and turns on the principle of contradiction. But empirical knowledge turns on the principles of association and concerns matters of fact! It concerns percepts, remembered or imagined, taken to be factual. I thus offer you, dear reader, an initial pragmatic variation on a Platonic theme. You can now see that within our humble experience a relation need not be a logical or an ontological one in the sense of an eternal, unchanging concept. We may experience a relation that is logical or ontological in the sense of a temporal changing appercept. Or, one might say, we may experience a relation in the pragmatic sense of a perceived object. This pragmatic stance obviously differs from the Platonic one. I am granting less priority to knowledge in Plato’s sense than to opinion in his sense. Opinion, I reiterate, I take to be identical with apperceptual, or more commonly perceptual, awareness. But my pragmatic stance differs from the Jamesian, too. An experienced relation is more one of understanding than reasoning, and because perceptual it is not one merely emotional. What I hope to show before long is that an understanding of our percepts is essential for human happiness. We cannot hope to act for the sake of a rational function of our own if we cannot perceive our own empirical functions and the empirical functions of other objects. In other words, there could be no happiness for us because we could not act for the sake of an action itself without percepts of this kind. 4. What about moral knowledge? If our knowledge is merely ignorance, could we mortals ever hope to live a good life? If our knowledge is hypothetical and concerns only our own concepts and percepts, could we possibly know any objective truth, let alone a moral truth? William James himself despairs of obtaining a moral truth, or any truth, that might be objective. Nonetheless, we can only now, I think, begin to discern what an ethics, at once pragmatic and objective, might be. Let us conjure up our dear Socrates one more time. At his trial Socrates claims to be possessed of a spirit or daimon (). More literally, he informs us that within him something divine and daimonic ( 6% %) comes to be. This something, he says, is a certain voice, and this voice, he explains, has a curious function. When it comes to him, the voice does not persuade him to perform any action, but it only dissuades him from performing an action that he had intended to do (Apology 31c–d). This spirit, I wish to suggest, is sufficient to provide Socrates with a foundation for ethics. We shall see that a kindred spirit will prove sufficient for us,

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too. But I first ought to acknowledge that the Socratic spirit comes bearing fresh paradoxes. The foundation it provides is justice itself, to be sure. This proposition ought not to be surprising. But the proposition has an epistemological peculiarity that might be surprising. If I am right, justice of the Socratic variety can be hypothetical only. This assertion my reader may find, at least initially, rather unPlatonic. Yet you must admit that the assertion, if it stands up, is not unpragmatic. But we soon face another paradox. Socrates actually asserts that he is possessed of moral knowledge! At his trial he makes not one but two assertions about his knowledge. He famously professes to know that he does not know. But he also proclaims that he knows what he ought to do or, rather, what he ought not to do (Apology 29b). But the assertion that his knowledge is really ignorance might seem to deny him any claim to moral knowledge. As if to draw attention to this apparent contradiction, he admonishes us, when he claims to have moral knowledge, that to think one knows when one does not is most reproachable (29b). When we resolve them, however, we shall find that these two paradoxes are not entirely unrelated. But to resolve them, we must first ask, What moral knowledge does Socrates claim to possess? His claim is that someone about to act ought only to consider whether he engages in actions that are just or unjust (% )) and whether he performs actions that are the work of a good or bad man ( $ 3 7 $ 3) (Apology 28b). But what would be the work of a good person? Surely, anyone who is good performs just actions. But what would a just action be? These bare assertions seem at best platitudes. Fortunately, Socrates goes on to explain what he means by goodness and justness. These concepts he defines in a way not at all unfamiliar to those familiar with Plato’s more ambitious dialogue about justice. We are just, he states, when we stay where we find ourselves stationed by a ruler or where we think we might best station ourselves (Apology 28d). A just action, he implies rather strongly, is to do the work appropriate for us. Or, more colloquially, it is to mind our own business (see Republic 4. 433a–b). He again uses himself as an example. His station is to philosophize and his work is to examine himself and others (Apology 28d–29a). His work, more particularly, is to show others that human wisdom, especially if compared with divine wisdom, is worth little or nothing (22e–23c). This he does by showing others that he is wiser than they. The paradox of moral knowledge aside, he professes to know only that he does not know. The others pretend to know when they do not (21b–e). But how can we know what our station might be? Socrates finds that his daimon indicates to him what it is. This spirit simply dissuades him from leaving his philosophical post. That is why he does not participate in politics, except when required by law. He would have been unable to philosophize and of no service to the Athenians if he had entered politics. Any attempt to oppose their unjust and illegal actions would have meant that he would

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have been put to death long ago. To fight for justice, therefore, he found that he had to refrain from becoming a politician and to remain a private person (31d–33a). We see, then, that Socrates has a spirit that provides him with a foundation for morality. This foundation turns out to be nothing other than justice, though he gives us only an adumbration of what it is. We moderns might say that his spirit works in a manner almost Kantian. As Immanuel Kant argues that whatever is not consistent with his concept of the categorical imperative is impermissible, so Socrates argues that whatever is inconsistent with the concept of his function is not just. Kant, in fact, uses the concept of his categorical imperative to define a moral function for us. This function, however, is merely autonomy or self-legislation. Yet one might wonder, How could this foundation be hypothetical? This question is likely to be disconcerting not only for the self-avowed Platonists among us but also for many nonPlatonists as well. We can answer this more troubling question by staying with our example. Socrates leaves little doubt that his concept of justice provides him with a rather firm conviction about his own work. He avers that he cannot break faith with the god of Delphi and that he cannot keep quiet but must continue to practice philosophy. He actually declares, often to the dismay of younger readers, myself once included, that he could not stop philosophizing even if he were offered an acquittal on condition that he would (Apology 29b–30b, 37e–38a). How, then, could his concept possibly be only hypothetical? Indeed, Socrates defends literally to the death his concept of justice. How many of us would have the courage to defend so valiantly a mere hypothesis? And yet we might very well find ourselves obliged to admit that justice so defined must be hypothetical. We know already from Socrates that all human knowledge is of this kind. But all our knowledge would include our moral knowledge, would it not? Those readers who remain skeptical may wish to recall the paradigm of the divided line. Only with hypotheses can we understand or reason, Socrates argues. We can have no nonhypothetical divine knowledge, and our hypotheses, however we use them, remain nothing more than hypotheses. They are merely assumptions from which we attempt to arrive at a first principle or from which we draw a conclusion. However, our little syllogisms may not be entirely convincing, especially if our lives were at stake. Can we find a more persuasive argument? I believe that we can. If we consider why he practices philosophy, we can see not only that Socrates knows what justice is by hypothesis. We can see also that he tests his hypothesis about his own function to the very best of his ability. Indeed, he tests it in a manner that we ought to find quite acceptable today. Socrates’ experience with the oracle was what led him to the realization that he ought to philosophize. He was so at a loss with the utterance of the oracle that he had to examine it. How did he undertake his examination?

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With reluctance he hypothesized that the assertion about himself was true, and he attempted to refute it by discovering counterexamples! He turned to those who seemed to be wise with the expectation that they would prove to be wiser than he (Apology 21b–c).21 But he found that his hypothesis withstood its tests. He was not able to refute the oracle because he was unable to find a single counterexample. He failed to find someone wiser than he, though he continues his search (23b–c). Because he could not refute it, he simply had to conclude, despite his best efforts at refutation, that the oracle meant for him to serve as an example of the fact that human wisdom is worth so precious little (23a–b).22 In a similar way Socrates takes on the job of waking us up to the fact that moral knowledge is not worth much, either. His work, in other words, is to teach us that all knowledge, even of the moral variety, is merely hypothetical. In this capacity Socrates likes to refer to himself as a gadfly. His function, he says, is to awaken the Athenians, as a fly might awaken a lethargic horse, and to urge them to care for their virtue, as would a father or a brother (30d–31b). His work regarding knowledge in general and moral knowledge in particular is thus the same. As he examines and refutes those who think that they know when they do not, so he examines and rebukes those who state that they are virtuous when they are not (29e–30b; also 41e–42a). Indeed, one might imagine that many who are conceited in their ignorance would in fact be numbered among those conceited in their virtue or lack thereof. He argues, accordingly, that he would make the Athenians not seem but be happy ( ) (36d–e). Unfortunately, he does not at his trial elaborate his concept of happiness, either. He tells his jury only that his greatest benefit to them was his attempt to persuade each to take care to be his best (,# ) and his most prudent (! ). That is why he deserves to be boarded at the Prytaneum, he contends (36c–d). I shall simply assume for now that to be happy is to have a spirit that functions well. Indeed, the ancient Greek word for being happy means etymologically to be well in spirit.23 More specifically, I shall before long argue 21

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Oddly, Popper does not appear to consider Plato’s methodology as such. At least, I have been unable to find a passage in which he does. When he discusses the method, he invariably turns his attention to Plato’s ontological assumptions (e.g., Society 1. 3. 31–32). With his distinction between certain knowledge and elenctic knowledge Vlastos would agree. Elenctic knowledge, he argues, includes moral knowledge, and moral knowledge in its turn includes presumptive knowledge. Knowledge of the presumptive sort is not self-evidently true and is always subject to elenctic confirmation or refutation (Socratic 3. 73–75, 138– 139). Yet Vlastos would distinguish mathematical from moral knowledge on the grounds that mathematics is certain knowledge and contains no presumptive knowledge (83–86). Non-Euclidian geometries, however, suggest that all disciplines contain knowledge subject to further scrutiny. The word is a compound of 8, which means well, and , which means spirit.

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that to be happy is to act on the basis of a moral hypothesis about our function. The implication would be that to refute old moral hypotheses and to formulate new ones would be to become our most prudent and our best. The Socratic daimon, we may conclude, is an intellectual power by which we accept hypotheses as true, even moral ones, and by which we refute and revise our hypotheses when we encounter evidence to the contrary. These hypotheses would include even our most cherished and hallowed concepts, such as justice itself. In this very way Socrates was able to discover his own function of philosophizing as well as the value of our all-too-human knowledge. Socrates may thus claim both that he knows nothing and that he has moral knowledge. When he claims to know nothing, Socrates claims not to have divine knowledge but only human knowledge of his ignorance. He knows humanly that he does not know divinely. We should, I submit, take his claim about moral knowledge in a similar way. When he claims to have moral knowledge, he claims to have merely human knowledge of what he ought or ought not to do. My reader can surely see how pragmatic a philosophy Plato offers. Moral knowledge is nothing other than a hypothesis to be evaluated by its consequences for our virtue and happiness! Any American philosopher worthy of the name should be quite pleased with a philosophy of this kind, should he not? Do not the pragmatists all argue that we ought to appraise human knowledge by examining its consequences? Do they not want especially to use the hypothetical method to deal with moral matters? So one would think. William James, for example, argues that moral knowledge can be only hypothetical. Indeed, no knowledge is nonhypothetical on his account. He argues at length against absolutist knowledge of any sort. An absolutist, he explains, claims to know with certainty that he knows something (Will 1. 12). What occasions this certainty is a supposedly indubitable adequation of our knowledge with a known object (13–14). Instead of absolute knowledge, James argues for what he calls empiricist knowledge. An empiricist does not claim to know infallibly that he has knowledge. He may have knowledge, and he may assume his knowledge to be adequate to some degree with its object. But he does not assume that he can know with any certainty that he has knowledge that is in fact adequate. “To know is one thing, and to know for certain that we know is another,” James declares (12, his emphasis). Socrates would surely find the mental attitude of James’s absolutist quite familiar. A state of this sort would be tantamount to one of divine knowledge, to which his examinees pretend. Only if we knew the forms themselves would we have knowledge of this indubitable certainty. The forms alone could make us truly knowledgeable and objects truly knowable. But we would have to be nothing less than gods to possess knowledge with a provenance so unshakeable.

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He also would, I think, find the epistemological diffidence of an empiricist rather congenial. One might not think that he would because not to know that we know might not seem quite the same as to know that we do not know. But the Bostonian and the Athenian appear to agree that we can know humanly that we know only humanly. James argues, if I read him rightly, that we do not know divinely that we know humanly, and Socrates that we know humanly that we do not know divinely. I assume only divine and human knowledge. Yet our sailing is not all so smooth. Despite their agreement that our knowledge is only human, James provides our moral knowledge with a foundation that, I believe, Socrates might well have some hesitation about accepting. This foundation James calls “our passional nature.” When we have no intellectual grounds, we must decide among hypotheses on the basis of our passions. Not to decide among them, he argues, would itself be a “passional decision” (Will 1. 11). Decisions that rest on our passions are especially the stuff of moral knowledge, he explains. A moral question is a question not about a sensible object but about what is good; and what is good, he implies, is a felt object. If we wish to decide a question of moral worth, we must thus forgo any scientific pretense and consult our heart a` la Pascal. But moral questions are not exclusively so privileged. We must ultimately determine even the worth of science, he argues, through counsel with our heart (22–23).24 James is quite explicit about our passional nature, which he identifies with our willing nature. This nature includes old “habits of belief ” that now appear inescapable as well as such factors as “fear and hope, prejudice and passion, imitation and partisanship, the circumpressure of our caste and set.” These varied factors make up an “intellectual climate” that lends “authority” and “prestige” to our moral opinions. As if he were not clear enough, he adds that “we hardly know why or how” we hold a moral belief (8–10).25 With this concept of our passional nature James also distinguishes among moral hypotheses. His distinctions include one that is particularly illustrative for our purposes. The distinction is that between a live and a dead hypothesis. A live hypothesis we are willing to act on, and a dead one we are not, James argues. Our very willingness to act is in fact what brings a hypothesis to life. But its fitness for action has another consequence, he explains. This fitness is what actually brings us to believe in a hypothesis. Our willingness to act on 24

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Brennan, by the way, shows quite nicely how James’s concept of our passional nature is pivotal not only for his view of morality but also for his epistemological, metaphysical, and religious views. This position is not unknown among contemporary philosophers. Williams, for example, appears to accept it. He argues that we may be able to show how our practices hang together, but that we may not be able to provide a reason for them to someone who does not share them (Ethics 6. 113–115). The implication is that we are habitually attached to them. They “command some loyalty,” in Williams’s words (116–117).

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a hypothesis and our belief in a hypothesis vary in direct proportion (Will 1. 2–3). He even argues that our belief in a hypothesis can actually create its truth by causing a fact. This proposition he finds especially true of a hypothesis concerned with moral matters (24–25). He argues, for example, that if we believe that another person likes us, and if we expect to be liked and act with trust, our belief itself will in many instances cause another to like us. But if we stand aloof, we are unlikely to be liked. As an example, he advances the romantic notion that, if he courts her with the firm belief that she cannot but love him, a man is bound to vanquish a woman (23–24). We thus encounter a difference of no little consequence between Platonic ethics and pragmatic ethics. Would Socrates agree that we can base our moral beliefs on our feelings? He would not. Socrates argues that the best philosophers themselves as well as their hypotheses are both dead! At least, as far as our passional nature is concerned they are. His proclamation is fortunate because it points the way to a moral theory that can avoid the intellectual extreme of Platonism so-called and the passional extreme of pragmatism. Socrates actually claims that death is a boon for those among us who claim to be philosophers! He explains that death, if not complete oblivion, is a migration of the soul to another place (Apology 40c). To dwell in this place, he argues, if all the dead were there, would be a great good (40e). He offers three rather poignant reasons for so thinking. The most poignant is that we would find in Hades true judges, such as Minos and Rhadamanthus (40e–41a). The implication, left unsaid, is that to be judged truly by others is a benefit. Who among us would not find judges of this kind a relief? Not to mention Socrates himself. Many contemporary readers may find this discussion about death somewhat superstitious if not downright silly. Oblivion might seem a more viable option than a bloodless life after death. But Socrates explains himself at greater length and makes his position more plausible in his prison cell on the very day of his execution. This discussion takes us to the heart of his conception of an intellectual life, both in its epistemological and its ethical aspects. He argues that philosophers are particularly good candidates for death because they practice nothing other than dying. But he appears to speak rather of a psychological death than of a physiological one, though he does not make the distinction explicit. Death he defines quite simply as the departure of our soul from our body (1 9 :.09 3 ##$/). The soul is released from the body, and the body from the soul, and soul and body, he states, come to be separately by themselves (Phaedo 64c). We may call a death of this kind psychological, I think, because this departure of soul from body we are able to accomplish epistemologically. Philosophers cannot adequately obtain true knowledge when their soul has ties to

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their body, Socrates argues. What we seek to know, of course, is justice and goodness themselves. But these concepts we can grasp only with our intellect itself in accordance with itself (9 ; +1 (# 6 9< ), he informs us emphatically. We cannot see them with our eyes or perceive them with our other senses (65d–66a). Our eyes and ears, our most acute senses, are of little service in the search for truth because they are not accurate enough. The other senses are even less helpful (65a–b). But we philosophers also find ourselves without any leisure for philosophy when our soul has emotional ties to our body. The body hinders us not only with its idols and follies but also with its desires and fears, and it keeps us busy with its needs (66b–e). Socrates explains that our practical knowledge (! %" ) and our virtue constitute a catharsis () ) of our emotions. To become virtuous, we ought to exchange pleasures and pains for knowledge. Courage, for example, we attain with knowledge about what is to be feared, and temperance with knowledge about what is to be enjoyed. We cannot merely exchange pain for pain or pleasure for pleasure, he explains. To face death through fear of greater evils is cowardice. One is still acting out of fear (68d–69c).26 We philosophers above all ought thus to separate our soul epistemologically from our body and to collect our soul together apart from the body and live by the soul itself and her power (67b–d). “Those who bear the thyrsus are many, but the Bacchantes are few,” he informs us, “and these few in my opinion are none other than those who have philosophized rightly (= !#!"% > ' )” (69c–d). He even confides that he himself has left nothing in his power undone to become one of them (69d). Socrates a Bacchant? Yes! A Bacchant, he explains, is one who undergoes a catharsis by obtaining wisdom in exchange for pleasure and pain. Only thus may one go to dwell with the gods (69c). What Socrates suggests, in other words, is that we ought to live rationally, not passionally, if we wish to act morally. Even though he agrees with James that we ought to act on a moral hypothesis. We can also see, if we reflect for a moment, that James offers rather benign examples, such as friendship and courtship, in support of choosing a moral hypothesis by passion. Socrates could easily counter with examples that, we might say, are malign. One example that springs immediately to mind would be his jury and its actions. The jury did not rest its decision to condemn him on affection or love but rather on hatred ( ,0 ), jealousy (! % ), and slander (#/) (Apology 18d, 20d, 22e–23a, 23d–e, 24a–b, 28a–b, 31e). These passions Socrates traces back to those whom he calls his earlier, mostly anonymous, accusers. These accusers he finds particularly dangerous 26

Also see Apology 38e. Socrates there states that to act out of fear of death would be a thing unfree ( #? ).

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and not merely because they make accusations that are serious. He all but calls their accusations old “habits of belief”! They were made when the jury was young and are of long standing. He might also have said that the accusations made up an “intellectual climate.” They were not made openly, nor were his accusers known, except for one (18a–d). He in fact argues that Meletus and his cronies, to whom he refers as his later accusers, relied on this malignant moral climate when they brought their charges against him (19a–b, 23c–24b, 28a–b). Indeed, he can explain why they were caught up in this climate of prejudice. They brought the old accusations against him afresh because they could not admit their ignorance about him. They pretended to know what he taught when they did not (23c– d; also 24c–26b or 26b–28a). Socrates, then, would disagree with James or any philosopher who might attempt to argue that we could rest our moral hypotheses on our passions. Only a hypothesis free from any taint of sensation as well as emotion is worthy of moral consideration. This position I take to be a worthy one, and I shall have more to present in its defense. For the moment I suggest that not only a philosopher who advocates conceptual knowledge but also a philosopher who attempts to defend perceptual knowledge would wish to undergo a catharsis of sensation and emotion as well. Recall that perceptual knowledge, more properly called apperception, has an intellectual content. This content, strictly speaking, is what Plato calls opinion, and it is hardly mere sensation. No more than their concepts would anyone want their percepts to be distorted by a passion. A Jamesian would no doubt feel obliged to protest. How, then, are we to decide among hypotheses when we lack sufficient evidence for a decision? When we are in circumstances requiring action, we do not always have the luxury of sitting back and waiting for more evidence to turn up. Moral questions, because they concern practical matters, cannot always wait. These urgent questions we must let our passions decide (Will 1. 22–23). Indeed, we may face a decision that is forced and momentous (see 3–4). We can respond, first of all, that decisions made in haste are not always the best precisely because practical matters are subject to prejudice. The Athenians apparently thought capital cases so urgent that they could not take more than a day to decide them. But Socrates argues that his jurors might well have acquitted him if they had had more time for their deliberations. The additional time he could have used to address the old slanders against him. To remove them in a short time, he states, is no easy task (Apology 18d–19a, 37a–b). More important, Socrates could urge grounds other than passion for deciding moral questions, even pressing questions of life and death. We may act on any hypothesis that does not elicit opposition from our spirit, he could argue. This criterion is the one that he himself uses, once again, to evaluate his defense after his condemnation. He remarks that he thinks

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what has happened to him to be something good! Why? Because his daimon did not oppose him at any time during his speech at his trial, though it had opposed him during other speeches (39e–40c). What this would mean in more contemporary terms is that we ought to act on a hypothesis until we have evidence to the contrary. To act on the basis of some other hypothesis would be to neglect a hypothesis, tested as best as we have been able, for the sake of an untested one. We in fact would be acting as if we knew when we did not. Socrates uses the hypothesis that death is an evil as an example of such ignorance. To fear death is to seem to know what one does not, he declares (40a, 29a–b).27 Socrates is more explicit on the day of his execution. He argues that we ought to act on the best argument known to us. Or, rather, he views favorably the statement of Simmias that we ought to do so. Simmias declares that, if we cannot avail ourselves of a divine argument (#%$. 6.), we can take only the human argument that is the best and the hardest to disprove ( . . . ,# ' #%$ . . . .&#$%) and sail through life upon this raft, as it were (Phaedo 85b–d). This method Socrates accepts as his famous second sailing. After abandoning his study of Anaxagoras, he decided that he could not discover that which is good and necessary ( $ - ,) and which binds and holds things together. But he would hypothesize the argument that he judged to be the strongest (+ , . . . #%$ @ A *

, ) and accept as true whatever agreed with it and to reject as not true whatever disagreed with it (99c–100a).28 27

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James himself does mention refutability, though he does not attach much importance to it. He suggests merely that it enables us to know in an incomplete sense and yields a substitute for knowing in a complete sense (see Empiricism 2. 67–69). Brickhouse and Smith, suspecting a fallacy, are very concerned about the fact that Socrates appears to equate good with not evil. Socrates thinks, in this instance, that death is something good because his daimon did not indicate that it was evil (Socrates 5. 256–257). But anyone who wishes to employ the hypothetical method must make a similar assumption. We assume, do we not, a hypothesis to be true until it proves to be false. This fact may yield yet another reason to think human knowledge “worth little or nothing.” Brickhouse and Smith are also anxious because the Socratic daimon appears to be neither infallible nor informative. Socrates learns from his daimon only that an action is wrong, but not “what it is that is wrong, when it is wrong, why it is wrong, and what it is to be wrong” (253–254). But their anxiety only draws our attention to the fact that to discover a refutation for a hypothesis is easier than to discover a reformulation. Nor does a refutation always point the way to a reformulation. Suckiel does her best to defend James’s concept of passional belief. She explains eloquently that James limits his concept with two principles. The one principle is that we may passionally accept a hypothesis because of its practical consequences. We may do so if our belief decides “a genuine option,” which is a live, forced, and unique option. An option of this kind would be a religious hypothesis, for example. We may also rely on passion if our belief in a fact is “a necessary condition” of its being true. Social relationships present facts of this kind (Philosophy 5. 74–79). The other principle is that we may accept a hypothesis passionally if

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If, then, we take a Socratic attitude to heart, we find ourselves obliged to side against James on another matter as well. Our willingness to act on a hypothesis does not create our belief in it, but our belief in a hypothesis creates our willingness to act upon it. Socrates explains that he stays in prison because the Athenians thought he ought to be condemned, and because he thought he ought to accept their judgement. If his muscles and bones had an opinion about what is best, he tells us, and if his actions depended on their contractions and extensions, he would have been long gone to Megara or Boeotia (98b–99a). We may, nonetheless, agree with James that our belief in a hypothesis can create a fact. Obviously, a belief, once we act on it, creates a new fact, which is our action itself. But I am obliged to point out that what kind of hypothesis one believes in determines what kind of fact one creates. Belief in a moral hypothesis entertained by means of our intellect can, as we shall see soon, create the fact of our happiness if we act upon it. But belief in a moral hypothesis entertained because of a passion can at best create the fact of a pleasurable satisfaction if acted upon. 5. Socrates probably appears to most scholars and students alike in much the same light as he does to his most infamous admirer. In his drunken encomium Alcibiades uses an analogy to characterize our enduring and endearing dialectician. He compares him to statuettes of Silenus that open up to reveal figurines of gods ( $# . . . ') inside of them (Symposium 215a–b).29 He relates that one day he himself saw some figurines within Socrates, and he thought them to be both divine and golden and to be entirely beautiful and marvelous (216e–217a). What could our inebriate mean? He is not so far gone in his cups that he cannot explain himself. Socrates makes speeches that contain gods within them, he declares, much as Marsyas plays melodies on his flute with gods within them (215b–d). On the surface his speeches may appear laughable, Alcibiades admits. But when we open them up, we discover that his arguments are the only ones that have any understanding (3). They are the most divine, and they are filled with the figurines of virtue ($)#;

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our belief might enable us “to arrive at evidence for its truth.” A religious hypothesis also exemplifies this principle (82–85). I would respond with two observations. Suckiel would surely admit that we may as easily with reason as with passion accept a hypothesis on the bases of these two principles. May we not choose rationally to entertain a hypothesis in light of its possible consequences, either intellectual or practical? Of course, we would do so only provisionally and tentatively. I would also remind Suckiel, even more to the point, that James selects his hypotheses, especially his moral ones, from within an intellectual climate that, he admits, is prejudicial. A moral belief, James informs us, has for its object not a known fact but a fact merely felt. This analogy has perplexed many translators and editors. Dover, for example, remarks that no such image other than this very one has survived from antiquity (166).

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9 ) and of all things needed for one intent on beauty and goodness (221d–222a). This satyric figure is not entirely inept. Alcibiades suggests that Socrates has knowledge, indeed of the divine type, that he can call on to refute his interlocutors. And Silenus, as you may recall, was the divinity who, when caught by Midas and forced to declaim on what is good for mortals, cried out with a laugh, What is best of all for you mortals would be never to have been born! But for you what is second best would be to die quickly! Is not this cry, shrill though it be, the silent cry of Socrates? Do not his dialectical refutations of their hypotheses, especially their moral hypotheses, often lead his interlocutors to wish that they had never spoken to him? We might be tempted to say, What is best of all for us mortals is never to formulate a hypothesis! But the second best, because the first is surely inescapable, is to have our hypothesis refuted as quickly as possible! I would point out, however, that Socrates was ever so gently rebuking Alcibiades on the prior and, shall we say, more importunate occasion when these divine figurines allegedly appeared. Socrates demurred at the idea that he might contain anything divine within him. He even accused his friend of aiming to get true beauty ( #/ #') for opined beauty ( - %&" ). Intellectual vision waxes when physical vision wanes, and you, he explains to him, have a long way to go yet. “You are in fact looking to get gold for bronze. But, my blissful friend, have a better look,” he warns, “lest my being good for nothing ( B) escape you” (218d–219a). I suggest that we might take this kindly rebuke seriously, though Alcibiades does not (219a–d).30 There may be ideal objects much as there may be material ones. But mere mortals – you yourself, dear reader, and I myself – have no way of ever knowing an eternal thing, nor have we any way of ever knowing even a temporal thing. Why? Because we can never penetrate the vexing veil of human cognition and sensation. We can only grapple with any reality in the same way in which we must grapple with one another – by means of solitary opining of our own. And so we do not find any images truly divine within Socrates as Alcibiades claims. Not even a divine satyric image. We find only human images, though perhaps of gods, within him. But we cannot wonder that Alcibiades should think them divine. These Socratic images are, to be sure, far finer than any others that we might hope to encounter within any other human being. No doubt, they are far finer than will ever be those crude images within either you or me. We now return once again to the pronouncement of our beloved, though bothersome, oracle. All knowledge would appear to be nothing other than 30

The scholars, too, tend not to take this rebuke seriously. For example, Dover claims that “the analogy will not stand up to detailed scrutiny” (171).

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Human Goodness

self-knowledge! What we know, whether viewed as thoughts or as things, is only our own concepts and percepts. We may presume to knowledge about ideal objects no more than to knowledge about material ones. God only knows! Socrates himself declares (Republic 7. 517b again). You by now agree, I hope, that we ought to take his declaration literally.31 We may, nonetheless, formulate hypotheses about conceptual objects and perceptual ones. To assume that conceptual things do exist, or that perceptual things do, would be, I think, to formulate a hypothesis with as much or as little sanction as the assumption that passional things exist. We no doubt find that hypotheses of both kinds are surely intellectual and moral conveniences, so long as we do not forget that a hypothesis of either kind is merely, after all is said and done, a hypothesis. Yet I must ask you not to forget that I am relying on the Jamesian concept of human experience and its insight. Our hypotheses are merely concepts that we can employ to constitute ourselves as knowers. And our hypotheses have for their objects either concepts or percepts that we take to constitute what we can know. Both knower and known thus remain for us merely parts of our own experience. One part of our experience only can know only another part of our experience. But James and Socrates, I also remind you, exhibit a difference in principle. Socrates relies on the principle of contradiction for his dialectics, but James reckons on the principles of association for his pragmatics. I would suggest that for moral matters the principle of contradiction is much less opportune than the principles of association. With principles of association, especially cause and effect, we may treat our human concepts not as knowledge approximating eternal verities but as opinion approximating temporal vagaries. We ourselves are less likely creatures of ideal matter and more likely critters of material stuff. I wish to suggest, however, that we are obliged to part company with James when we verify our moral hypotheses. We ought to test a moral hypothesis with our percepts and not with our passions. If we can ever hope to alleviate prejudice and slander, we can best do so through new experiences guided by winnowing and weighing evidence and not by wallowing in mere emotion. You now have before you, dear reader, my apology for striking up new variations in moral philosophy generally and particularly for defending our contemporary reservation about Socrates’ employment of hypotheses. If we use the principle of contradiction to test our hypotheses, we cut ourselves off from our moorings to this world of contingency. James is quite right about its ontology. Only if we use the principles of association can we keep ourselves tethered to dry land. The earth from which we arise and to which 31

Socrates in fact sets forth only as a thesis or a hypothesis that there are absolute ideas (e.g., Republic 6. 507a–b; or Phaedo 100b). He at times relies on mere agreement (Republic 5. 475e–476a).

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we return contains autochthonous forms of its own as well as its own matter. These earthly forms one and all have all the contingency of a desert moon or a wily coyote. With his daimon Socrates formulates a hypothesis and tests it with other concepts. His daimon thus concerns what we might call relations of ideas. But our reflections on relations of ideas too often tempt us into thinking that we have knowledge more godlike than could ever be possible. Witness the recalcitrant interlocutors whom Socrates so often encounters. These rarefied cogitations might even tempt us to think that we may count our spirit among the immortals. Though he denies us divine knowledge, Socrates himself seems to many reputed Platonists to accept without demure the hypothesis that our soul is immortal.32 I would, therefore, argue that we may wish to consider a new daimon for addressing questions of moral philosophy. Or, more accurately perhaps, I suggest that we consider the Socratic daimon in a new guise. I do not deny the Socratic daimon its due, which is to decide conceptual matters. But I would argue that a daimon of another variety is necessary to decide moral matters, which remain, after all, matters of fact. This new daimon, then, can only rest on the empirical principles of association. These principles enable us to establish true opinion about our own being, which is a decidedly contingent affair. We might say that our philosophy is not idealistic but doxastic. Or, perhaps, pragmatic. James, I hope, would applaud this new experiment in moral philosophy. He sees his own philosophy as merely an experiment that follows on the labors of other empiricists, such as David Hume and John Stuart Mill. With typical diffidence he actually invites us to tinker with his theory. Radical empiricism is only one variation on an empiricist theme, he confides with a candor so characteristic of him (Empiricism 2. 90–91). I propose, then, not without some trepidation, a new pragmatism, both radical and daimonic! Daimonic because it resurrects the Socratic concept of our human spirit, but radical because it relies on the Jamesian concept of experience. I hope that you find this philosophical innovation sufficiently intriguing and promising so that you might be willing to entertain my argument through some, at least, of the following pages. But a question still remains. Were those Greeks the children of the gods or not? If they were daimons, they were either gods or children of gods (see Apology 27c–d). But can we say that they were gods? I think not. Therefore, though mortal, they were indeed children of the gods! And us? Are we daimons, too? Could we also be children of the gods? Perhaps we are their grandchildren! 32

But see Chapters 3 or 5.

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2 The Method in Question

1. How can we know ourselves? Is there any method to the madness called self-knowledge? You might well demur if I said, We may know ourselves by experimentation. And yet who does not like to try out something new? We all do, I imagine. But if you have ever tried out something new, you have, unwittingly perhaps, performed an experiment, and your experiment may well have been a moral one. You may not have undertaken a scientific experiment with all its formal protocols. But you probably did utilize the experimental method in a rudimentary fashion. You very likely tried out a new idea by acting on it, and you likely evaluated your idea by its practical consequences. American philosophers have made the experimental method the hallmark of their philosophy. Consider William James, for example, or John Dewey, not to mention Charles Saunders Peirce. Their express philosophical purpose was to bring this method from the natural sciences to the moral sciences. They were not the first, however. British philosophers before them took up the cause. David Hume explicitly embraced the experimental method in the very title of his Treatise.1 Even the ancient Greeks made use of the method. With it Socrates attempted to bring justice down from the heavens and into our hearts. Yet despite these philosophers and their efforts, and despite our practices and their familiarity, we remain rather ambivalent about the experimental method and its moral applications. One can fairly say that most philosophers and most people find the method to be a reasonable procedure to employ in the natural sciences. But do we have the same attitude about applying this method in the moral sciences? Hardly! We feel a distinct discomfort about its employment for resolving not only ethical problems but social and 1

The full title of his work is A TREATISE of Human Nature: BEING an Attempt to introduce the experimental Method of Reasoning into MORAL SUBJECTS.

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political ones as well. Who wants to be subject to a lame-brained experiment regarding our way of life? Or our manner of government? Why, then, do we hesitate to take advantage of the experimental method in moral matters? I submit that we do not seem to adopt it because we do not understand its full scope and import. For our shortsightedness the pragmatists themselves, ironically enough, are largely to blame. They fail to see fully the philosophical roots and ramifications of this method because they do not have an adequate grasp of its historical lineage. The plain fact of the matter is that we have been employing the method in moral matters for a considerable time. But neither philosophers nor practitioners recognize it as we actually use it. I wish to show that the experimental method does have a scope appreciably wider than one might initially imagine, and that it accordingly has a practical import of greater significance as well. Only if we place it in its proper intellectual perspective can we enhance our understanding of it and our use of it. We shall see that this method constitutes the only discipline worthy of the name for discovering objective foundations for our moral decisions.2 What, then, might this perspective be? This perspective is, in a word, rhetoric! Rhetoric?! Yes, rhetoric! I must ask you to set aside any prejudice you may harbor toward this intellectual discipline if only to hear my argument out. I shall demonstrate that the experimental method is essentially the same as the rhetorical argument by example. Both techniques have the same structure, and they both have the same ontology. These techniques are arguments that proceed from particulars through generalities to other particulars, and they concern objects that are contingent. Objects of this precarious sort, of course, happen to include ourselves and the objects of our endeavors. What I am suggesting, then, is that rhetoric, without claiming to discover eternal verities for our moral edification, can provision us with an objective foundation for ethics. This intellectual art can provide an understanding of ourselves as temporal and local beings who are subject to change and who are enmeshed in circumstances also subject to change. I would ask, Should not our moral foundations, like the foundations of our homes, require regular attention and occasional alteration? But I almost forgot. We shall in our inquiry at the very outset encounter an intellectual daimon of the empirical variety. This daimon is not an epistemic spirit of eternal concepts but rather a doxastic spirit of temporal percepts. Though he devotes more attention to the first, Socrates himself draws our 2

Though hardly a pragmatist, Nagel is a contemporary philosopher who actually does recommend “normative hypotheses.” But he denies that we have any general method for choosing among them. We can only consider which hypothesis appears reasonable “in the light of everything else one is fairly confident of ” (View 8. 154).

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attention to this second daimon. I wish to suggest that we ought neither to overestimate the epistemic daimon and its importance, nor ought we to underestimate the doxastic daimon and its significance.3 2. That rhetoric can be an art of self-knowledge we shall best see if we begin by considering our only account of an ancient conversation. I have in mind Plato’s dialogue between Socrates and Gorgias. The conversation therein reported is important for us not so much because of what these two renowned characters have to say about rhetoric but more because of what they leave unsaid. Socrates himself offers a concept of rhetoric resting on knowledge, and Gorgias a concept resting on public opinion. What they each fail to take into account is a concept of rhetoric resting on opinion about matters of fact. This concept, also overlooked by our contemporaries, is the very one that, I dare say, can serve us well in moral matters. One may fairly assert, I think, that Socrates cuts a rather curious figure in the Gorgias. Even a casual reader would not be able to deny that he views dialectic as an art superior in some significant sense to rhetoric. But a more cautious reader would have to admit that he gives the appearance of regarding dialectic and rhetoric both with no little esteem. He surely exhibits an extraordinary admiration for rhetoric. Almost surprised at himself, Socrates exclaims to Gorgias that this art, because it has so great a power (), plainly appears, even to him, to be something daimonic ( ) (Gorgias 456a)! This exclamation is no mean praise. Socrates himself possesses a daimon of his own, and he attaches the utmost importance to it. His daimon is a divine spirit within him (see Apology 31c–31d). This divine spirit, as you may perchance recall, provisions him with the inspiration not only for his dialectical art but even for his philosophical career. His spirit serves to guide him in the search for truth and to provision him with moral truth especially. One might surmise, then, that a rhetorical daimon would provide us with inspiration for a rhetorical art. But what would a daimon of this kind be? And what might its function be? Could a rhetorical daimon be on a par with a dialectical one? Socrates suggests that it could not, and I can only concur. Could a rhetorical daimon, nonetheless, have any functions similar to those of a dialectical daimon? Could a spirit of this variety, for example, guide us in our search for truth about moral matters? Socrates argues that it could not, but I shall argue that it can. Let us return to our dialogue and ask, What do Socrates and Gorgias have to say about rhetoric and its power? One can easily see that they find rhetoric 3

The more familiar English term would be “dogmatic” rather than “doxastic.” But “dogmatic” has acquired pejorative associations all its own. Indeed, these associations would appear to arise because we who speak English fail to distinguish clearly between epistemic and doxastic attitudes in the ancient sense.

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to be an art that has a conspicuous power over moral and political matters. This art is, in a word, architectonic. After a rather tedious discussion, they define rhetoric as the ability to persuade with speeches ( . . . . . . ) in the law courts, deliberative assemblies, and legislative assemblies, and in all other public meetings (Gorgias 452e). They actually personify the art itself as an artisan, literally a demiurge ( ), of persuasion in the souls of the audiences at these gatherings (452e–453a).4 Its power, Gorgias boasts, is “our greatest good” and “the cause of human freedom and of political rule over others” (452d). And more than ready he is to expound at length on the theme of political rule. Through his ability to persuade, a rhetorician may assume the power to elect other artisans ( again), such as engineers and generals, to their official positions as well as to set various policies, such as the construction of fortifications or harbors. Only on the advice of Themistocles and Pericles, he points out, were public works of such sort undertaken in Athens (455a–456a). One can easily see why Gorgias would regard his art as architectonic. Rhetoric, he boasts, can actually encompass within itself all the powers of the other arts, such as medicine, gymnastics, or business (456a–b; also 455d– e). Not only can a rhetorician, if he does not wish to have himself elected, determine which of the other practitioners are elected to an office (456b– c). A rhetorician can also persuade the other practitioners to be, so to speak, slaves to himself. If he wishes, the physician, the trainer, and the banker will all be working for him (452e). We must give Gorgias the palm, I am afraid. That rhetoric has this uncanny power does not go unrecognized even today. But we are also obliged to observe that the rhetorical art seems to possess some rather severe constraints. Though he praises it, Socrates does express a reservation about rhetoric and its power. This art would seem to have limits arising from its audience, he argues. A rhetorician is not an artisan of instruction ( ). He is an artisan only of persuasion ( ), because at public meetings he must speak before a multitude of people and for a short time (Gorgias 455a). Socrates is making use of the distinction, familiar to students of Plato, between knowledge ( ) and opinion (), which in this argument he calls belief ( ).5 Knowledge we may distinguish from opinion by its alethetic qualities. Knowledge must be ever true and never false, but opinion may be either true or false, he reminds us (454c–d). Knowledge is always true because its object does not change, but opinion is true or false because 4

5

More literal translations would be “public servant” or even “civil servant.” A less literal but more contemporary translation might be “opinion maker.” Readers with an eye for the Greek will find their premonition confirmed in Chapter 6. See Republic 6. 511d–e for a similar vocabulary.

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its object does change. Truths of the one sort, we may say, are necessary, those of the other sort contingent. This distinction enables Socrates to explain that persuasion is a genus with two species. Persuasion of the one kind produces knowledge, which is always true. Persuasion in this sense he specifically calls instruction. But persuasion of the other kind produces belief, which is true at times and at times false. Dialectic, presumably, produces instruction with knowledge, but rhetoric, he concludes, produces only persuasion in a specific sense without knowledge (454e–455a). We now see how severe are the limitations that rhetoric would seem to have. Socrates charges that this art amounts to little more than the blind leading the blind or, rather, the ignorant leading the ignorant. A rhetorician does not claim to have specialized knowledge about practical matters, such as public health. Nor do those to whom he speaks have any such knowledge. Rhetoric is a mere machination, he concludes, for effecting persuasion (458e–459c). These properties are surely perplexing. In rhetoric we have an art that is seemingly so potent that it can accomplish the greatest things, and yet this very art would seem to be so uninformed as to be all but impotent to do anything. How can a rhetorician accomplish so much apparently and yet know so very little? I need hardly point out that these paradoxical properties have a certain ring of contemporaneity to them. Consider the media moguls and the policies and practices that they perpetuate over the electromagnetic waves.6 6

Williams would apparently agree with Socrates that ethical knowledge and opinion do differ, and that ethical opinion is without foundation. But he obviously argues against Socrates that we ought not to take our critical reflection on our opinions in the direction of theory. We ought rather with Gorgias to use any “ethical material that, in the context of reflective discussion, makes some sense and commands some loyalty.” Because unfounded, our ethical opinions are in fact prejudices, he candidly and cheerfully concedes (Ethics 6. 116–117). Williams invents a concept of “a hypertraditional society,” that is illustrative. A society of this sort he characterizes by maximal homogeneity and minimal reflection (Ethics 8. 142– 143). He asks, Does this society have ethical knowledge? The answer, he argues, depends on whether we take knowledge to be objective or nonobjective. No, he argues, the people in this society do not have objective knowledge. They have not reflected on their concepts and the implications of them. But they do have nonobjective knowledge. They carefully deploy moral concepts in accordance with proper criteria. Knowledge of this sort reflection is apt to destroy (147–148). This concept of a hypertraditional society is a gem. I take it to present the social conditions that a dialectician or a rhetorician often faces. Socrates encounters conditions similar to these at his trial, and Gorgias, as he admits, deals with conditions of this sort himself. But would you not agree that we ought to use philosophy or dialectic to overcome this ingenuous navet´e? Yes, dialectic can supplant with objective knowledge this nonobjective knowledge, so-called, and it ought to do so. But rhetoric, if employed as an art, can also overcome this attitude, especially with regard to moral matters, as we shall soon see. And it ought to do so, too.

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The Method in Question

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When presented with this paradox, Gorgias is at a loss, and he protests lamely. This way is so very easy! he replies helplessly in defense of his discipline. We have only to learn this one art alone, and we shall not be put down by the others (Gorgias 459c). But we ought not to forget that he is reportedly tired after having given a demonstration of his rhetorical prowess immediately before this discussion of his art (447b–448a, 458b–c). This concession on the part of Gorgias is as unfortunate as it is curious. Despite the alleged circumstances, one cannot but wonder about his philosophical acumen. Though a formidable rhetorician, Gorgias appears to be at best an unpracticed dialectician. He is too quick to accept a dichotomy that, we shall see, unfairly favors dialectic over rhetoric. To be sure, there is rarely time for instruction at public meetings or in other situations that call for action. But does the lack of time, or even the character of the audience, make rhetoric the appropriate art? Might not the decisive factor be rather the nature of the knowledge required for practice? Gorgias errs, I submit, when he concedes that knowledge has only one opposite in ignorance. He is either forgetful or ignorant of the fact that knowledge is a homonymic genus in the ancient Greek language. Knowledge surely has another opposite in opinion. We accordingly ought not to limit our consideration of knowledge to knowledge in the specific sense. We not only know necessary truths about eternal things, we also opine contingent truths about temporal things. That is, we know not only things as they are, we know also things as they appear. My own purpose is in fact to draw you away in your practical concerns from any concern with eternal truth to a concern with temporal truth. Of what value is knowledge of eternal truth for practice? When we act, we need not knowledge of nowhere and nowhen but knowledge of somewhere and somewhen. Namely, of here and now! We must have true opinions about ourselves and our situation. Only with knowledge of this kind can we decide what we ought, or ought not, to do. These temporal truths, I shall argue, rhetoric alone can supply.7 7

Irwin touches on this possibility when he wonders why a rhetorician could not persuade because he appears to know “the relevant facts.” Socrates makes a rhetorician appear “a suspicious character with a false pretense to knowledge.” But why is any “false pretense needed?” he asks (Gorgias 123–124, his italics). Unfortunately, he does not pursue the question in his commentary. Nagel, too, advocates an objective view of ourselves for ethics. But he enlarges this view far beyond what is relevant for our conduct. He not only seeks to rest his objective view on “eternal and nonlocal truth” (View intro. 10). He also explains that truth of this variety considers “the world as a whole, as if from nowhere” in “oceans of space and time.” He finds himself, he humbly tells us, reduced to “a momentary blip on the cosmic TV screen” (View 4. 60–65). I am suggesting that we ought rather to be cognizant of temporal and local truths, and that these truths may concern our objective selves in our present time and place. Surely, knowledge of this fortuitous sort would suffice for our practical purposes. And a recognizable image of ourselves or others on a television screen can obviously have its practical uses.

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Human Goodness

But we now find ourselves drawn into a controversy of long standing. I refer to the ancient dispute between dialectic and rhetoric or, if you prefer, between philosophy and rhetoric. This dispute, too, turns on the difference between knowledge of the two aforesaid kinds. We often overlook this difference because the word “knowledge” in modern languages, such as English, is also a homonymic genus that includes as its species both knowledge in a strict sense and opinion. Because they do not acknowledge this homonymity, philosophers and rhetoricians tend, even today, to argue about what kind of knowledge is really and truly knowledge. If, however, we take into account knowledge in both senses, we shall be able to accord to dialectic and rhetoric each its distinct power and its proper domain. We shall find that dialectic can be superior only with regard to theoretical knowledge; but with regard to practical knowledge, rhetoric is the superior art. Rhetoric, in other words, yields true opinion about matters of fact, including matters of moral fact. Matters of moral fact? Yes, kindly grant me this assumption, if only for the moment. I shall soon have more to say about facts of this variety. Let us consider what Socrates has to say in another well-known dialogue about the distinction between knowledge and opinion. This very distinction he uses to define who a philosopher is. A philosopher (! ! ) is someone who desires to know, and someone who desires to opine he dubs a philodoxer (! ) (Republic 5. 475e–476d, 479d–480a). The faculty of knowledge and knowledge itself concern that which is ( "), but opinion and its faculty concern, paradoxically, that which is and is not ( . . . # $ " % & ") (476d–477b, 478a–d). That which is, Socrates indicates, is a form ( ) or an idea ('(), but that which both is and is not is a mere appearance (! ( ). Justice, for example, is an idea, which is always one and the same. It is “unmixed.” But a just action, because it “communes” with matter, “prevaricates.” It is not fixedly just or unjust (475e–476a, 478e– 479c).8 This distinction between necessary and contingent objects ought not to be entirely unfamiliar. David Hume makes use of the distinction when he divides human reasoning into its kinds. Reasoning of one kind concerns relations of ideas, he argues, and reasoning of another kind matters of 8

Annas attempts to argue that knowledge for Plato does not concern forms only. She denies that knowledge and opinion need always concern objects that are different (Introduction 8. 193–194, 209–211). Knowledge, she agrees, concerns that which is, and belief that which is and is not (201–202). But knowledge and opinion, she claims, can yet regard the same objects. Knowledge can be not only about forms but also about appearances that have no opposites. “Nothing can be,” she argues, “both a man and a not-man” (203–208, 209). But what appearance does not have an opposite? Shorey cites a scholiastic riddle devised to show how something can both be and not be a man. A eunuch, for example, is and is not a man (Republic, vol. 1, pp. 530–531, n. c). Or, more generally, Homer, because of his blindness, is both a man and not a man.

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fact. The relations of ideas are demonstrable, and their contraries imply a contradiction. These objects rest on the principle of contradiction, he thus implies. Clearly, they remain the same always. Matters of fact have contraries that do not imply a contradiction, nor are they demonstrable. These objects can obviously be other than they are, and they must rely on a different principle, he suggests (Understanding 4. 1. 25–26). Perhaps we are more familiar with this distinction as that between analytic and synthetic propositions. Immanuel Kant is probably the philosopher most responsible for this terminology. Analytic propositions state nothing in their predicate that is not already thought in their subject. They rely on the principle of contradiction, he informs us. Synthetic propositions contain in their predicate something not thought in their subject. They require, he states, echoing Hume, a principle different from that of contradiction (Prolegomena pream. 266–267).9 But Socrates goes on to explain that knowledge in the narrow sense differs also from ignorance () ). Knowledge concerns that which is, and ignorance that which is not ( & ") (Republic 5. 476e–477a). But opinion, too, differs from ignorance, he argues. Opinion concerns that which is and is not, and, again, ignorance that which is not (478b–e). Opinion, we might say, lies on a mean between knowledge and ignorance. Opinion has an object that is less luminous than that which is, but more luminous than that which is not (478c–d again). Between that which is and that which is not lies that which is and is not (477a–b).10 We can already see how one might defend rhetoric against its alleged deficiencies. Provisioned with these distinctions between knowledge, opinion, and ignorance, Gorgias could turn against Socrates the very argument advanced to show that an absence of knowledge is ignorance. He might have argued that an absence of true opinion about contingent matters is also ignorance, albeit of a different kind. And that a person who has knowledge of necessary truths may very well lack true opinion of contingent truths. A person of this mind would, therefore, be ignorant. Indeed, the attempt to apply necessary truths to contingent matters is an all-too-common source of false opinion. The consequences of so doing can be downright disconcerting, if not outright tragic. 9

10

Kant claims that John Locke also recognized this distinction but not its significance (Prolegomena pream. 270). Irwin argues that a philodoxer holds opinions of which some are true and some are false (Ethics 16. 268–269). He offers an example. One might hold that a bright color is beautiful in statues. This would be an opinion, he argues, if a bright color is beautiful in some statues but in some not beautiful (269–270). I am arguing that a philodoxer holds opinions that are each partially true and partially false. Any bright color we see in a statue is neither entirely bright nor entirely a color. Obviously, what we sense cannot be brightness itself or color itself. A color seen on a given occasion has a shade and hue that our organs, the intervening light, and its object all affect in their various ways.

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Callicles, who appears later in the dialogue between Socrates and Gorgias, does in fact turn the tables on Socrates in this very manner when he attempts to defend Gorgias’s position. Philosophy is a fine thing to study in our youth, he argues, but we must in our maturity give it up for more splendid things. Otherwise, we shall cut a ridiculous figure because we shall lack the experience () ) with customs and characters necessary to lead a successful life (Gorgias 484c–485e).11 Could rhetoric, then, be an art concerned with opinion in this objective sense? If so, rhetoric would remain an art not of instruction but of persuasion. It could not yield truths about eternal objects but only truths about temporal objects. But a discipline of this kind would be objective and not subjective. A rhetorician, if only he could somehow appeal to objective opinions about the contingencies of our practical concerns, would no longer be at the mercy of the haphazard opinions so often held with emotional attachment. How, then, might rhetoric become objective in this way? Plato, I am sorry to say, cannot be of much help to us. He does attempt to overcome the apparent incongruity between the power that rhetoric wields and the ignorance that is alleged. But he does so by arguing that a rhetorician simply must rely on knowledge in the strict sense. His argument is worth our consideration, however, because he offers his rhetorician two techniques for acquiring knowledge. These dialectical techniques, we shall see, point the way toward analogous rhetorical techniques, which he does not acknowledge. Plato outlines his concept of the rhetorical art for us in a dialogue that portrays Socrates in conversation with Phaedrus. In this dialogue Socrates suggests, as one might expect, that the dialectical art ought to assimilate the rhetorical, and that knowledge in a strict sense ought to provide a foundation for our opinion (Phaedrus 260d–262c). But how does dialectic lead us toward knowledge? A dialectician has at his disposal induction (*) and division ( ). “To see together in one idea the often disparate parts so that with a definition one makes clear each thing” he calls induction. Division, he states, is “to sever an idea again according to its species” (265c– 266b). These techniques would obviously enable a speaker to formulate his principles and to apply them. He expresses the greatest admiration for these dialectical techniques. If someone is able to practice them, he declares, “him I would follow in his footsteps as if he were divine” (266b–c). But he reminds us that no 11

I take Dennett to be arguing against a dialectical methodology when he takes on ideal moral theories. But he appears less than sanguine about any method, though he considers only two. He argues that a utilitarian algorithm will not serve us very well because of the difficulty of assigning moral value to particular events. Nor would a Kantian imperative of universalizibility be of much help because of the inexhaustible number of maxims to be tested (Idea 17. 1. 495–500).

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dialectician is divine. No one can attain more than human knowledge. The name “wise” ( !) is appropriate for a divine being alone, says Socrates. Only the name “lover of wisdom” (! ! ) is appropriate for a human being (278b–d). Human knowledge, you might perchance recall, Socrates holds to be hypothetical only. We see, then, that a dialectician can persuade us, or, more precisely, instruct us about intelligible objects. But he would do so on the assumption that knowledge of changeless truths provides the best guide for human action, or, at least, that a human approximation to knowledge of this sort does. But I still find myself obliged to ask, Does not the world, especially the moral world, change and change at times capriciously? Do we not, then, require knowledge of changing truths to guide us in our action? In a word, do we not need opinion about these pertinent but impermanent objects? Even Socrates recognizes that rhetoric must have some concern with opinion. A rhetorician must know human souls and their kinds, and he must by perception be able to espy (+ ' ) these types in an audience. Otherwise, he would not know what speech to deliver to whom (Phaedrus 271c–272b). A rhetorician thus needs opinion to practice his art. But how can one attain opinion about perceptible objects? As far as I can tell, Socrates has no suggestions to offer. He appears simply to assume that anyone who knows audiences and their differences would be able to opine them with ease.12 Would not, then, an intellectual discipline that could enable us to organize objective opinions and not subjective ones be helpful in practical matters? Perhaps a rhetoric that employs not dialectical techniques but techniques of its own would be of service. But is there a rhetoric of this kind? There is! Plato had an able contemporary who happened to be a student in his academy, and who also had an interest in rhetoric. I refer to the Stagirite. Indeed, Aristotle appears uncannily aware of our predicament. He offers a theory of rhetoric that contains both inductive and deductive techniques, and these techniques concern objects that change! When we turn to his theory, we discover almost immediately that Aristotle takes into account the paradoxical properties of rhetoric that concerned Socrates and Gorgias. He clearly acknowledges that rhetoric is an architectonic art of public speaking. On his account rhetoric is effective at public meetings very similar to those which Gorgias discusses. These meetings 12

With an analysis of the divided line Tait argues, rightly I think, that the segment representing reason and its object is equal to the segment representing opinion and its object. This equality would suggest that the reasoned object and the object opined are quite similar, though the one is an intelligible form and the other a sensible approximation (21–24). Their equality suggests further that a person who reasons about a concept might more easily recognize its approximate percept. But, still, the question remains, How do we cognize not a concept but a percept concerned with a sensible object?

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divide rhetoric into its kinds. Deliberative rhetoric is appropriate for legislative assemblies, adjudicative rhetoric for law courts, and demonstrative rhetoric for public ceremonies (Rhetoric 1. 3. 1358a36–1358b8). He also recognizes that a rhetorician faces deficiencies in an audience. His arguments echo those of Socrates. To use a scientific argument for instruction at public meetings would not be easy or would be nearly impossible, he states (Rhetoric 1. 1. 1355a24–27). An audience of this kind is unable to grasp many premises together or to make a syllogism of any length (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357a1–4). The audience he actually assumes to be simple (1357a11–12). Can Aristotle, then, overcome the discrepancy between rhetorical power and its seemingly impoverished resources? We now find that Aristotle parts company with his teacher. He claims for rhetoric not an intelligible but a perceptible objectivity. This art concerns not things of the kind that cannot change but things that can and do change. No one deliberates about things that cannot possibly be other than they are ( . . . , -.* )* / ( / 0), he argues. Rather, we deliberate about things that are able to turn out either way ( % , ! (* (1 -! (* 01) (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357a4–7). Among things of this kind we find our very own actions, he asserts explicitly (1357a23–27). But if he is concerned with them, is Aristotle able to provide us with any techniques for ascertaining truths about these unstable objects of our endeavors? He is. He argues that rhetoric is the power () to know what can be persuasive ( 1 ) (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1355b25–26). What can be persuasive, he continues, relies on the character of the speaker; on the disposition, apparently emotional, of the audience; and on the argument itself ( 2,+ ,+ *) (1356a1–20). But the argument, especially enthymeme, is the body of persuasion, he argues (Rhetoric 1. 1. 1354a11–16). Any appeals to character or passion ought only to help prepare an audience for persuasion, presumably by argument (Rhetoric 2. 1. 1377b20–1378a5). But they all too often serve, he does concede, merely to warp the judgment of an audience (see Rhetoric 1. 1. 1354a16–26).13 But what might an enthymeme be? An enthymeme is nothing other than a rhetorical syllogism. Arguments of the rhetorical variety are either deductive or inductive, Aristotle explains. An enthymeme () is a deductive rhetorical argument, and an example ( .) is an inductive one (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1356a35–b6). All rhetoricians, he goes so far as to assert, 13

Aristotelian scholars today frequently contend that practical knowledge must rely on character; and character, they argue, rests in turn on passion. Nussbaum presents a conspicuous example. She does recognize that Aristotle finds a role for “general rules and accounts” in practical wisdom (Fragility 10. 298–299). But Aristotle holds the view, she argues, that we accept practical principles because “people whom we revere as people of practical wisdom” judge them “appropriate” (299–300). The people whom we so revere, she explains, rest their judgments on their perception (300–301). But their perception rests ultimately on desire, which is right passion (307–309).

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produce persuasion through proof by enthymeme and example and by no other means (1356b6–8). We can already see, then, that a rhetorical art can be objective if it rests on arguments, inductive and deductive, concerned with objects of change. That these rhetorical arguments resemble dialectical induction and deduction Aristotle explicitly notes (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1356a35–b6 again). A dialectician may in fact make a good rhetorician because he knows from what and how syllogisms come to be made. But a rhetorician also knows the difference between logical, presumably dialectical, syllogisms and enthymemes as well as with what sorts of things enthymemes, and presumably examples, are concerned (Rhetoric 1. 1. 1355a10–14).14 But my reader might harbor an objection. Have you not forgotten about the intellectual deficiencies of the audience? Do not their shortcomings make futile any attempt at an alleged objectivity? That these shortcomings can frustrate a rhetorician I concede. Rhetoric is, after all, an art of discovering what can be persuasive, not what is persuasive (Rhetoric 1. 1. 1355b10– 12). Indeed, despite his inductive and deductive techniques, a rhetorician can encounter a subjective surd in his audience. Aristotle himself acknowledges this point with an analogy to medicine. A physician can treat his patients properly, he asserts, even though they cannot regain their health (1355b12–14). His analogy implies that a rhetorician can argue persuasively even though his audience cannot do what they ought. Less-than-scrupulous speakers might now seem to have all the excuse they need for abuse. If they cannot do what is good, may we not do what we will with our audiences? Not so, I must reply. May a physician abuse his patients if they cannot recover? He must still treat them properly. And so must our rhetorician. He has an obligation to attempt to persuade his audience to do the best that they can, given their subjective limitations. Their limitations would include, I suppose, their intellectual ability, already noted, their moral habits, and, not least, their emotional state. 14

Williams is quite right to be chary about “the universalistic standpoint” present in contractarian and utilitarian theories, and he successfully lodges many objections against current theories of these types. He argues, rightly I think, that our moral percepts ought to arise out of our particular awareness (e.g., Ethics 6. 110). But he would go so far as to argue that our “mature reflection” is “expressive” of our “ethical dispositions,” even if it is about them (Ethics 4. 50–51, e.g.). I am arguing against Williams that our ethical awareness we are obliged to evaluate rather by rational discussion than by emotional disposition. And that our practical rationality is expressive of our external impressions, not our internal ones. Nagel argues against Williams that we ought to harmonize a universalistic standpoint with “personal projects and individual actions.” The universalistic morality, he explains, does express “our own disposition to view ourselves, and our need to accept ourselves, from outside” (View 10. 198, his italics). My position is that we can, and we ought, to view ourselves from outside, presumably by perception, but that our external view is less than universalistic. This view is at best a proximate generalization about our particular situation.

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We thus see that rhetoric can be an art of opinion that is objective. This art can employ inductive and deductive techniques concerned with objects of change. But, more important, we can now discern and delineate our human daimons, both dialectical and rhetorical, and their functions. Our dialectical daimon, I would assert, concerns concepts as intelligible entities. As intelligible, our concepts themselves constitute both our knowledge and its internal object. We may employ dialectic with its techniques of induction and division to discover what Hume would call relations of ideas. Our rhetorical daimon, however, concerns concepts as perceptible entities. As perceptible, our concepts constitute both our opinion and its internal object. But these concepts we take to reflect a reality external to them. My assumption is that our opinions, even our general opinions, purport to be percepts. Or, I should say more precisely but less popularly, appercepts. With rhetoric and its techniques of example and enthymeme we can thus discover what Hume would no doubt call matters of fact and among them, perhaps, matters of moral fact. But no more than a dialectician can, can a rhetorician hope to attain an ultimate truth, which would be nonhypothetical. The rhetorical art can only help us express our love of truth, which is, more precisely for it, a love of opinion (! ). This art, because it concerns percepts, neither attains an ultimate true opinion about its objects nor, if it could, would its opinion remain true for long. Perceptible objects are inexorably possessed of an indisputable inscrutability and instability. I need not remind you, I am sure, that either method, dialectic or rhetoric, is merely a method of self-knowledge. For us poor mortals, both knowledge and opinion remain their own objects. We can know only our own concepts and percepts, nothing more and nothing less, though we may and do conveniently assume otherwise. These techniques, wondrously useful though they are, can serve merely to assist us in wending our way through our own human experience with its dreams and delusions, which, we may at best hope, have some bearing upon a world external to them.15 3. What about pragmatism? you may be wondering. How does this discussion of ancient rhetoric, intriguing though it may be, pertain to contemporary pragmatism? I now propose to show that the pragmatic method is in fact the very same method as the rhetorical argument by example. We shall see, too, that this method, because rhetorical and exemplary, has important practical 15

Nagel believes that a method for attaining true self-knowledge does not yet exist. He so believes because he recognizes the shortcomings we encounter with a dialectical method. Philosophy, he asserts, “is after eternal and nonlocal truth,” even though we cannot attain it (View intro. 10). I am arguing that we can employ a rhetorical method in pursuit of temporal and local truth, though this method, too, has its limitations.

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implications yet to be acknowledged. I want especially to suggest that the method in question will enable us to hypothesize our moral principles and our moral identity. But how could an argument merely rhetorical yield a hypothesis that might serve as a moral principle? To answer this question, we must have recourse to Aristotle again and his theory of rhetoric. Let us ask simply, Could we use an argument by example to arrive at a moral principle, if only a tentative and tenuous one? Because it is inductive, an argument of this kind would surely appear to hold some promise of fulfilling this function. But to see that it actually can, we must undertake a more sophisticated analysis of rhetorical example. One might think initially that an example could not yield a general principle of any kind. An example seems to take us not to a general conclusion but only to a particular one. Aristotle argues literally that example proceeds not “as a part to a whole, nor as a whole to a part, nor as one whole to another, but as one part to another.” With the terms “part” and “whole,” he refers to a genus and its species. We have an example, he explains, “when both parts fall under the same genus and the one is better known than the other” (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357b27–30). To illustrate this concept, he offers a political example. His example clearly indicates how an argument of this kind can prove one particular by another. One might show, he explains, that Dionysius wishes to establish a tyranny because he is asking for a bodyguard. To prove that he does, one could cite other leaders known to have become tyrants after asking for a bodyguard and obtaining one. Pisistratus did so, and so did Theagenes (1357b30–33).16 I would ask you to notice that this argument by example does establish a general hypothesis. Its hypothesis is in fact a practical one concerned with politics. How does it do so? An example proves its particular by establishing a general proposition and then by applying it. Aristotle actually implies that the known and unknown particulars in this example all fall under one genus. And he specifies for us what this genus is. These instances fall under the general proposition that someone who wishes to be a tyrant asks for a bodyguard (1357b35–36). But one might ask, If they fall under it, would not the known particulars in an argument by example prove the general proposition? The answer is, They do. Aristotle explicitly so argues in his logic. “An example,” he states more technically, “is when a major term is shown to belong to a middle term by means of a term similar to the third term,” which would be the minor term (Prior Analytics 2. 24. 68b38–39). In other words, an example proves a 16

A bodyguard in ancient times was not a personal bodyguard but a military detachment not unlike a sizable police force. Contemporary tyrants are not unacquainted with an institution of this sort.

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general proposition by means of a known particular similar to an unknown particular. We must know, he continues, that “the middle term belongs to the third term, and that the first also belongs to the term similar to the minor term” (68a39–40). Though he does not say so, we must also know that the middle term applies to the term similar to the minor. What is required, in other words, is that both the middle and the major terms apply to the known instances, but that only the middle term applies to the unknown instance. Pisistratus and Theagenes both asked for a bodyguard and became tyrants, but Dionysius thus far has only asked for a bodyguard. To explain his analysis, Aristotle uses an example from history. He supposes that the Athenians are trying to decide whether they ought to fight against the Thebans. The Thebans are their neighbors, and so the Athenians, when deliberating, might consider other wars against neighbors. Aristotle assumes that the Thebans fought a war against the Phocians. The outcome of this war is known to have been bad. The Thebans did not find that to fight against their neighbors was in their interest, he reports. The Athenians, accordingly, would do well to conclude that to fight against the Thebans, because they are neighbors, would not be in their interest, either (69a2–7). The Athenians would no doubt find that more examples would lend their general proposition more strength and hence would strengthen their conclusion (see 69a11–13). If they remain skeptical, they would also have the option of verifying their conclusion with a declaration of war and an attack on their neighbor. They would have to be both skeptical and rash, perhaps. We may represent this course of thought with a diagram shaped like an arrowhead: Not Good

War with Neighbors

Thebans against Phocians

Athenians against Thebans

The solid lines on the left of the diagram indicate what we know about the previous instances, and the dotted line in the center indicates a major premise or generalization based on the known instances. This side of our diagram thus constitutes an inductive argument. The solid line at the bottom

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right of the diagram indicates what we know about the new instance. This line demarks a minor premise for a deductive argument. The dotted line on the very right of the diagram indicates what we conclude about the new instance. Our inference thus rests on the major premise in the center and the minor premise on the right. We also may represent the inference schematically: A

B

D

C

In this diagram, A represents not good, B stands for war against neighbors, C for Athenians against Thebans, and D for Thebans against Phocians (68b41– 69a2). The solid lines represent what we know about the Theban war and the proposed Athenian war, the dotted lines what we conclude about wars against neighbors in general and the proposed conflict in particular (see 69a7–11). The similarity between the past conflict and the proposed one is the property of being a war against a neighbor. The similarity inferred from the past conflict is the property of being bad.17 A general hypothesis such as this one, though admittedly not very abstract, may obviously serve as a principle of action. For the moment I can only assure you that this proposition and others may serve as a moral principle. We may use them as principles of happiness in the ancient Greek sense of the word and not merely in the modern Humeian or Kantian sense. I cannot prove this moral fact with my present argument, however. I ask only that you suspend your judgment about my presumption that we can act on 17

Dennett recommends “rhetoric or other only partially or impurely rational means of persuasion” for making decisions. But he does not discuss method. He puts forth instead a process of satisficing, which requires what he calls helter-skelter heuristics and arbitrary conversation stoppers. The heuristics, he explains, draws our attention to the salient features of our circumstances, and the conversation stoppers serve to keep our analyses manageable (Idea 17. 2–3.). He is surely on the right track. But rhetorical examples can serve less arbitrarily both as heuristic devices and as conversation stoppers. Examples are a source of new particulars for comparison with our present situation, and their generalizations place limits on our analyses of these particulars. This method does retain some arbitrariness, however. Our examples depend on our concepts and percepts, and these concepts and percepts on our experience, which can only be frightfully finite.

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an empirical generalization for its own sake. But even if you cannot suspend your judgment, you would surely agree that we can use a proposition of this sort as a prudential principle. We may now ask, Does the pragmatic method resemble the rhetorical argument by example? Unfortunately, any proposed analogy between this method and this argument might not initially seem apt. Most philosophers would think that the pragmatic method does not consist in establishing a general hypothesis but merely in testing one. The method is usually thought to be a way of evaluating a hypothesis by examining its consequences for our action. A true hypothesis is one that has value for practice. It can serve as a guide for conduct by indicating what actions are satisfactory. A false hypothesis cannot. The pragmatic method would seem to offer, to put the matter in more Aristotelian terms, only a procedure for moving from a general proposition to a particular one. It would be an enthymeme at best, if indeed it is rhetorical. But we ought to ask, How do we arrive at a generalization that we wish to test? One can, we shall see, use the pragmatic method to establish a general proposition by arguing from particulars. The pragmatists themselves tend not to emphasize this aspect of their method. But, nevertheless, their method has an inductive aspect, and, more important, it can yield a moral hypothesis. William James himself appears to be a source of our initial reservation. The pragmatic method, he asserts, attempts “to interpret each notion by tracing its respective practical consequences.” To test a concept, he explains, we need only ask what practical difference it would make if this notion rather than that were true. If there are no practical differences, any question about alternative concepts and their truth is moot. A question can be real only if differences in conception lead to differences in action (Pragmatism 2. 45–46). To make this definition clearer, consider what no doubt is its most famous example. This example concerns a human being and a squirrel. An inquisitive person knows that there is a squirrel clinging to a tree trunk, and he is trying to get sight of the squirrel by going around the tree. But as he goes around the tree, the squirrel goes as quickly around its trunk in the opposite direction. The result is that this individual can get only an occasional glimpse of the bright eye of his quarry. This predicament presents a problem, which James refers to, tongue in cheek no doubt, as metaphysical. The problem is, Does the person go around the squirrel or not? Clearly, the fellow goes around the tree, and the squirrel clings to the tree. But has the person gone around the squirrel? The solution that James offers in illustration of his method turns on what one practically means by “going around.” If one means by this concept to go from the north of the squirrel to the east, to the south, to the west, and to the north of it again, then the person clearly goes around the squirrel.

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But if one means to be in front of the animal, and then to be to the right of, in back of, to the left of, and in front of it again, then the person does not go around his agile antagonist. The squirrel constantly keeps its belly turned toward the person. What this example illustrates is that the meaning of a hypothesis depends on its practical implications. “To go around” in this case is ambiguous. It may mean to take four positions relative to the location of an object, or it may as well mean to take four positions relative to the sides of an object. Any dispute about the concept would thus turn on what the consequences of it are for practice, and any resolution would turn on the same practical consequences (43–44). James puts his point in more general terms. Any difference in abstract truth, he asserts, must express itself “in a difference in concrete fact and in conduct consequent upon that fact, imposed on somebody, somehow, somewhere, and somewhen” (49–50). He concentrates on going from hypotheses to consequences because he wishes to use the pragmatic method to resolve philosophical controversies. You would be astonished, he says, to see how philosophical disputes collapse when subject to the pragmatic method (49– 50). And what he does is truly astonishing. One need only open a book of his and examine its table of contents to see major philosophical issues decided with an openness of mind unique to him even among professed pragmatists. We see, then, that the pragmatic method does evaluate a hypothesis by its implications for practice. But we must still ask, Where do these hypotheses come from? With his definition of the method, James places an emphasis on the deductive part of the experimental method only, though he does not always make his emphasis explicit. And his work he devotes primarily to using the pragmatic method to descend from hypotheses to their consequences. A crucial clue to seeing better how much the pragmatic method resembles the method of example we find in the pragmatic concept of truth. James himself provides a statement of his concept sufficiently clear for our purposes. Consider what he says about a true thought. His fullest characterization of its general nature is that a true thought is a way of binding up one moment of our experience with other moments of experience. In his own words, truth is “a leading that is worth while.” A particular of experience, he explains, “inspires us with a thought that is true,” and we may guide ourselves with this thought to other particulars of experience and make a connection that is advantageous for us (Pragmatism 6. 204–205, italics again his). He illustrates this concept of truth with a less famous example of a cowpath. If we are lost and hungry in a forest, our discovery of a cowpath may be our salvation. Our recognition of the cowpath for what it is can lead us in our thoughts to the concept of a dairy farm at the end of it. Our hypothesis about a cowpath can thus lead us in our action from our bewildered experience in the woods to an experience of cozy comfort in a farmhouse (202–204). If we follow the path and see the farmhouse come into view, we

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then verify our hypothesis and soon enjoy its practical consequences and their advantages (206). James does concede that this statement about his general concept of truth is somewhat “vague.” But he avers that the statement is, nonetheless, “essential” (204–205). What I take to be essential about it is the connection of some particulars of experience with other particulars by means of a true thought. What I wish to show is that this inference by means of a true thought characterizes an inference through a general hypothesis established with an argument by example. This similarity becomes clearer when we dispel some of the vagueness found in James’s statement of his concept of truth. Let us pause for a moment and ask, What happens when we become curious about an object? We may be inspired with a true thought, James says. But can we say more about this moment of inspiration? I submit that we cast about in our mind for similar objects, and that we try to use their qualities to understand the object under present scrutiny. That is, we use particulars that are better known to us in our attempt to understand a particular that is less well known. If we find no resemblances to familiar objects, we must enlist the experience of others or give up the attempt, at least, for the time being.18 But these known objects that we seek out in our attempt to understand an unknown object are none other than rhetorical examples! The resemblances that we see between familiar objects and an unfamiliar object suggest other resemblances that we do not yet find in the object of our interest but might characterize the object more fully. Take James’s cowpath again. The initial impressions of this object in the forest call to mind similar impressions gleaned from past forays in the woods. It is well worn; it meanders along; it has large, visible hoof prints; and so on. These similarities in turn inspire us with other impressions that we recall about the previous paths but are not as yet known about this path. Namely, that they all have led to a dairy farm with a farmhouse. What these more familiar objects provide, then, are middle and major terms for a practical syllogism. In this example, the perceived properties of the cowpath, taken together, are the middle term. The trait of leading to a dairy farm is the major term. The inductive syllogism is: Those trails were cowpaths; those trails led to a farm; therefore, cowpaths lead to a farm. The deductive syllogism is: This trail is a cowpath; cowpaths lead to a farm; therefore, this trail leads to a farm. The major premise, that cowpaths lead to a farm, is the hypothesis of our argument. We verify this proposition by recalling other cowpaths that we have encountered or simply by following out the present one. At least, the pragmatists would call a premise of this sort a hypothesis. The rhetoricians, I 18

Actually, John Dewey gives some consideration to this process. But he fails to offer a formal analysis or to connect his analysis with rhetoric (Think 6. and 7.).

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admit, seldom, if ever, refer to their major premises as hypotheses. But they are usually political creatures, who thrive in situations calling for action. And so they do not unexpectedly put forth their premises as timeworn truths, though they might also refer to them as moral principles. We might schematize James’s cowpath example: Goes to a Farmhouse

Cowpath

Familiar Trails

Unfamiliar Trail

We may analyze the diagram in terms of a practical train of thought that is both inductive and deductive. The major premise the dotted line in the center indicates. We establish this premise inductively with instances having properties indicated by the solid lines on the left. The solid line on the right indicates the minor premise. And the dotted line on the right our deductive conclusion. James’s squirrel example is amenable to a similar schema in a more complex variation. This schema has two middle terms:

Known Objects

Goes Around

Goes Around

Goes to North of, etc.

Goes to Right of, etc.

The Squirrel

Known Objects

With this diagram we have two major premises, and we are left to decide which is the better under the circumstances. Our decision turns on which middle term applies and which does not. What I have argued, then, is that rhetorical argument by example is in its essentials the experimental method. You agree, I hope, that we may

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schematize both methods in the very same way. Either method guides our inferences from particulars through a general hypothesis to another particular. They guide us, in other words, from particulars to particulars.19 I would now remind you that Aristotle and James also agree about the particulars from which and to which our generalizations guide us. These particulars are of the same ontological kind. James clearly argues that knowledge does not concern mere concepts. Knowledge viewed in this way constitutes the danger of reifying language and of taking logical entities for real. Knowledge concerns rather our percepts, which concern real entities. But these entities can change in their relationships with other entities. They may even exhibit contradictory attributes in different relationships (Empiricism 2. 80– 82; 3. 100–106). Aristotle would agree that rhetorical example concerns not concepts but percepts. He argues, as we have seen, that rhetoric concerns not that which cannot be otherwise, but that which can be either way (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357a4– 7). That which can be either way, I would assume, turns out to be what it is because of its relationships to other entities of a similar sort. This assumption one may verify by consulting Aristotle’s discussion of causality (see, for example, Physics 2. 3.). I would think, then, that my argument has brought us to familiar turf. Surely, contemporary philosophers ought not to find terribly strange the use of examples for philosophical reflection on moral matters. The secondary literature especially abounds in arguments of this kind. The examples most often used, however, are counterexamples that are counterfactual. The penchant for examples of this sort reflects, I suspect, the ease with which one may refute an old hypothesis and the difficulty with which we try to formulate a new one. But modern philosophers, too, press examples into philosophical service. Hume commends not an abstract deductive method for moral science but a particular inductive method. To determine our general maxims, we ought to follow an experimental method “with a comparison of particular instances.” Though he says literally that we deduce them, we would say today that we induce our moral precepts from these particulars (Morality 1. 173–175; also Treatise intro. xvi–xvii). Even Kant recommends examples. He argues that they may serve us for the development of our moral judgment. Examples (Biespiel) can especially assist us in separating his preferred rational judgments of action from empirical ones, he explains (Practical 2. 162–163). He also urges that we 19

Nagel observes that in searching for generality we take “the particular case as an example” and that we form “hypotheses about what general truth it is an example of.” Though he invokes its concept, he unfortunately neglects to explore any theory, rhetorical or not, of example (View 8. 152). We may, nonetheless, recognize with him that our moral generalizations vary in breadth, relativity, and externality. I shall especially wish to consider objects that have value external to our interests or, as he states more simply, objects that have intrinsic value of their own (View 8. 152–153).

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use instances (Bel¨ag) of duty to stimulate and to enliven a moral interest in young people. They can serve as “leading strings” to enable the young to feel their own worth and to remove them from sensuous attachments (152–157).20 Nor ought contemporary philosophers to find a rhetorical ontology unusual. At least, the British and Americans among us ought not. The pragmatists and analytic philosophers, so-called, tend to trail along in the footsteps of the modern empiricists. But the empiricists have long held that real entities are visible and tangible objects – objects notorious for their contingency and instability. 4. A rhetorical pragmatism, or a pragmatic rhetoric if you prefer, is what we have discovered. We are now in a position to see how a pragmatism of this variety provides a discipline for self-knowledge. I think we can do so without great difficulty, in fact. We need only make a rather simple association. Philosophers of rhetoric tend to dissociate a speaker from an audience and to speak generally and perhaps glibly of a distinct audience. But I shall collapse their distinction and reassociate a speaker and an audience. I wish to speak of a unique audience of one, namely, the speaker himself or herself. Or, more pointedly, I shall speak of you or me, entirely by yourself or myself. This reassociation of speaker and audience is really a fate foisted upon us willy-nilly. Could one possibly doubt that human knowledge is no more than self-knowledge? Even with our dialectical or our rhetorical techniques, we can merely array and analyze the concepts and percepts within our own minds. Only if we presume to assume that these mental entities bear some resemblance to entities purportedly physical may we hope to gain any knowledge of objects allegedly actual. We know our own and other identities, if any there be, only through a veil, taken to be translucent, of our cognition and perception. Yet with our presumption we shall discover a rhetoric of self-knowledge that can provision us with an ethical foundation stable enough and reliable enough for practical purposes. But rhetoric can provide a foundation only as firm as the facts of the matter allow. Many contemporary philosophers eschew an objective foundation for ethics. They are quite right to do so because the foundations under consideration are most often inappropriate. These foundations are purportedly knowledge of eternal, necessary, and immutable truths. Hardly the stuff of practice! Pragmatism of the rhetorical variety that I am advocating can enable us to create an objective yet empirical foundation for our morality. Our foundation requires only an informed opinion about practical matters of fact. With the argumentative techniques of example and enthymeme, we 20

O’Neill offers an interesting discussion of examples in Kant and Anglo-American philosophy. Her discussion turns on the interplay between moral principles and examples of different kinds, though she offers no formal analysis of the technique (Constructions 9.).

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may organize our opinions and create a morality that is relevant to us and relative to our circumstances and yet real enough to guide us in our practical pursuits. To see best how rhetoric can lead to self-knowledge in this way, I suggest that we examine more closely how rhetoric leads to knowledge. I speak, of course, not of knowledge in the strict sense but of opinion. What I propose to do is to place rhetoric within the context of human experience. And I speak of experience in the pragmatic sense. I wish to show how rhetorical example enables us to opine objects in our experience, including our own selves. With an argument by example we may organize our concepts and percepts and formulate hypotheses not only about what we ought to do but about who we ought to be. What, then, is pragmatic experience? Recall what William James has to say about knowledge and experience. Knowing is a relation of the kind into which different portions of experience enter. The one portion is a knower, and the other portion is an object known. Experience itself separates into these two parts (Empiricism 1. 4–5). What distinguishes the knowing part and the known part are their associations. Associations of one kind constitute a mind, and those of another constitute a material world (9–10). A book, for example, we associate with other thoughts in our mental life and with other things in our physical life. A book lies within our field of consciousness, but we also hold it between our hands (11–15). But how does experience enable us to know? James argues that when we know something, we are able to use a concept to reason about a percept (Empiricism 2. 52–54). Knowing, he explains, consists in a felt transition from the one to the other. When we feel a transition of this kind, a concept as one part of experience knows a percept as another part of experience. That is, a concept leads to and corresponds with a percept. The concept is thus a knower, and the percept an object known (56–58). He offers an example of a transition of this felt sort. Suppose that I claim to know a certain building, say Mandel Hall. If I do, my idea of it ought to be able to lead us to the building, to explain for us its history and uses, and to point out various details of its construction. My concept of the building, James asserts, has passed into a percept of it, and it has done so by means of a continuing and corroborating experience (54–56). I would now draw your attention to a curious and crucial philosophical fact. The rhetorical argument by example can better enable us to understand who a knower is and what a known object is. Why? Because we may place argument by example within this context of experience pragmatically defined. After all, the experimental method and the exemplary method are essentially the same techniques, and both techniques apply to objects the same in kind. What I wish to suggest is that we may use a general hypothesis supported by past particulars as a concept with which we may understand a new particular.

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When we apply it to a new particular, we are applying our general hypothesis to a new percept, in other words. Our hypothesis, on my account, is thus a concept that constitutes us as a knower, and the new particular is a percept constituting an object to be known. The old particulars are objects perceived and known in the past. With this methodological insight we can now make disciplined the felt transition that James observes from a concept to a percept. If we wish, we might even demarcate this transition with the formal schema of argument by example. The transition does remain one of an experience that is corroborating and continuing. But we now make an informed transition by way of a generalization from known particulars to a particular presently unknown. We can form a generalization from the details of familiar buildings, say, and apply it to an unfamiliar building by the same architect. My concept of rhetorical experience thus differs, I concede, from the pragmatic concept. We can see how it differs if we consider what James calls the strategic point in the ramparts of empiricism. This point, he explains, is “the co-conscious transition” that unites one portion of our experience with another portion. James argues that this transition, if not empirical, opens a breach through which pour dialectical and metaphysical fictions. But the transition can be part and parcel only of experience, he rightly claims. Only our consciousness of a felt transition in the passing of one part into another is what gives continuity to our experience (Empiricism 2. 47–49). I agree that our consciousness of the transition from one part of experience to another provides unity for our experience. But I think rather that our consciousness of this unity can be a conceptual one. The concept is a general one arrived at through particulars. But it is not a dialectical concept of an eternal truth. Our concept is merely a rhetorical one with a contingent content that may be true or false. An experienced concept thus provides a link from one experienced percept to another percept already or about to be experienced. The link may be true or false depending on our own sagacity and the stability of the object under scrutiny. James might respond, What I meant all along is that this feeling of coconscious transition guides our thinking along the paths delineated by the experimental method. What I said about a felt transition applies to what I say about the pragmatic method. My reply must be, Our thinking in accordance with the experimental method or, more generally, rhetorical argument by example can give form and guidance to our feeling of co-conscious transition. Our thought ought surely to guide our feeling, even a mental feeling. Our feeling ought not to guide our thought.21 21

Suckiel is quite right to argue in answer to his critics that truth for James not only is subject to verification but also leads to our satisfaction (Philosophy 6. 94–105). Indeed, only truth that is verifiable, she reminds us, will be consistently capable of satisfying our desires (103– 104). But, unfortunately, she criticizes James for arguing that truth is only a descriptive

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What I am arguing, then, is that we may place the rhetorical art and especially its argument by example within pragmatic experience. My reader may already have surmised my next contention. I want now to argue that we ourselves may be both the subject and the object of our own rhetorical experience. We are both a knower and an object known, after all. Or we can be if we aspire to a modicum, at least, of self-knowledge. What this suggestion means is that we may use rhetorical example as a method to construct our own moral identity. By our own example we knowers may make ourselves known to ourselves. How would this method work? Clearly we do have concepts, and our concepts do concern our percepts, and some percepts of ours appear to be about ourselves. We are not only beings with a mental life, but apparently beings with a physical life as well. That is, our concepts and percepts of ourselves have not only a history in our consciousness but also a history in environments apparently physical. We embody our concepts in our actions, and our embodiments are perceptible even to ourselves – though, perhaps, not always as perspicaciously as to others. These concepts and percepts can be material for major and minor premises of practical reasoning, both inductive and deductive. We have a tendency, though, to focus our attention on the deductive aspect of practical reasoning. A practical syllogism we usually think of as a deductive inference or what Aristotle calls an enthymeme. From a general proposition by means of a particular one we draw a conclusion that states what action we ought or ought not to perform. If not without moral restraint, we then do what we ought to do or do not do what we ought not to do.22 Who could deny the practical importance of deductive arguments? Arguments of this kind are essential. Because it is rhetorical demonstration, enthymeme is indeed the best proof, Aristotle argues (Rhetoric 1. 1. 1355a4– 8; also 1. 2. 1356b23–25). We may find enthymemes so persuasive because

22

concept and not an explanatory one. A descriptive concept is merely an abstraction from particular instances of truth, she argues. But an explanatory concept shows why we make justifiable judgments about phenomena. It shows that “true propositions accurately represent reality – independently of human experience and belief” (120–121). I must disagree with Suckiel about an explanatory concept of truth. James cannot subscribe to a concept of truth that ensures the accuracy of our knowledge. To do so would be to accept the position that human knowledge is adequate to its object. But if we had adequate knowledge, we would have knowledge that is certain and not hypothetical (see Will 1. 12–14). But I do agree with an implication of her criticism. I am arguing that our knowledge has an object with a nature of its own, even though we cannot adequately know it. This nature is something we can perceive and not merely feel. Its continuity over time, in other words, arises from objective associations rather than from subjective ones. Raz, for example, focuses his anthology, which contains articles deemed to have made significant advances, on practical reasoning and its deductive applications. Millgram, however, has recently come to the defense of induction in practical reasoning, though he does not consider any method.

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we prefer not to challenge our general principles or to change them only reluctantly. We also know that with deductive arguments we can evaluate our principles. James obviously emphasizes the deductive phase of the experimental method for this purpose. He tests hypotheses by their consequences for action. But does not inductive reasoning have a practical import equally great if not greater? Too often we act on a generalization accepted with insufficient empirical evidence or with little or no evidence. These generalizations, when we are aware of them, we pejoratively call prejudices or stereotypes. One would think that we ought rather to muster the best evidence that we can for any generalization, especially a moral one. What I am suggesting, in other words, is that we hypothesize our moral principles by means of examples, and that we ought to test our principles by examples as well. Even principles concerning our very selves.23 With our examples, then, we can, if we take the trouble, formulate practical hypotheses that we may use to determine our conduct and to develop our character. We can formulate generalizations about moral matters from particular instances that we experience. We also may obviously revise our generalizations as the particulars we experience are enhanced in quality or increased in quantity. What I would like now to do is to show how our concept of rhetorical example allows us to employ the pragmatic method much more widely than we may have imagined, especially when applied to ourselves. We must return to Aristotle for a final foray. Recall what Aristotle says about rhetoric and its audiences. He divides rhetoric into three species by differentiating its audiences, as we have seen. But these audiences also differ in their concern with time and its three dimensions. Adjudicative rhetoric concerns what has happened, deliberative rhetoric what will happen, and demonstrative rhetoric what is happening (Rhetoric 1. 3. 1358a36–b8). If we look within ourselves, we obviously find that our thoughts about ourselves take on these three concerns of rhetoric. Do we not sometimes 23

McDowell agrees that we may act in accordance with a concept of what our life ought to be. He even argues that this concept is a generalization that we may inculcate in others with examples. This generalization we may apply with an awareness of new particulars (Reality 3. 65–67). Yet he argues that we can have no moral code. Why? Precisely because our moral principles are generalities true only for the most part. We cannot devise any practical syllogisms with a universal premise and a necessary application to a particular. There are no objective rules of conduct, he avers (57–65). But may we not apply our generalities to particulars? I would ask. We must surely apply them with diffidence and discretion, I admit. But reasonable resemblances between known particulars and an unknown particular would give us warrant to extend our generalization, even if it is not universal and necessary. A salient dissimilarity would yield no warrant, however. I would think that our generalizations may also have some objectivity, if we derive them from experienced particulars. Their objectivity, of course, could never reach certainty. If it did, we would be more than human.

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wonder if we should have performed this or that action? Or, more typically perhaps, why we did this or that? We surely do expend considerable effort thinking about the future. We plan for our careers, we plan for our day, we even plan for lunch. But on occasion we think about our present predicament, too. We do so on weddings, birthdays, and funerals, for example, or at family reunions, office parties, and national holidays. We may, then, use the experimental method to address problems concerned with our present, past, and future selves. We who live in contemporary societies exhibit a tendency to concern ourselves almost exclusively with the future and sacrifice the present and the past on the altar of our hopes and aspirations. But surely we would do well to be practiced also at addressing past transgressions against other creatures, both human and nonhuman, and at acknowledging the plethora of values, both moral and natural, in our environments. Aristotle also shows how we may take advantage of a wide range of intellectual resources when we ponder ourselves. He does so implicitly by recognizing examples of three kinds. An example may be a history ( (

. (), a fable ( ), or a parable ( 3 ) (Rhetoric 2. 20. 1393a28–31). These kinds differ from one another with respect to the particulars used to support a hypothesis. A historical example is an actual past event. We might want to establish the general hypothesis that those who take Egypt will attempt to take Greece, if we wish to show that the Greeks ought to prepare for war with the Persian king. To establish this generalization, we could point out that Darius took Egypt and then attacked Greece, and that Xerxes did so, too (1393a31–b4).24 A fable is a fictitious example. Aristotle cites an Aesopian fable about a fox and a hedgehog. A hedgehog offerred to help a fox rid itself of its fleas. But the fox refused, saying that its fleas were full and drew little blood, but that new fleas would be hungry and drain more blood. The moral of this tale – its hypothesis – is that a creature whose desire is sated is less likely to cause harm than a creature driven by desire. And so its conclusion is that an established tyrant who has enriched himself would not cause more harm, 24

Legal scholars take historical examples quite seriously. Examples of this sort, which they call precedents, are the engines of case law. Levi, for example, explicitly asserts that “legal reasoning is reasoning by example” or “reasoning from case to case.” Reasoning of this kind, he explains, involves three steps: “similarity is seen between cases; next the rule of law inherent in the first case is announced; then the rule of law is made applicable to the second case.” He even cites the Prior Analytics (Reasoning 1. 1–2 and n. 2). McDowell makes an attempt to historicize our values. But, unfortunately, he merely views general moral propositions as a tradition handed down from the past. He argues that our ethical outlook is the result of our upbringing, and we can only reflect on and refine infinitely the details of our outlook. He makes no attempt, as far as I can tell, to seek support for or refutation of traditional values in the particulars of experience. Indeed, he argues that we cannot reconstruct ethical demands from natural materials, though we may take independent facts into account if relevant (World 4. 80–82, e.g.).

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but that a new tyrant who might well be greedy would likely inflict new harm (1393b22–1394a1).25 A parable is a Socratic argument, Aristotle tells us. To prove that officials chosen by lot are not necessarily competent, one may argue that athletes chosen by lot need not be the best competitors, nor need sailors chosen by lot be the best helmsmen (1393b4–8). The hypothesis gleaned from these particulars would be that to select an individual by chance is not to choose the most capable person for a job.26 We can now see that, because they are of these kinds, rhetorical examples can enable us to expand considerably the sources for formulating and testing a hypothesis entertained in our quest for self-knowledge. Indeed, these kinds suggest that one might formulate our practical principles out of materials generated by our different intellectual faculties. Historical examples obviously arise from human memory; fables emerge from our imagination; and parables originate in conception. We thus need not restrict our evidence for our moral experiments to what we remember to have happened, though the future does resemble the past (see 1394a6–8). We may also consider what we imagine might happen, and imagined possibilities are a fecund source of innovation. But we may take into account similarities that exist between different intellectual fields, such as politics and athletics or seamanship.27 Fastidious philosophers might take umbrage at the fact that rhetoric has apparently subsumed philosophy by allowing argument by example to include philosophical parables. But they need not feel particularly paranoid. 25

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Without discussing rhetoric, Nussbaum rightly argues for the importance of literary examples, though she gives priority to an emotional interpretation of them. She advocates a concept, taken from Adam Smith, of the “judicious spectator.” A spectator of the judicious sort employs both reason and passion, she explains. Our sympathy for characters in novels, for example, can lead us to take them seriously as examples of individuals who face difficult social situations. But we must be sure to temper our sympathy for these characters “with a true view of what is going on” (Justice 3. 72–77). An example of this sort appears to bear a resemblance to dialectical induction (see Prior Analytics 2. 23.). Dennett would call examples of this kind intuition pumps. He argues that they are “the dominant force” in philosophy, and that they are “powerful pedagogical devices” (Room 1. 12, 17–18, e.g.). With his desire to systematize our traditional values, McDowell all but offers parables. But he is more a dialectician than a rhetorician, though he would no doubt deny it. He in effect takes our moral standpoint and its prescriptions to be quasi-eternal because we cannot reconstruct them out of any natural descriptions. He actually attributes a view of this kind to Aristotle (World 4. 79–80)! What MacIntyre calls a narrative I would thus call an argument by example. I can agree with him that an example enables us to make sense of our actions. We ought to set up a secret police force if we wish to be a tyrant, for example. But, unfortunately, MacIntyre does not appear to require that our examples ultimately have reference in experience to our percepts (Virtue 15. 209–211).

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Philosophy properly concerns conceptual entities, rhetoric perceptual ones. Rhetoric thus treats philosophical concepts as appercepts or, as we more commonly say, percepts, albeit general ones. After all, dialectic concerns objects that are changeless, but rhetoric confronts objects that change.28 Nor ought these philosophers to feel especially singled out. We can make rhetoric an architectonic discipline encompassing vast expanses, indeed the whole, of the intellectual world. Example with its species easily embraces the disciplines of history, poetry, and philosophy. These three disciplines would appear to be exhaustive. History and poetry Aristotle himself distinguishes by their objects, which are that which has happened (4 ) and that which might happen ( # ) ( ) (Poetics 9. 1451a36–b5). Philosophy in a broad sense would include all the sciences, both natural and moral, because it concerns a universal ( ), presumably, that which is (1451b5–10). But we may, I think, place examples in another perspective with the aid of the Greek distinction between knowledge and opinion. A Socratic parable does resemble knowledge in the narrow sense, I concede. Though not about unchanging objects, a parable concerns general concepts. A parable would thus seem to be about that which eternally is. But its concepts, again, are actually percepts, though general. That is, they are general concepts about that which is but momentary. A historical example is most obviously concerned with opinion. Its generalizations are obviously concepts about objects that are among those capable of change. These concepts rest on particulars that are percepts about individuals, such as Alcibiades, and their actions and passions (but see Poetics 9. 1451b10–11). But these objects, though once capable of change, are, we must admit, now fixed unchangingly in the past (see Ethics 6. 2. 1139b5–11). A fable is more complicated. It appears to establish a general concept with contingent particulars, and these particulars purport to be about changeable objects. But its purported objects might seem to be somehow unchangeable because they are not anything actual (see Poetics 9. 1451b5–7 again). Indeed, fables have a charm all their own because they support a generalization so obviously true with alleged percepts so obviously false. We might even view these distinctions in Humiean terms. By doing so we can perhaps see more easily how rhetoric can assimilate philosophy herself. Philosophy properly speaking, at least in the Greek sense, concerns relations of ideas, which have no concern with actual existence. But we may view philosophical concepts as mere percepts. That is, we need not treat these concepts as relations of ideas in accordance with the principle of

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That we might know or opine the very same proposition, Aristotle explicitly acknowledges (Post. Ana. 1. 33.).

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contradiction. We may treat them as matters of fact in accordance with the principles of association (see Understanding 4. 1. 25–26).29 A historical example clearly concerns ideas as existent. It concerns remembered matters of fact, and matters of fact are existent entities. Rhetoric easily assimilates this discipline, then. Even general principles of history, if one were to seek them, are merely factual matters. To those alleged to assert that the Greeks have no theory of history, I would respond that one ought to take into account their theories of rhetoric. A fable might seem to concern relations of ideas. It appears to have no reference to anything actually existent. But one might better say that an Aesopian fable, for example, treats of imagined matters of fact. Accordingly, a fable can take license with our percepts precisely because that which exists can be other than it is. That foxes and hedgehogs might talk implies no contradiction.30 With its examples, then, the rhetorical art can easily become an architectonic discipline of a scope wider than even Gorgias had imagined. I am now obliged, however, to remind my reader that, when we argue by example, we ought to construct our general hypotheses from particulars that are objective rather than subjective. Even a fable, an imagined example, must rest its moral on true opinion. Though parts of it are imaginary, a fable turns only on the parts that are true enough to fact. Foxes do have fleas, fleas do suck blood, and a flea, when sated, sucks less blood. But how can we be sure that our opinions have any objectivity? We can never be entirely sure, I am afraid. But we can try our best to be as objective as our humble experience allows. Let us follow Aristotle a little further. He does concede that both example and enthymeme we must make out of opinions held by an audience. And, presumably, his concession would hold of an audience of one. Rhetoric, he asserts explicitly, draws its arguments from held opinions (0 ). These opinions include especially those “about which we are already accustomed to deliberate” (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1356b33–1357a1). But held opinions can be objective. Aristotle in fact defines them for us objectively. Held opinions, he asserts, most often include only what is probable, but they also include what is necessary. These probabilities and necessities are what he calls probabilities (') and signs () (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357a22–33). A probability, he explains, is that which happens for the 29

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Surely, we need not worry about the fact that Hume limits relations of ideas to the mathematical sciences. He does concede that we may make immediate inferences of this sort in other sciences (Understanding 12. 3. 163). If so, why may we not also make mediated inferences, if shorter, of the same sort (see Understanding 7. 1. 60–61)? Hume clearly recognizes the distinction between general and particular matters of fact. General facts are the subjects of “politics, natural philosophy, physic, chemistry, &c.” These sciences study properties “of a whole species of objects.” Particular facts are the concern of “history, chronology, geography, and astronomy.” But poetry, he unfortunately argues, is less the object of understanding than of sentiment (Understanding 12. 3. 164–165).

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most part ( % 5 ) and that which concerns those things that can be other than they are (1357a34–36). A sign he illustrates with an example. That Socrates is both wise and just is a sign that wise men are just. Signs of this type are refutable. But signs can be irrefutable, and he calls them conclusive ( ). A fever, for example, is a conclusive sign that someone is sick. A sign of this type, if true, is necessary (1357b3–17).31 In his logic Aristotle explains more explicitly what he takes signs and probabilities to be. When he does, he implies even more strongly that both are objective. A sign is a demonstrable proposition, either necessary or held, ( - & / - / 0 ), for it is “a thing ( 6) which, when it is, another thing is ( 7 . . . " 0), or when it has come to be, another thing has come to be before or after it (/ 7 ( / 8 ( ).” A probability is a proposition held ( 0 ), for it is “that which people know to happen for the most part or not to happen (9 . . . : % 5 ; 8* / & ) or to be or not to be (" / & ")” (Prior Analytics 2. 27. 70a2–9).32 Probabilities and signs, then, can be objective. And we can see without difficulty how one can use these materials for constructing examples. A sign that wise men are just, Aristotle himself points out, is the particular fact that Socrates is wise and just. A sign that those who attack Egypt attack Greece is the fact that Darius did, and that Xerxes did, we could add. A probability provides less a particular than a general fact, such as the fact that a fox has fleas, or that a flea, when hungry, sucks blood. But are we still not limited to whatever opinions an audience happens to hold? And might not only a few among these opinions be objective probabilities and signs? No, we do not need to rely solely on held opinions that happen to be objective. A rhetorician ought obviously to have recourse to opinions of this kind. They are immediately persuasive by themselves. But these very opinions he can also use to prove other opinions that an audience does not hold (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1356b28–30). These new opinions he may not prove through demonstration, of course. But, surely, he may establish them through enthymeme and example (1357a7–21).33 A rhetorician, then, can have the power to create a new objectivity in the minds of an audience. Socrates and Gorgias agreed, as we have seen, that a 31

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This passage begs for comparison with Hume’s discussion of probability and necessity (Understanding 6–7.). Essentially following the Ross translation. I am arguing that Aristotle advocates a rhetorical method for organizing our practical knowledge much as Nussbaum argues that he advances a logical method for organizing our theoretical knowledge. Though I might take issue with details, I would agree that demonstration can validate knowledge in the strict sense, but I would add that deliberation can validate knowledge in the sense of opinion (Fragility 8. 249, 250–251). I could not agree that ethics and politics are not sciences, however (250, 257–258). They are moral sciences because we may analyze our moral concepts simply as concepts. But, of course, we may also organize our moral concepts as percepts about factual matters.

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rhetorician can create persuasion in the souls of an audience. Indeed, they actually call a rhetorician an artisan or a demiurge (Gorgias 452e–453a)! I would take their agreement to mean that rhetoric can give us the power to create a new objectivity in ourselves or in others. With James we might say that a rhetorician can create a new object within our experience. One would do so by creating new associations within our own souls or within other souls.34 My argument, I hope, is by now sufficient to give you, dear reader, an idea of what a rhetoric of self-knowledge might be. My present purpose is an analysis of concepts that provide a useful method, at once rhetorical and experiential, for discovering a foundation for morality. My hope is that I have provided sufficient detail to show that rhetoric can include pragmatism and to show what might be the general consequences of this view for our knowledge of our own abilities and endeavors. Argument by example is an especially pragmatic method and a method more general than the hypothetical method as conceived by the American progmatists themselves. And what an expanse of material we have to develop our self-knowledge! If I am right, we have essentially the whole of human culture – its histories, its literatures, and its sciences, even philosophy itself – at our disposal. We may find paradigms for human character and conduct in all these sources, varied as they are. But my eventual purpose is a slightly different one. By providing a rhetorical context for it, we especially enable ourselves to perform a moral critique of pragmatism. Philosophers both in antiquity and in the present have a penchant for subjecting rhetoric to various moral evaluations, some being in fact rather harsh. Once we see it as rhetoric, we may transfer these evaluations to pragmatism itself. I shall in fact begin an evaluation of this sort in the next chapter. 34

We may agree with MacIntyre that “an historically extended, socially embodied, argument” is a tradition, and that an argument of this kind is “about the goods which constitute that tradition” (Virtue 15. 222). I would not want to deny the importance of moral tradition. But I would argue that a tradition is an extended and shared argument by example or rather examples. We obviously share our examples, whether we take them from Shakespeare, say, or television sitcoms, and our examples do concern our goodness. We may also agree that virtue and its exercise sustain and strengthen a tradition (223). But I would point out that virtue by itself cannot establish or develop a tradition. Our practical reason, rather, establishes and applies with the rhetorical art moral generalizations resting ultimately on probabilities and signs. With these generalizations and their applications reason of this kind can sustain and strengthen virtue and hence tradition. But see Chapters 3 and 7 on practical reason and virtue. MacIntyre does recognize the need for “the virtue of having an adequate sense of the traditions to which one belongs.” This virtue, he explains, consists “in knowing how to select among the relevant stack of maxims and how to apply them in particular situations” (223). I could hardly have put the matter better myself. This virtue I take to be none other than practical wisdom itself. Practical wisdom with rhetoric and its examples and enthymemes enables us to discover general, if contingent, propositions about moral matters and to apply these generalities to the particular matter at hand.

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I have, then, not attempted to work out all the details of a rhetorical pragmatism. You may, if you so wish, have the pleasure of working them out for yourself. Nor would I be the last to add that there are other rhetorical theories amenable to this purpose besides the Aristotelian. I would ask, however, that you rest your rhetorical theory on a cognitive foundation of perception and its objects and not on a conative foundation of mere emotion. With this request I commend rhetoric to you as a liberal art of self-knowledge.35 5. Irrational our rationality proves to be, and irrefragably so! Irrational we are fated to be even when we think with the aid of dialectical or rhetorical methods. Dialectic, as we have seen, offers methods, definition and division, which are appropriate for knowledge of our ideas as concepts. Dialectic concerns ideas as intelligible objects that do not change. In a word, ideas as ideal. Rhetoric offers methods, example and enthymeme, suited for knowledge of our ideas as percepts. That is, rhetorical methods concern ideas as sensible objects that do change. Or, more simply, ideas as real. But irrational? How could our dialectical and rhetorical conclusions be irrational? Surely dialectical conclusions could not be irrational, you may be thinking. But how could they not be? I must ask. Remember, we have no divine knowledge. To have knowledge of this wondrous sort we would have to have knowledge no longer hypothetical concerned with ideas eternally true. But our dialectic can rest only on hypotheses concerned with mere human ideas. Inexorably these hypotheses must thus prove false. Rhetorical conclusions are rather obviously irrational. Rhetoric rests on hypotheses concerning probabilities and signs, but probabilities and signs are percepts true contingently. Eventually these hypotheses also prove false, even capriciously so, because their objects can and do change. Their objects are at the mercy of forces beyond our ken, and they include among their number our very own selves.36 35

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Many contemporary philosophers acknowledge the importance of language for determining human goodness. Dennett argues that language not only gives us reasons to consider but enables us to consider new reasons (Room 2. 43–49). McDowell argues that a natural language is a store of wisdom about what are reasons for acting (World 6. 125–126). Foot, too, recognizes the importance of speech for determining what our goodness is (Goodness 4. 55). They could thus agree, I would hope, that an art of language is of equal, if not greater, importance. MacIntyre would deny that what he calls a narrative is false. He takes issue with Sartre for arguing through a character in a novel that “to present life in the form of a narrative is always to falsify it.” He argues against Sartre that a life without a narrative would be “the disjointed parts of some possible narrative.” He also points out that we are the authors of our own narratives when we live them. The difference between an imaginary and a real character does not lie in the narrative form but in the degree of authorship. We have more constraints in our real narrative (Virtue 15. 214–215). But can we really and truly know ourselves? I cannot see how we ever could. We shall never know whether or not our sense impressions resemble their objects or whether or not

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This insight into the irrationality of what we take to be our rationality invites us to reconsider who a philosopher is and who a philodoxer is. Indeed, we may now distinguish philosophers of two kinds and philodoxers of two kinds. Many, if not most, professional scholars would argue that for Plato a philosopher can possess only knowledge in an absolute sense. Dialectic, according to this Platonic view, is a way to eternal, unchanging truths. That Plato holds a view of this sort appears rather doubtful. He calls absolute knowledge nonhypothetical, and he argues that philosophers can only strive toward truth of this kind. The gods alone can truly be said to be wise, he reminds us. We humans can only aspire to wisdom (Phaedrus 278b–d again). A philosopher who is without divine pretensions aspires not to absolute wisdom but only to human wisdom of a relative sort. We may formulate hypotheses about our ideas and attempt to advance with our hypotheses toward a nonhypothetical first principle. Or we may employ our hypotheses merely to draw conclusions about our ideas (Republic 6. 509d–511e). I would add that our ideas are relative to our impressions, and our impressions relative to our circumstances, which in turn are bound to change. True, a philosopher may, with the aid of dialectic, treat ideas as ideas and study their relations to one another. In this manner we can treat our ideas as if they were eternal truths. But because we have the ability to view them as unchanging, we cannot conclude that we do grasp ideas that are truly unchanging. On the contrary, our ideas most often prove to be rather flimsy stuff, as do the impressions from which they come. Who, then, might a philosopher be? Someone who can contemplate our ideas merely as ideas. A false philosopher takes his ideas as such to be absolute and divine truths. But a true philosopher does not take any ideas to be god-given. He or she theorizes about them merely as human and relative truths. These truths at their very best can be only crude approximations of any divine truth. We mortals are able to formulate hypotheses only, and we find them all too soon refuted. Who, then, might be a philodoxer? I wish to argue that we may distinguish philodoxers of two kinds as well. The one kind is praiseworthy, and the other not. These kinds are, I think, both implicit in Plato’s dialogues. But Socrates devotes almost no discussion to philodoxers in an approbative sense, and he discusses at length those who are philodoxers in a pejorative sense. He, in fact, ridicules them. Philodoxers in the approbative sense are those who love opinion and recognize it for what it is. They recognize that knowledge in a specific sense they have any objects, not to reiterate the fact that their objects, if any there are, appear liable to unchanging change. Nonetheless, I can agree that a life without a narrative would be a jumble of disjointed parts, though I would prefer to call a narrative an example. I agree, too, that the difference between fiction and fact lies in external constraints, though these constraints are ultimately those which we perceive.

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concerns eternal and unchanging truth, and that opinion concerns truth that is temporal and changing. They do not confuse the two but assign to each its appropriate domain. The one concerns being, the other becoming. But these philodoxers Socrates would appear to think of as philosophers. He argues that a philosopher is someone who is not a persnickety thinker. A true philosopher loves all of knowledge and not some one part of it (Republic 5. 474c–475c). But to love knowledge in its entirety would be to love not only knowledge in the strict sense but also opinion. Philodoxers in the pejorative sense, Socrates suggests, confuse knowledge and opinion, and for knowledge they substitute opinion. That is, they mistake for the unchanging objects of knowledge the changing objects of opinion. These characters believe, in other words, that their opinions concern necessary truths, though they concern truths merely contingent (475d–476e). Nowadays these characters may seem improbable. But I submit that we find major figures of this sort even in modern philosophy. Hume himself presents an example, I am sorry to say. He argues that philosophy concerns matters of fact; and matters of fact, he implies, are essentially matters of opinion. He honestly admits that he can find for moral reasoning no objective necessity in its object (Understanding 7. 1. 63–73). And yet he feels impelled to ascribe the alethetic qualities of knowledge in the specific sense to opinion. He must thus have recourse to a subjective necessity in order to explain causation. This subjective necessity, he concedes, is a mental habit (74–76). Kant agrees with Hume that our knowledge concerns an object without any necessity of its own. After all, he credits Hume with awaking him from his dogmatic slumbers (Prolegomena pref. 257–260). Yet he too holds that knowledge can be only necessary, and he argues that its necessity cannot be of an empirical origin. Kant accordingly advocates a subjective necessity for knowledge, albeit of a different kind from that which Hume advances. He substitutes a necessity of pure reason and its concepts for one of remembered concepts and habit (Prolegomena pref. 260–261; 2. 310–313).37 What I advocate, then, is philodoxy as love of opinion. I am arguing that true philodoxers love opinion, but they recognize that opinion is contingent knowledge about objects of change. They accept the fact that opinion may be true or false, and they acknowledge that opinion may be true or false because its object can and does change. In short, a philodoxer in an approbative sense is a rhetorician in the best sense. I wish only that I could take James to be a philodoxer in the best sense. He argues repeatedly against dogmatism, and he adjures us to regard our concepts ultimately as percepts. Yet he does not recognize opinion concerned with cognized matters of fact but only opinion concerned with felt matters 37

But, then, contemporary analytic philosophers with their logical schemata are hardly immune to this philosophical malady. Quine presents an obvious exception.

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of fact. Mere feeling, when continuous, is what gives identity to an object, he argues (Empiricism 2. 49–52). But I might put my conclusion in a way more congenial to the Socratic spirit. A true philosopher could be only a dialectician and a rhetorician both. On the assumption, that is, that he or she would love knowledge in every sense and not try to reduce knowledge to only one sense. But, of course, a true philosopher could only aspire to knowledge in either sense. Am I arguing that we ultimately do not know but only opine? No, I am arguing that we can know. With definitions and demonstrations, we can know our own ideas. Knowledge in a strict sense is relations of ideas, as Hume so ably puts it. But these relations of ideas are not at all absolutes. They concern merely human ideas arrayed in accordance with the principle of contradiction. But I am also arguing that we do opine. I recognize with Plato the difference between knowledge and opinion. As does Hume, so may we accept the obvious fact that matters of fact are contingent or, if you will, irrational. But factual matters are not subject to the principle of contradiction. Yet facts so unreliable are amenable to argument by example, which would appear to be our least irrational guide for our action. Socrates accuses philodoxers of being dreamers because they take images for things (Republic 5. 476c–d). We must humbly accept this accusation. I am offering you nothing less than an oneiric philosophy. We, too, are dreamers because we take our percepts for reality. But we are dreamers of a different persuasion because we know that our dreams are merely dreams. That our impressions might resemble objects external to us, or that they should be caused by objects of this sort, are for us convenient hypotheses and nothing more.

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3 Human Happiness

1. The familiar countenance in your mirror, when you gaze upon it, have you ever pondered the question, What am I? Perhaps, after a late glass of whisky, we all have on one occasion or another. I do not mean to ask, Who am I? We are each obviously so-and-so who lives at such-and-such an address. But I do mean to ask, What am I? What is a human being? What is the nature of this creature whose mercurial image now floats before my eyes? Surely, this question occurs to everyone in those anomalous moments when we slip out of our routine. No one, I am afraid, can truly answer this inordinate question, not even after a sip or two of good scotch. We are all destined inexorably to fail in our attempts to cogitate our own essence, despite our best efforts to obey the injunction of Delphic oracle. Why are we so destined? Obviously, we cannot presume to any divine knowledge of what we are. If he taught anything, Socrates surely taught us that we are incapable of aspiring to knowledge of any truth, true once and for all. He thought the mere presumption to knowledge of this kind to be the height of human folly. Can we not have human knowledge of ourselves? you may ask. I concede that we can. But our knowledge consists of tenets all too tentative. Socrates discovered his divine ignorance only by treating a pronouncement of the oracle as a hypothesis and by attempting to falsify it. With our knowledge we shall never be able to tell what ideal concept, which we would imperfectly imitate, might define what we truly are. Nor shall we be able to tell what material object, which would manifest itself in our machinations, might constitute our real selves. We can only test whatever concept we formulate about our identity with whatever percepts we have of ourselves, however much under our very gaze these percepts may twist and turn like the legendary Proteus. Well and good, you may say. But what are we to do? Shall we ignore our nocturnal question when we wake up in the morning, if indeed we remember it? Or should we not rather attempt to answer as best we can this unfathomable question? I think that we ought to make an attempt at 68

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an answer, and I would suggest that we may begin to appease our curious curiosity with a hypothesis. A reasonable hypothesis to start with might be that human beings are essentially an intellectual activity. We are, after all, alleged to be rational animals! Perhaps an activity of this variety might make us what we are and make us morally good. We appear to be off to a good start. Our hypothesis apparently enjoys the sanction of ancient authority. Indeed, the ancient Greek philosophers repeatedly attempted to impress upon us that we are essentially an intellectual activity. Plato and Aristotle both argue that an activity of this kind we may value, if we so wish, for the sake of itself alone if not also for the sake of its consequences. We may value it as a final end, in other words. This activity they call our happiness ( ). But despite this endorsement, we find ourselves enmeshed in controversy almost immediately. What is the nature of this intellectual activity that we might possibly be? Many philosophers, mostly Platonists of one stripe or another, would argue that, if we wish to advocate an intellectual activity, we could hope to advance only a concept of happiness that is a theoretical activity. Reason of the theoretical kind, they explain, grasps what are most certainly necessary truths because it concerns indubitable concepts, pure and unchanging. We can be happy only when we philosophize about these sureties. One might suspect, however, that knowledge so certain and so pure is beyond the ken of us humans. We obviously know any theory, including philosophical theory, only by hypothesis. But I must also ask, How practical would a theoretical activity be even of this more humble human sort? We might contentedly philosophize away while the world tumbles down around us. Knowledge even of this kind would most likely be a disconcerting source of tragedy or comedy in varieties all too familiar. What might we be, then? I have little doubt, dear reader, if you have dabbled in moral philosophy, that you will recognize the aforesaid concept of happiness as the usual. Nor would you likely be surprised if I said that the aforesaid objections are the usual, too. What might come as a surprise, however, is that Plato himself brings against this very concept these very objections! One might wonder, then, whether we would not be prudent, at least, to revisit his concept of happiness. If we analyze it, we might possibly discover his concept to be a moral principle more pragmatic than we might have supposed. 2. That happiness is our goodness Plato does not doubt in the least. His assurance is manifest in a dialogue that by any account is his most celebrated. I refer to the Symposium. In this dialogue Plato portrays, among other things, Socrates relating a conversation he had with a woman named Diotima. In their conversation both she and he simply assume that happiness is our ultimate goodness. “By the possession of good things, those who are happy

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are happy ( ),” she asserts, “and we have no additional need to ask further why he who wishes wishes to be happy.” “You speak the truth,” he replies (Symposium 205a). This agreement between Socrates and Diotima is for us most unfortunate. Because they agree, they do not pause to explain why happiness is our goodness. Nor do they even bother to discuss what happiness is. One might wonder, too, about the good things that make us happy. But let us not worry about these details. At least, not for the moment. I want to worry about a prior question, How viable a moral concept might happiness be for us mortals? Whatever might prove to be its content, and however we might hope to realize it, is happiness an eternal form, a tad too rich, perhaps, for our blood? Or is the concept somehow appropriate for us worldlings? Socrates and Diotima agree that happiness is a good that the gods enjoy (Symposium 202c, for example). But Diotima and Socrates further suggest that happiness might also be a good allotted to human beings. I wish, accordingly, to inquire about the metaphysical complexion of this moral concept. How, if there is indeed a difference, does divine felicity differ from human? Or, more to the point, Can we make a fulfillment of this kind, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, our own? I should like, therefore, to speak of love ( ). Love can provide the answers to all our questions! Diotima assures us. Love can answer not only our philosophical questions but even our practical ones. But how can he do so? If we eavesdrop on their conversation again, discreetly of course, we shall catch Diotima relating to Socrates a paramount fact about this affliction. Love is the very source of human happiness! she intimates. He who loves loves good things and loves good things to become his own (Symposium 204e, 206a). But he who makes good things his own, they have already agreed, is happy through their possession (204e–205a). What, then, might love be? Love is a daimon ( )! Indeed, Diotima informs us that love is a rather curious daimon. He has the power of translating and transporting messages between divine and human beings. With humans gods do not mingle, she explains. Only through a spirit comes about any intercourse or discourse between immortals and mortals. This communication is not without its protocols, either. It requires injunctions and requitals of the gods, and of us entreaties and sacrifices (202d–203a). What might this talk of a messenger and his messages mean? One cannot but wish that Plato had used fewer metaphors, despite their often sublime qualities. Fortunately, Diotima herself offers some resources for an interpretation of this particular image. She would appear to suggest that love is a daimon who is a go-between with resources sufficient to help us find our way from what we lack to what we wish to have (203c–e). Love, in other words, would appear to be a spirit who can help us fulfill our needs. She explains with an example. Her example strikes rather close to home – philosophy itself. Only through love are philosophers able to seek wisdom, she informs us. Philosophers, who are literally lovers of wisdom, love wisdom

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because we are neither wise nor ignorant. If we were wise, we would not have any love of wisdom. We would surely be gods, and we would have no desire for knowledge because we would already have it. Nor would we have any desire for knowledge if we were totally ignorant. The ignorant who are truly such feel quite sufficient unto themselves. A person who feels no need has no desire, she rightly asserts (203e–204a). Diotima rests her example on the premise that we love only what we lack. Love is love of something, she explained to Socrates earlier. Love, in other words, must have an object. But the object of our affection must be something that we do not have. Otherwise, we would not wish to have it. We might appear to love something that we already have, she continues in a manner almost offhand. But when we say that we want something that we already have, what we really want is to have in the future what we enjoy in the present (199c–200e, 206a). Well and good. But how does a daimon with this charge help us attain what we want? Diotima does not trouble herself to explain her example further. But the example might bring to mind another daimon much more famous. Readers of Plato’s Apology may recall the daimon so important for Socrates and his life! Socrates has a spirit that is surely philosophical, if any is. His spirit, in fact, arises because he is neither wise nor ignorant. He is not possessed of divine wisdom or of abject ignorance. He professes only to know that he does not know! Hence, he displays a rather pronounced desire for more knowledge.1 Can this Socratic daimon enable us to understand better what love might be? I think it can. No one could deny that Socrates fancies himself an erotic figure of some sort. He actually claims, when the symposiasts propose the theme of love, that he knows nothing other than erotic matters ( ) (Symposium 177d–e)! He also reiterates this claim at the beginning and ending of his speech (198c–d, 212b–c). I would venture to surmise that his assertion could possibly be an allusion to his love of wisdom, not to mention his love of others who, too, love wisdom. Let us, then, ask, How does the Socratic daimon work? This spirit works only by hypothesis, of course. Socrates, recall, did not at first believe the oracle when she said that he was the wisest of men. So he treated her utterance as a hypothesis and attempted to refute it. But he failed in his attempt. He discovered that he was in fact the wisest of all because he knew that he had only his meager hypothetical wisdom, worth little or nothing (see Apology 20d–22e). Indeed, no love for wisdom could consummate itself in a greater object than a hypothetical one. Recall, if you will, Plato’s figure of the divided line. Socrates uses the divided line to show that we humans can have only 1

The scholars have long taken note of similarities between love and Socrates. But they fail, as far as I can tell, to observe any philosophical resemblances. They note instead merely physical ones (see, e.g., Rosen. Symposium 7. 233–234).

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hypothetical knowledge. We may use our hypotheses as steppingstones for understanding a greater first principle, or we may use them as assumptions for reasoning to a lesser conclusion. But however we use them, we use only hypotheses in our attempt to attain knowledge (Republic 6. 509d–511e). Could a hypothesis, then, help us attain the object of our desire? Most likely it could. With a hypothesis may we not attempt to possess what we lack? When we seek knowledge, for example, a hypothesis surely functions for us in this way. Though he did not gain wisdom, with his hypothesis Socrates did begin to become wise. At least, he learned that he did not know. He was thus wiser than those who thought they knew when they did not. They were abjectly ignorant of their very ignorance! What, then, might love be? I would venture the hypothesis that love is a spirit who enables us to hypothesize! Indeed, we may say that a human being is no more and no less than an animal that hypothesizes or Homo hypothetens. Such is the human spirit, and such our rationality! Through Socrates we see how we may formulate hypotheses about things we desire to know. But may we not also formulate hypotheses about things we desire to opine? If so, could we not hypothesize about the things we desire to be or to do? About our very identity, that is, and our activity? We and our activity remain, after all, objects curiously contingent.2 We might now hazard a guess about the nature of the divine injunctions and compensations requisite for intercourse with the gods. Would not these be the philosophical requirements of hypothesizing and the rewards of understanding or reasoning successfully? And the entreaties and sacrifices on our part – what might they be? Could they be the relinquishing of old hypotheses and the searching for new hypotheses? The metaphor, I concede, is obscure about these points, which Diotima does not take up. So I shall not press my interpretation.3 2

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MacIntyre offers the thesis that a human being is “a story-telling animal.” He argues that we are storytellers not only in our fictions but also in our actions and practices. We can know what we are to do only if we can discover what story we are a part of. We enter society with imputed characters and roles, and we must learn what characters and roles are imputed to us if we are to understand others and to respond to them (Virtue 15. 216). I agree that stories can serve to determine our character and our role in society and in life, presumably. But I would argue that a story can do so because it embodies a general hypothesis and illustrates it with a particular application. A story is an example, in a word. If we can see it as an example, whether imagined or remembered, we are then free to evaluate a story and its general hypothesis by its consequences. If need be, we could also revise and reformulate our hypothesis. We might even present others with an example of our new hypothesis in the form of a new story. I cannot tell whether Lamb is profound or pedestrian when he notes, “ and represent the mysterious agencies and influences by which the gods communicate with mortals” (Lamb, p. 179, n.1). Rosen thinks that, when he discusses love, Socrates contradicts his claim to know only that he does not know. Socrates, he argues, claims to know what the soul is and thus what

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But one might object that Diotima would seem to imply with her example that philosophers are the only lovers destined to be happy. I must reply that they are hardly the only ones. Diotima uses the word “love” in its widest generic sense. “Every desire for good things and for being happy is for everyone the great and beguiling love ( ),” she affirms. Love includes, to take her own examples, not only love of wisdom ( ) but also love of sports ( ) and even money making (!" )! Although, she explains, those who love these things are not usually called lovers (Symposium 205c–d). One could easily add more examples of loves for other things of the soul and the body and for external objects. This word “love” is like the word “poetry,” she tells us. The word “poetry” in ancient Greek means to make anything that a human being might make. Poetry would thus include all the arts and crafts. But the word also means more specifically and exclusively to make a musical or metrical composition (205b–c). In modern English we in fact retain only this limited meaning, and we restrict the meaning even further to making a verse composition, which we call a poem.4 We encounter, then, once more, encrusted over with new conceptual and verbal accretions, we might say, our human daimon. We would best think of this spirit, which so unfailingly shadows our argument, as taking on three metamorphoses at least, though some might think them three entities. Our

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the bond between men and gods is. To have this knowledge, he must resort to prophecy, “which allows us to surmise what we seek to know” (Symposium 7. 206–207). I would suggest that Socrates has hypothetical knowledge of love. After all, he knows hypothetically that he does not know. May he not also hypothesize about the nature of our soul and our ability to hypothesize? Nonetheless, I do concede that the formulation of a new hypothesis often does feel divinely inspired. But any hypothesis, however prophetic it turns out to be, cannot mark an end to human ignorance. Rosen takes Diotima to argue that we properly circumscribe the word “love” to one species only, and that this species is love of physical beauty (Symposium 7. 241, 243)! He declares further that our love for beauty “is not an end in itself.” If I read him rightly, he appears to think that we rather use our love of physical beauty for the sake of our goodness. Beauty of this kind would thus be a means to our happiness (240–241). But Diotima clearly implies that “love” refers to a homonymic genus. She explains that we apply the name for the genus to a certain species only, and that for other species we misuse other names (# !$% & ) (Symposium 205b). I would also ask, Ought we to love beauty of any kind for the sake of attaining our goodness? Perish the thought! Beauty is surely an end of its own if anything is. Rosen would thus imply that beauty is distinct from goodness. But I would understand Plato to identify beauty with goodness as well as with truth. Clearly, Socrates identifies beauty and goodness when he questions Agathon (Symposium 201c). Diotima, too, appears to identify these two qualities when she helps Socrates understand what love is (204e). Besides, I would remind my reader that to separate beauty from goodness would be decidedly unGreek. The very word '% is itself testimony to how closely the Greeks identified these qualities in their culture.

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spirit appears not only in theoretical and practical cognition but apparently in practical conation as well. With our hypotheses we may attempt to fulfill our need for knowledge, opinion, or action. We may, indeed, view all three guises as shades of love. If dialectical, our spirit takes for its beloved a concept that is itself an object. A concept of this sort we call an intelligible entity or an idea.5 If rhetorical, especially if pragmatic, our spirit enamors itself of a percept that purports to be an external object. This percept is a sensible entity or an impression.6 But our spirit as practical desires to embody a concept in a percept. This percept, too, we may take for an object, which would be our action.7 A percept of this kind, as you may already suspect, is rhetorical as well. Yet one might still wonder, Even if known by hypothesis only, would not the form that our spirit contemplates still be theoretical? Would not human happiness, then, be an attempt to embody an eternal, fixed form in our action? And if so, would we not somehow be pretending to divine happiness? But if it is not theoretical, how could our concept of happiness be anything more than an ephemeral form, almost flimsy by contrast? And yet an attempt to embody a concept of this lesser sort would appear more suitable for mortals, such as we be. We must, therefore, ask, Does our happiness have a form that is permanent or transient? To answer this question, we must return to love and ask another question, What is his function ( )? Hearken to the words of the Mantinean woman again. Diotima tells Socrates that the work of love is “a begetting ( ) in beauty ( )( ))( in accordance both with body and with soul” (Symposium 206b; also 206e). “Pregnant (*) all human beings are in accordance with body and soul,” she explains to him, “and when we come of age, our nature desires to beget” (206c). One who is bursting with child is driven to distraction for beauty, she continues, “because he who is possessing it can relieve his heavy pangs” (206d–e).8 Pregnant, did she say? All human beings?! Yes, she did, and she would appear to mean males as well as females. Because she explains further that human pregnancy is a condition that induces us to strive to reproduce ourselves in perpetuity. Human love is a desire not simply for human goodness but also for our immortality ('% ). We desire our goodness to be forever ours, she argues. We all thus strive to attain our immortality (206e– 207a).9 5 6 7 8

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Chapter 1. Chapter 2. This chapter! Lamb and many others translate “)( )”( in this passage as “upon the beautiful.” This translation implies that love begets not by parturition but by copulation. But Diotima clearly speaks of begetting in the sense of giving birth and not of having sex. Dover takes the passage quite literally. He thinks that males can be pregnant only with semen and beget when they ejaculate (147)!

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But now the aforesaid objection would seem most apposite. We seem to be able, or at least to desire, to participate in divine happiness. If we wish to be immortal, do we not desire to identify with an eternal form? How else might we possibly achieve immortality? Diotima takes up this very objection. She explains quite explicitly that we cannot achieve immortality after this fashion. We are not like the gods, she tells us, who are ever the same ( ' + ).10 A mortal may participate in immortality only by leaving behind the old and decrepit for the new, which is different from (, ) and yet similar to its old self (+ - ) (208a–b; 207c–d). What can she mean? She explains further still. Though we say we are, we can never be quite the same. We cannot remain the same because we do not retain the same characteristics. We are continually becoming a new person, in other words. Our body is continually changing. Our hair and nails, for example, are obviously being replaced. Even our soul constantly changes, she argues. Our pleasures and pains, our desires and habits, our opinions and our knowledge itself all come and go (207d–208a). What Diotima suggests, then, is that immortality is of two orders. The gods are immortal in their unchangingness, but we mortals are immortal only in our changingness. We have seen that we cannot truly know our happiness, but we can only hypothesize about it. We now see that we must hypothesize about an object subject to change. That is, we may form only an opinion about the object of our innermost desire – our once and future selves. Human happiness, then, is not forever the same, as it would be if we were fortunate enough to possess a divine form. Our happiness can be only similar to itself from one precious moment to the next. We can attempt to embrace only a form that is not fixed in any way but in every way fleeting. Hence, we cannot but feel a desire to possess in perpetuity whatever goodness we might pretend to possess in the present (see again Symposium 199c–200e or 206a!). Socrates would argue that we must use dialectic to form our hypotheses about conceptual knowledge, and that our conceptual knowledge can provide a paradigm for grasping our impressions and their flimsy objects. But I wish to argue rather that we ought to use rhetoric with its examples to form hypotheses about perceptual knowledge, and that our perceptual knowledge can better inform us of our flickering impressions and their fickle objects. Do not these objects appear to have forms of their own? Do not these forms apparently come to be and cease to be? We may, nonetheless, agree with Socrates that we cannot possess any eternal knowledge, nor can we perform any action truly immortal. We may grasp only a tentative concept and engage in a tenuous deed, whether we 10

Actually, only one god turns out to be so pedigreed. He is, of course, the demiurge, who creates the universe and the other gods (see Timaeus 34a–b). But I anticipate Chapter 6.

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use dialectical or rhetorical techniques. Consequently, we can never really and truly ever possess what appears to be our happiness. We can strive only to maintain our happiness, or rather its semblance, amidst the disconcerting ebbings and flowings of our selves and our surroundings. We can now answer another objection, apparently more formidable, that has surely arisen in the minds of more learned readers. What about the ladder of loves? Does not Diotima argue that we ascend from the love of a physical object to the love of the eternal form of beauty itself ( ) (Symposium 210a–e, 211b–d)? One might argue, therefore, that we do aspire to embody an eternal form in our activity, and we seek especially to embody this form in the activity of philosophizing. The Platonists, so-called, would seem to be right after all. This objection I must accept. But I must accept the objection with a qualification, and the qualification I take from Plato himself. Diotima argues, I must concede, that we do strive to attain a glimpse of beauty itself in its singular form ( ) (211a–b). Beauty itself is eternally and entirely and singularly beautiful, she explains (210e–211b). She even declares that life is worth living for any human being (. ' $/) who contemplates beauty itself (211d).11 But this form, Plato clearly indicates, we ought to value, could we but grasp it, not merely for itself but also for its consequences. Our love, Diotima explicitly argues, does not end in an ascent to the invariable form of beauty. But the form of the beauty provisions us for a descent of a very practical kind. Once we have caught sight of it, we can use this concept to perceive beauty in a visible object. Only with this perception, she tells us, can we beget true virtue ('0 '"%1) and not its illusion. Only thus can we become a friend of the gods (%2) and immortal ('% /), (Symposium 212a; but see, too, Republic 6. 519c–520a).12 11

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Do you hear an echo of the Apology? The implication is that an unexamined life is bereft of beauty, but that an examined life might aspire to beauty (see Apology 37e–38a). An important, though sorely neglected, passage. Rosen, however, does recognize its importance. He argues that with a vision of beauty we can attempt to express virtue in our discourse. But because he thinks that we can possess beauty only by contemplating it, he unfortunately overlooks the fact that we can also express virtue in our action. He goes so far as to assert that love has “the specific excellence” of assisting us “in the attempt to attain immortality via the perception of beauty” (Symposium 7. 275–277). Vlastos is famous for finding fault with Plato’s theory of love. He argues that Plato denies us any love for an individual person. We can love only a universal, which might be instantiated in a person, but we cannot love a person himself. What we could love, he claims, would be an abstract complex of Platonic ideals (Platonic 1. 31–33, esp.). I submit that Vlastos has forgotten two important tenets of Plato’s philosophy. He would appear to assume, first, that our love for a universal is an exclusive affection. That is to say, we cannot love anything else if we love a universal. But this assumption is false. Love for a thing of beauty may not be as fine as love for beauty itself, could we but get a glimpse of it. But we can love beautiful things as well as whatever concept we have formed of beauty. A

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But we must now take care not to forget that we cannot ever truly understand beauty itself, try as we may. We can only hope through our hypotheses to catch no more than a glimpse of this unique form. Nor can we ever aspire to embody an eternal form in our actions. We cannot remain one and the same through all eternity. But we can only remain similar to ourselves through time. We may embody an ephemeral form only. And only thus may we taste immortality. What, then, about the Phaedo? another learned reader might ask. Socrates explains to Cebes and Simmias, does he not, that we have an immortal soul? But how could an immortal soul not be an eternal form? Indeed, Socrates argues that our soul is a form that can bear only one of two contraries. She bears life rather than death, and she breathes life, as it were, into our body. Because she cannot be without her contrary, our soul may never herself accept death. She, rather, departs from our body when we die. Our soul, therefore, is immortal (Phaedo 105c–e). Ah, but you forget, my friend, what immortality is for us mortals. Mortal immortality, if you will, is merely to remain similar to ourselves through psychological and physical change. Our soul does not perish through changes of these sorts, but she endures and animates our body by remaining always similar to herself. Nor does she lose her potential to beget life after leaving one body. She may animate yet another in a similar way. Socrates, for example, lives when Phaedo narrates the dialogue to Echecrates (see hierarchy of love no more denies reality to love on a lower level than does a hierarchy of knowledge deny reality to conjecture or opinion (see, e.g., Republic 6. 509d–510b, 511d–e). His second lapse is metaphysical. He must surely concede that there can be no object without a form. Even objects of becoming have forms, albeit imperfect ones. Matter itself has an ultimate atomic structure for Plato (Timaeus 53c–55c). I would ask, then, how could we love an individual if not for the forms he embodies? Without any form we would find nothing to love! An individual is a unique, if imperfect, instantiation of various ideals (see, e.g., Phaedrus 251a). Nussbaum accepts and attempts to advance Vlastos’s criticisms of Plato. She, too, assumes that on Diotima’s account we can have true love of only one kind. The ladder of loves, she explains, shows that our love can be only for beauty itself, and that through its contemplation we assimilate ourselves to ideal beauty and isolate ourselves from becoming (Fragility 6. 176–184). Though she quotes it, she thus fails to give due consideration to Diotima’s assertion that the beautiful can serve us as a paradigm for beautiful virtues and actions. Not to mention the fact that any philosopher worth his salt must return to political life (Republic 6. 519c–520a). Nussbaum also appears to assume that through contemplation we can approximate, if not embody, a universal free from change (Fragility 6. 181–183). She thus commits the very error that Agathon made in his praise of love and that a young Socrates made when he spoke to Diotima. She thinks that love itself has the qualities of its object (see Symposium 204b–c). I would also note that despite our best cogitations we cannot become one with beauty itself and hence become immortal through unchanging knowledge. We are merely changing intellectual and moral instantiations of universals, and we are immortal only through becoming a new self similar to our old self (Symposium 207c–208b). Nussbaum, in fact, finds Plato aware that our knowledge will come to an end (Fragility 6. 195–196).

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esp. Phaedo 102a). He lives, too, when we read the dialogue millennia later, even surviving translation into barbaric languages (also see Symposium 215d)! Indeed, Socrates himself does not without qualification declare that the soul is immortal. He concludes only that our soul is most like ( ) the divine and immortal, and that she is most nearly (3 ) indissoluble (Phaedo 80a–b). What is more, he merely hypothesizes (4% ) beauty itself to be (100b). We are, I would conclude, an intellectual activity. But we are not an intellectual activity that is pure wisdom. If we were so refined, we would be gods, and we could pass our time, if time there would be for us, sipping nectar and munching ambrosia. We are rather an activity that is an intellectual inquiry. Because we know that we do not know, we are neither wise totally nor totally ignorant. We may only strive, therefore, to know more about the inscrutable objects of our scrutiny, including our own selves. How else might we come to grips with our paltry powers and our pitiful practices? Our poor souls exist, then, merely as daimonic hypotheses that constitute our identity. Only if we have a hypothesis about ourselves do we have a form that we might attempt to embody in our character and in our conduct. But any hypothesis about our selves can ultimately concern merely a percept purported to be about a less-than-stable object of changeless change. Our hypothesis can be only opinion, nothing more and nothing less. We might, then, best denominate any ethics of happiness not a eudaimonic ethics but merely a daimonic ethics. We see that we could never discover what our happiness really is, no matter how hard we try. Nor, if we knew, and we do not, could we ever truly embody what we take to be our happiness in our lives. We can only attempt to embody an approximation through change. My reader might observe, too, that we have discovered a teleology, at once moral and mortal. Our hypothesis, such as it is, can be, if we so wish, a formal cause of our action. This formal cause, should we choose to act on it, would become an efficient cause of our action.13 This same formal cause, should we choose to act on it for its own sake, would become a final cause of our action as well.14 3. What is human happiness? You are willing to concede, I hope, that we can have a practical concept of happiness. That is, the concept can be a general opinion that we may grasp, if only hypothetically, and that we may embody in our practical activity, if only haltingly. We mortals, then, might well find happiness itself to be an activity that makes us what we are and makes us morally good. But what might happiness be? What is this activity that the

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Chapter 4. Chapters 5 and 6.

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ancient Greeks claim we may value primarily for its own sake? which, indeed, if I read them rightly, they claim we ought to so value! Plato, unfortunately, does not appear to offer an explicit definition of happiness. Why he does not define it, I wish I knew. But he does permit us a glimpse of the concept in a more ambitious dialogue concerned with justice. Socrates suggests in the Republic that, to define happiness, one ought first to define justice. In a passage often overlooked, he apparently assumes that justice provides a condition, no doubt a moral one, for happiness. A man who is just ( ' 5), he argues, lives well (6 .$); and someone living well (6 7) ) is happy or even blissfully happy ( ) (Republic 1. 353e–354a; also Gorgias 470d–471d). Shall we, then, take up this suggestion and ask, What is justice? Does a just person really live well? and Is a person who lives well happy? Justice Socrates does define explicitly. We are just, he argues, when our intellectual and instinctual powers each engage in an activity proper to itself ( 4* 8 ) (Republic 4. 441d–e). We are wise ( ) when our mind knows what is beneficial for our soul, both part and whole, and rules over her (442c). We are courageous (' 2 ) when our combative impulse preserves the principle of our mind about what is fearful and what is not amidst pains and pleasures (442b–c). Our appetitive impulse, he tells us, has temperance (3 ") when it agrees that our mind ought to rule (442c–d).15 This concept of justice rests on a psychological presupposition: We have a soul that is tripartite, Socrates argues. Using the principle of contradiction, he distinguishes within us one intellectual power and two instinctual powers. We know that our calculative (5) faculty and our aggressive (%"5) and appetitive (%"5) faculties all differ from one another because they may obviously be in conflict with one another. Our intellect, for example, may fight against and restrain either our aggressive or our appetitive impulses (Republic 4. 436a–441c).16 15

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Plato appears to sound a note of pessimism about our ability to control our appetitive impulse and to acquire temperance. One would think that we would exhibit temperance when our appetites preserve an opinion about what is desirable and what is not. But Plato takes temperance to be what we would more properly call restraint. Indeed, Socrates argues explicitly that temperance is restraint () because it is an agreement within our soul about what parts ought to rule and to be ruled (Republic 4. 430e–431b). This pessimism may also be evident in the fact that Plato finds our appetites to be the cause of war and other great evils (Republic 2. 373e). There is, however, nothing sacred about the number three. The tripartite division is simply sufficient for distinguishing the general lineaments of our faculties. Plato himself subdivides these three faculties in the very dialogue that we are discussing. The appetites, for example, he divides into the necessary and the unnecessary (Republic 2. 372d–373a; 8. 558d– 559d). The unnecessary he further divides into the lawful and the unlawful (Republic 9. 571a–572b). Williams denies that any psychological, or even biological, theory of our nature could provide a foundation for morality. But he does not ask of psychology, as does Plato, for

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Also implicit in Plato’s definition is the presupposition that justice must rest on firm habit (9 ) (Republic 4. 444d–e). Indeed, Socrates proposes to test in a rather severe manner the guardians and their ability to retain their principles. Their tests are to include, metaphorically, ordeals by theft, sorcery, and force. That is, they must be given tasks that will try their abilities to remember and not to be deceived, to resist pleasures and pains, and to stand up to physical suffering (Republic 3. 412d–414b). We might say, then, that we are just when our intellectual and emotional powers work together in an organic unity. We may also say that this unity is a rational one that our mind conceives and constructs. Our mind, when wise, knows the whole of which it is a part and governs the whole in accordance with its knowledge. A just action, Socrates adds, is one that preserves ($7")( and perfects (7 7") a habit of such sort (3" 0 ,9 ) in our soul (Republic 4. 443e–444a).17 To illustrate his concept, Socrates presents two analogies. The one analogy is to music, and the other to gymnastics. The musical analogy is the more well known. When it is just, our soul, he explains, resembles a musical composition. He likens her activities to different musical tones and describes

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general concepts of our faculties and their functions. He seeks instead specific concepts of moral norms and maxims for our action (Ethics 3. 43–47). These specific norms, however, general concepts of our nature obviously cannot provide. We can discover them only through our experiences of particular circumstances. McDowell, too, denies that a theory of our nature could provision us with any principles for morality. He argues that our practical wisdom gives us a “specific ethical outlook,” and that any attempt to reconstruct this outlook from nature leads to “bald naturalism” (World 4. 78–80). But naturalism of this bald variety, he suggests, is reductive and denies us any freedom (76–77). I would ask, however, Can we not learn by empirical observations that human beings possess an ethical outlook, as McDowell puts it? Can we not see that our practical reason can grasp truth and control desire without attempting to subject this faculty to outside influences? I think we can. Lest a Kantian object that we cannot empirically know with any certainty that we are free, I would hasten to add that this inference about our reason can be no stronger or weaker than any other empirical inference. We can never divine any fact about ourselves with absolute certainty. So shallow is our self-knowledge. Shorey translates “$7"”( and “7 7"” as “preserves” and “helps to produce” justice in our soul (Republic, vol. 1, pp. 413–417). Other translators tend to follow his lead. But if we only produce and preserve it, we shall never find that justice issues in just actions. Our actions, being a means to it, would issue only in this virtue. Once we have acquired it, however, we can perfect this virtue with our action. A virtue is, after all, a capacity for action, and action is its end. Translations of this infelicitous sort may be one source for a common misinterpretation of Plato’s view of virtue. But another source may lie deeper in a failure to distinguish actions that instill virtue during early education and actions that issue from virtue once we have acquired it. Slote, for example, thinks that good action for Plato is action “creating and/or sustaining the strength (or health, etc.) of the soul.” But he himself argues that good actions are those that “express or reflect inner strength” (Morals 1. 21, his emphasis; also 19–20). Plato would surely accept both propositions.

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justice as a harmonizing together (9 ) of the highest, the lowest, and the middle tones, and, he adds, any others in between (443d–e). He takes his gymnastic analogy from medicine. As health is an interaction among our physical faculties of prevailing upon (2 ) and being prevailed upon (2%) by one another in accordance with nature ( 3 ), so justice is an interaction among our psychological faculties of prevailing upon (2 ) being prevailed upon (2%) by one another also in accordance with nature ( 3 ) (444c–d).18 What would our happiness be, then? My hypothesis, based on these familiar passages in Plato and to be bolstered by yet other considerations, is that, when our intellectual and emotional powers function together in an organic unity, we are happy. I am agreeing with Socrates that to be just is to live well, and to live well is to be happy. But to be just, we now see, is to have a soul organized rationally and rationally functioning. That a just soul is a condition of living well Socrates attempts to explain with another medicinal analogy. But Glaucon interjects. No more with a corrupted soul than with a corrupted body, is life worth living ( . ), he declares (Republic 4. 444e–445b)!19

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Both music and gymnastics in their classical sense are wider concepts than their modern counterparts. Gymnastics includes, besides athletic competition, dancing, hunting, and horse riding, as well as nutrition and medicine (Republic 3. 403c–410b, 412b). Music includes not only music proper, concerned with melody and harmony, but all activities associated with the muses, such as literature, arts, crafts, and architecture (Republic 3. 392c–401d). Glaucon employs almost the very same phrase that Socrates uses at his trial. But Socrates adds a qualification. Namely, an unexamined life is one not worth living for a human being ( . ' %$/) (Apology 37e–38a). The implication is that to examine our life and to find it worth living is to discover our happiness! I am delighted to discover a new ally in Foot. With her most recent book she agrees that human goodness exists in a rational activity. She argues that human beings alone can choose to act from rational grounds. Quoting Aquinas, she explains that we humans can know our end as itself an end and our means to an end as means (Goodness 4. 53–56). Our rational activity, she further argues, we may define by a “general account of human necessities.” This account would include “an identification of elements of human good together with the story of what creatures of the human species can and cannot do.” Human good, she notes, depends upon “characteristics and capacities that are not needed by animals, never mind by plants” (Goodness 3. 41–47). Unfortunately, Foot does not agree that happiness is human goodness. She argues that happiness is primarily an enjoyment occasioned by a perception of the fact that something is good, though it may also be a gladness or a cheerfulness about what is good. That is, our happiness requires a propositional content that we are achieving something good. Her favorite examples are philosophizing and gardening (Goodness 6. 82–85, 97). What she calls happiness is thus an enjoyable awareness that we are engaged in a rational activity. Aristotle explicitly acknowledges an enjoyment of this kind as an adventitious pleasure that accompanies our happiness (Ethics 10. 4. 1174b31–33). Foot thus advocates a position that differs nominally from the position I am borrowing from the Greeks. She recognizes that our goodness lies in a rational activity, but she does not see that a rational activity might itself constitute our happiness. I would, however, like

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I must add, however, that we need not only this moral condition but also appropriate material conditions. We must remember that we are no more than mere mortals. We most obviously have a body. Incredibly, moral philosophers tend to forget this most elementary fact. Until we encounter a problem with our health, that is, or our budget. But we could not perform a single action if we did not have a body. Nor ought we to forget that our body has needs of its own. Ultimately, we are an organism in an ecosystem.20

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to think that, if she had considered it, Foot would have agreed with the ancient definition. Indeed, she points out that our happiness cannot consist in pleasure or contentment alone (Goodness 6. 85–86). We must take our happiness in a deep contentment with objects of a certain kind. These objects “are basic in human life, such as home, and family, and work, and friendship” (86–89). She appeals to her concept of our species life and how one might benefit a specific organism. One might benefit an organism by acting on it “to make it better” or by acting on its environment to protect it “from external harm” (90–94). She also argues in favor of certain common features of moral evaluation. These features include voluntariness, which entails intention and knowledge of what one is doing. They also include formal characteristics, such as the nature of an action, the end of an action, and the relation of the action to the judgment of an agent (Goodness 5. 66–77). I would now ask you to notice that Foot presents in her discussion of human goodness the three psychological functions on which our happiness rests. Knowledge is present explicitly in the formal features of moral evaluation. But courageous activity is present implicitly in protecting an organism from harm, and temperate activity is implicit in making an organism better. What is alone lacking for a complete discussion of happiness is justice of the kind found in our soul, and justice of this kind requires only the harmonious interplay of the aforesaid functions. Foot does, nonetheless, touch on justice of the social kind with her mention of family, work, and friendship. I am, of course, committing the naturalistic fallacy, so-called, and with gusto! To deny that we have a function distinguishing us from other beings and to deny that our goodness lies in our function appear to me simply to fly in the face of plain matters of empirical fact (also see, of course, Ethics 1. 7. 1097b22–1098a20). Foot heartily agrees that values are facts! She takes the view that human rationality is both reason-recognizing and reason-following. She explicitly argues that we can perceive moral facts and we can act on them (Goodness 1. 8–13, 20–23). She rejects explicitly the invidious distinction between fact and value (24). Nagel would agree, I imagine, that my position, like his own, is “normative realism.” He defines this position as an objective point of view that enables us “to discern what we really should do” and “to correct inclination” (View 8. 138–141). But, of course, he would not agree with me about the specific norms that we apprehend and apply in our action or about the interrelationship between these norms and our subjectivity. He retains a subjective surd (158–162). Dennett would appear to agree with the ontological essentials of this position but not with one important specific. Though apparently unaware of doing so, he actually advances a concept of the tripartite soul. He clearly recognizes our aggressive and appetitive functions. Indeed, he presents a natural history in which arise entities who are “crude guardians of their own interests.” These interests include “food seeking, predator avoiding, mate locating, mating, and health maintaining” (Room 2. 21–23). But one might better put predator avoidance under our defensive propensities. An entity with these interests, he explicitly asserts, “brings with it into the world its ‘good.’”

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But we ought now to ask, What is this eudaimonic, or better daimonic, principle with which our intellect ought to organize her soul, discipline her powers, and develop her functions? Do we all share one and the same concept of happiness? Or do we each employ a different one? And could not a determined criminal discipline his soul with percepts decidedly immoral? One might think that a career criminal would actually need a discipline that is ice-cold. I admit these questions to be important. But I cannot hope to answer them, fortunately. You cannot tell us what our moral principle ought to be? Fortunately? No, I cannot. Fortunately! I cannot define a concept of happiness for you because what you ought to do depends upon your circumstances, both internal and external. We ought surely to do our best to develop concepts of our intellectual and instinctual powers and their activities, of how we ought to engage in these activities, when and where to engage in them, and so on. But these concepts are general precepts that we can only glean from particular percepts. We may say, to be sure, that these moral concepts do include some principles that we all share. These principles Plato himself makes explicit in his account of an ideal society. They explain the origin of a city. One principle is human neediness. Socrates argues that we come together in a city because each of us happens to be non–self-sufficient (! :) , " ). We have many needs, and to satisfy our needs, we must seek help from one another (Republic 2. 369b). But how do we help one another? Another principle is human cooperation. We may best help one another by each presenting his own work in common for all ( 4* ; % ), Socrates argues. We each ought to spend our time in one function, he explains, and provide one product for the others. We can thus perform a job for which we are naturally suited, perform our job better, and at the opportune moment (369e–370c). This principle modern readers know as the division of labor. We see, then, that our daimonic activities include social activities. We share with others two principles requiring and enabling us to organize into a society. These principles are in fact the principles of justice. May not justice well lie, Adeimantus wonders, in some service that we each perform for But Dennett also recognizes an intellectual function. He explains that the good of these creatures is “rather like Platonic Forms, pure abstracta,” though an entity need not recognize that it embodies them (Room 2. 23–24)! We humans, however, do recognize the forms we embody, and we can consciously act on our recognition. This recognition even gives us reasons for acting (24–26)! We have brains, which Dennett likens to “semantic engines”; and brains enable a creature to be “not only sensitive to patterns in its environment, but also sensitive to patterns in its own reactions to patterns in its environment” (Room 2. 28–30)! But, alas, Dennett also argues that we do not have perfect rationality. We remain subject to an irrational surd or a “syntactic engine.” We are ever so slightly like his famous Sphex (Room 2. 28, 30–31).

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one another (Republic 2. 371e–372a)? That we each perform a function in accordance with the division of labor, Socrates argues, is indeed justice itself. Put in more colloquial terms, justice turns out to be that everyone mind their own business (Republic 4. 433a–b). We see, too, that we have already condemned the cool, calculating criminal and his shadowy activities. This nefarious character is unjust because he has no social function to perform for others. He manages to take what he needs from society, but he also manages not to contribute to society. He thus recognizes, at least implicitly, that he is non–self-sufficient, but he refuses to acknowledge any cooperative role for himself within a division of labor. But there are also other moral principles that we do not all share. What might they be? Socrates argues that these principles are concepts that enable us to perform our diverse social functions, and he delineates three general functions of this kind for his city. The rulers provide intellectual guidance for the city (Republic 2. 375e–376c), the soldiers provide for its defense (373e–374d), and the workers, shall we say, supply its needs (369c–d, 370c– 373d).21 Our whole life, Socrates argues at length, we must devote to our own social function and to our social function exclusively. Infamously, he favors the abolition of any distinct functions for a family or for an individual. A city ought to have as much unity as possible, he argues, and this unity it can supposedly obtain by abolishing all ties other than its own (Republic 5. 457b–466d). This position, no doubt, appears especially extreme to many contemporary readers. It so appears to us because we tend to another extreme – if not in word, at least in deed. We tend to favor the abolition of all activities associated with society or family in favor of individual activities. That our familial ties and social affiliations have become at present so tenuous surely attests to this fact.22 With regard to social organization, then, we might wish to consider less exclusiveness than either Plato or we appear to prefer. Aristotle, I believe, offers an alternative more moderate. He suggests that we ought to acknowledge not only our political and social roles but also our familial and individual roles (Politics 1. 1–2.). To give the undue priority to social and political functions, he explicitly argues against Plato, would destroy a city (Politics 2. 2–4.). But anyone who could live without these wider functions could be only a god or a beast (Politics 1. 2. 1253a1–7).23 21

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These divisions, as do those of the soul, have their subdivisions, of course. The workers, for example, include, among others, farmers, weavers, and builders (Republic 2. 369d). On American individualism and its uncomfortable implications and complications one might especially consult Bellah et al. These alternatives our contemporary social and economic extremes would appear to approximate. I refer to the jetset and the homeless.

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We ought also to recognize that we function within natural circumstances. Plato and Aristotle themselves touch on this fact. Our happiness, they argue, demands that we utilize natural resources in a moderate fashion. Plato observes that a greedy exploitation of our environment can easily lead to conflict and war (Republic 2. 372c–373e). He also notes that human society is subject to natural change, which can be cataclysmic (Timaeus 21e–23d). Aristotle suggests that our happiness depends on a moderate exploitation of natural resources, including human resources (Politics 7. 4–5.).24 You can see, then, that I am at best able to offer only a general hypothesis about what activities can define who we are. I can suggest only what our common nature and her activities might be. But this hypothesis, because general, does have its advantage. Though it is in theory subject to revision, we may find that in practice we need revise it with much less frequency than we would if it were more specific. Indeed, I am suggesting that we give serious consideration to a hypothesis over two millennia old, and that we might even do well to adopt it with, we shall see, only a very modest, yet not unimportant, modification!

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Annas also recognizes that one may reject Plato’s “monolithic pattern” of human nature and yet accept his attempt “to ground the appeal of morality on human nature.” His concept of justice is “an intelligible demand on human nature, something in accordance with our potentialities for living creative and fulfilling lives.” His theory appeals “to facts about people the way they are” and “to facts that hold of everyone,” she argues (Introduction 13. 328–331, her emphasis). But she herself advocates that we develop a contemporary individualistic morality on Plato’s appeal to human nature and its facts. Plato, she explains, offers an “impersonal” morality, which “ignores everything which makes for individual and personal commitment.” She prefers instead an “impartial” morality, which requires that we “see other people as agents with desires, interests, and attachments like one’s own.” That is, we ought “to see people as individual sources of value” (331–334). I can only agree with MacIntyre, then, when he avers that we find our identity within a moral community. He argues that we cannot seek the good or exercise virtue only as individuals. We all approach our circumstances as bearers of a particular social identity and its role, such as a son or daughter, cousin or uncle, citizen or professional, or member of a clan, tribe, or nation (Virtue 15. 220–221). But I would argue that we may yet have an identity as an individual, even though an identity of this kind entails a role or a practice in his sense. My point, in other words, is that not all practices are social activities. I would point out, too, that we encounter natural identities and natural roles as an organism within an ecosystem. MacIntyre also reminds us of a helpful distinction concerning our personal identity. He distinguishes between a strict identity, “which is an all-or-nothing matter,” and a psychological continuity, which is “a matter of more or less.” Strict identity, he explains, would require that a claimant, say, have all the properties of an heir or not be an heir. Psychological continuity would be to have more or less the same abilities at fifty that one had at forty. But he goes on to argue that we can find a strict identity for ourselves only in “the concept of story and of that kind of unity of character which a story requires” (Virtue 15. 216–217). I would argue that a hypothesis can best provision us with a strict identity for our character, if only provisionally and temporarily. But our hypothesis about our character we may find embodied in a story, of course.

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This general hypothesis, however, can serve only as a criterion for evaluating more specific concepts of our activities and ourselves. Any specific concept ought to be such that it enables us to organize our soul and her activities harmoniously. That is, our precepts ought to be consistent with our tripartite psychology. Nor would a specific concept enable us to remain in harmony with ourselves if it put us out of tune with our surroundings. We remain part and parcel of larger wholes, both social and natural.25 But we have yet to address another question of no little import. We must still ask, Is our rational activity itself our ultimate good? Or is our rational activity good because of its effects? Ought we to value our activity for its own sake, in other words, or ought we to value it for the sake of something 25

Williams is skeptical about an objective ground for ethics because he believes that a ground of this kind would have to demand of us some one life of a particular kind (Ethics 8. 152– 153). I share his skepticism about this demand for a particular life. But an objective ground that is general need not be prescriptive in this narrow sense. I am arguing that a ground for ethics can provide a general criterion for evaluating a plethora of particular lives, much as a biological genus provides for a variety of species. We could even draw an analogy between moral perception and perception of secondary qualities. Williams argues that we cannot because our ethical perceptions occur within some cultural world or other; but our color perception, say, depends on physiological faculties that have evolved in a physical world (148–152). But we can see that our ethical perceptions do rest on a general psychology and ultimately a cosmology, to use an old-fashioned term, which can provide an “adequate theory of error” (151). With MacIntyre we could, if we like, call our search for more specific hypotheses a quest. A quest, he argues, is a search for a good that can constitute for us a final end. This good will enable us, he explains, to order other goods, to understand the content of our virtues, and to give our lives integrity and constancy. A quest is thus a process of education in selfknowledge and in character (Virtue 15. 218–219). Obviously, we do continually seek better hypotheses with which to define our good, which is our happiness; and a hypothesis about our good has the advantages that MacIntyre enumerates. MacIntyre also argues that our virtues sustain our quest. They are dispositions that enable us to overcome “harms, dangers, temptations and distractions” and that enable us to increase our self-knowledge and our knowledge of the good (219–220). I am arguing, of course, that our practical reason with its hypotheses best sustains us on our quest. It does so in part through the cultivation of virtue, which can strengthen our resolve and keep us from moral digressions. But reason of this kind can also require that we allow old virtues to wither away and cultivate new ones to replace them. McDowell claims that we can refine the details of our ethical obligations, which we are aware of through our upbringing, but that we cannot construct our obligations out of natural materials. We can only take notice of natural facts that are relevant, presumably to our obligations (World 4. 80–82). I cannot but wonder who brought up our upbringers. In other words, from whom could those who started the tradition of ethical upbringing have gotten their obligations? I do not wish to deny the importance of moral education. But I would argue that education of any kind must start with empirical knowledge of some kind if it is to be true education. Moral education would best start, I am arguing, with empirical knowledge of our specific roles in society and in nature. Specific empirical concepts taken from our present circumstances would serve us better as moral norms than traditional ones that, though they may have served well enough in the past, can have no privileged application to our present predicaments.

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else? When we are happy, do we perform an activity without regard to its consequences or do we do so with an eye to its consequences? Simply put, does our rational activity have intrinsic or instrumental value? Plato might seem to be of two minds about this question, however we formulate it. He surely offers arguments in favor of its intrinsic value. With his commonplace tests, for example, Socrates suggests that a just person will not forsake justice for other gain in any form (Republic 4. 442e–443b). But Socrates also implies with his political principles that we might find justice and happiness to be of instrumental value. The principles of non– self-sufficiency and the division of labor do serve us for the satisfaction of need (Republic 2. 369b–370c). We are better able with these principles than without to act in a manner that fulfills our needs (372a–c). The answer to our question is that we value happiness both for its own sake and for its consequences. At the very beginning of their discussion, Socrates and Glaucon explicitly agree that justice is a good we value for itself and its effects. They recognize goods of three kinds. There are those goods we value for themselves only, those valued for themselves and their effects, and those valued only for their effects. They see no need for argument to show not only that the highest good is valued for itself and its effects, but also that justice is a good of this kind (Republic 2. 357b–358a). Implicit in their agreement is a resemblance between justice and other goods, such as health (see Republic 2. 357c). Socrates later draws an analogy between justice and health, making this resemblance more explicit. Justice and health we seek both for themselves and for their effects, he argues. As we value healthy activities for their own sake and for their ability to preserve our health, so do we value just activities for their own sake and for their ability to preserve our justness (Republic 4. 444c–e). But we ought to value happiness for itself primarily. This point Socrates makes clear in his discussion of the guardians and their happiness, for example. He argues that the guardians, who defend their city from external and internal enemies, are probably the most happy of its citizens. Why? Because they perform the function of defending their city without regard to external reward. For their pains they are allowed only those external goods necessary for fulfilling their function. In addition to weapons, they receive merely room and board (Republic 4. 419a–421c; Republic 5. 465d–466c).26 26

MacIntyre has aptly described an activity with intrinsic value. An activity of this kind he calls a practice, and he very nicely portrays its internal values. He asks us to consider chess. Chess has obvious values internal to it, including “analytical skill, strategic imagination and competitive intensity.” But he also mentions as other examples of practices in this sense modern experimental sciences, such as physics, chemistry, and biology; the arts, especially portrait painting; and athletic games (Virtue 14. 187–191). Unfortunately, MacIntyre neglects the external values of these practices except to mention them by contrast. A young child, for example, may be initially motivated to play chess by the prospect of a reward, such as candy (188). Or a portrait painter might be motivated

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Yet the guardians do defend their city. Their actions accordingly have beneficial consequences for themselves and their fellow citizens. They become especially necessary when their city or a neighboring city allows its needs to exceed its resources. The division of labor requires that there be specialists in the art of war, and that these specialists be able to defend their territory and its resources (Republic 2. 373e–374d). I would conclude, then, that our happiness is an activity that has a value primarily intrinsic and inherent. Happiness is inherent, at least potentially, because it rests on the natural functions of our soul. But to realize our happiness, we must with training and teaching organize these functions and cultivate them. Happiness is intrinsic because we can value this activity primarily as a goal in itself. But happiness does have value for its consequences. This value is an instrumental content contingent upon our resources, internal and external.27 An astute reader might now object, What about knowledge? The selfappointed Platonists may not be quite so quick to succumb to your

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by considerations of fame and fortune (189). But many practices in his sense obviously do have important external values as their consequences. Performing scientific experiments, for example, not infrequently leads to new knowledge, and a portrait can have significant political and social effects. Even playing games can have good effects on our health, mental or physical. Williams overlooks the value of happiness as itself an end. He does not see that our reason could enable us to engage in an activity for its own sake. He identifies an activity proper to reason with concepts, apparently Kantian, of an autonomous will and its duty, and he dismisses any rational activity of this kind as untenable. He argues that reason only “controls, dominates, or rises above the desires” without, apparently, being itself a source of action (Shame 2. 40–43). Annas agrees with me about reason and its activity. She argues that Platonic reason is unlike Humeian reason. Reason for Plato “is thought of as having considerable motivation force of its own.” Hence, reason decides for the whole soul “in a way that does not take the ends of the other parts as given but may involve suppressing or restraining them.” Yet she does not quite argue explicitly that reason initiates an activity of value for itself. Reason, she asserts, has goals that “must dominate the whole life,” and its goals are “more than the dominance of rational planning” (Introduction 5. 133–135; also 125–126). But Irwin finds that Platonic reason is more like Humeian reason. He does argue that we are “capable of forming rational desires for non-instrumental goods that we can rationally discover.” But these rational desires are non-instrumental only in that they do not “simply endorse the preferences of the non-rational parts” of our soul. Our reason “discovers what is good for us by considering our nature as a whole, and not simply the aspects of our nature that are evident to the non-rational parts” (Ethics 15. 247). The implication is that reason can coordinate our desires for the sake of deferred satisfactions. The rational part “does not simply endorse the longer-term preferences of the appetitive part; it must modify them in the light of its view about the good of each part and of the whole.” The nonrational part can see in turn that the rational part makes decisions promoting “the satisfaction of its own longer-term preferences” (246). Again, our reason, he asserts, identifies ourselves “with something more than a restricted range of desires.” “Rule by the rational part,” he explains, “realizes our capacities as whole selves, rather than simply satisfying desires that constitute only a part of ourselves” (253–254).

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arguments. They could agree that happiness is an activity we value primarily for its own sake. Only an activity of this sort could provide a human life with a goal. But their prime candidate for a life of this sort might still be a life of philosophizing. And philosophy, they would aver, has no practical consequences. At least, for Plato it does not. But these queer Platonists tend to forget that the guardians who are permitted to study philosophy are not allowed to linger in their studies. Or, if they remember, these philosophers do not think that Plato justifies their descent into politics. But acknowledging that knowledge has value for its own sake, Socrates does argue that, when they complete their studies, the guardians must be cajoled or coerced to leave the academy and to enter politics. They are destined to rule in their city (Republic 6. 519c–520a). And with good reason he so argues. The guardians, as do other citizens, have a job to do. He explicitly appeals to his principle of division of labor to show that they must fulfill their function (Republic 6. 519e–520a). The implication is that their city needs wise rulers who understand what the city is as a whole and what would be best for her, and who are able to rule in accordance with their understanding of her (see Republic 4. 428a–429a).28 28

When they divide human goods, Socrates and Glaucon classify knowing, which Glaucon actually denominates being prudent ( 2 ), not as a good valued merely for its own sake but rather as a good valued both for itself and its consequences (Republic 2. 357c). Most scholars, especially the Platonists and their antagonists, hold that knowledge for Plato is something good for its own sake only. Nussbaum is not atypical. She cites this very passage concerned with the classifications of goods, but she neglects to give any consideration to those goods valuable for themselves and for their effects. She compares intrinsic and instrumental goods only to one another (Fragility 5. 144–146). She accordingly attempts to argue that Plato finds knowledge, especially if philosophical, to be of value solely for its own sake (147–148). Annas, however, agrees that knowledge is good for itself and its effects. She correctly observes that Plato finds knowledge especially useful for military matters. But she finds this application “odd” and “grotesque.” Plato would seem to assume the guise of an “aggressive technocrat,” she laments. For him “pure theory proceeds in contempt of the practical world,” and yet it proffers “occasional spinoffs that improve war technology” (Introduction 11. 275–276). But she forgets that the guardians arise through the ranks of the military and that they have an interest in these applications for defense. After all, defense is an essential function of their city. Yet Annas also appears to view Plato as a Platonist. She cannot see why the guardians, once they have tasted philosophy, would ever want to waste their time on political matters. She does recognize that justice requires them to fulfill the function of ruling their city. They see their own happiness and interest “merely as part of the workings of the whole.” She also recognizes that they view their happiness “impersonally” and that they “see themselves externally” as “citizens with a part to play” (Introduction 10. 266–267, 268–269). But she asks “why should I do what justice requires?” The guardians “do not act in, or against, anybody’s interests, but in accordance with the impersonal prescriptions of what is absolutely just and good” (267–268, 269, her italics). Annas thus assumes that we ought to decide what our happiness and interest are from our own personal point of view. She apparently does not see that we can discover a natural

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What most philosophers, both professors and pupils alike, find bothersome about this concept of knowledge is, I suspect, that Plato calls its object, the concept of justice, a form (+ ). In his discussion Socrates proposes to show not only that justice is a form found in a city but also that this form is found in her citizens (Republic 4. 434d–435b). But does not a form of this kind rest on what we nowadays may presume to be a mistaken metaphysics? Does not the very term itself imply an eternal, unchanging verity of some divine sort? I am afraid not. We can never, first of all, know the good itself or its form. Socrates is almost embarrassed when Glaucon presses him to explain what the good is, and he politely suggests that to do so would be beyond his powers at the moment. Instead he offers to elaborate his famous metaphor about the offspring of the good. But even so he still finds himself obliged to refuse a request to explain the parent concept later (Republic 6. 506b–507a). Nor can we know what justice as an ideal form might be. Plato stresses in the Republic that our knowledge of justice is merely hypothetical. From the very beginning Socrates suggests to Glaucon and Adeimantus that they might best use a hypothesis to define justice, though he does not use the term. He argues that they ought to search for justice writ large in a city and then to see if they can find justice writ small in its citizens (Republic 2. 368c– e). He even cautions them that the concept of justice they discover in a city, if not confirmed in its citizens, would have to be revised (Republic 4. 434d– 435a). But luckily they find their initial hypothesis confirmed, and revision is not needed (442d, 443b–d, 444a). More important, however, Socrates reminds us that we cannot embody even a hypothetical form in our activity, no matter how hard we try. Socrates cautions Glaucon and Adeimantus that they cannot expect a just city or a just citizen to be identical to their concept, even though it is merely hypothetical. They must rest content in their political discussion if they can show that a city or a citizen comes only to approximate their conceptual ideal. He uses another analogy. They have created a paradigm () of justice in words, as an artist might create a paradigm of beauty on a canvas. And no more than an artist would be at fault if no one existed with such beauty, so they are not at fault if no city or citizen exhibits their concept. concept of our happiness only through our reason and our external impressions. She would appear to have in mind a concept of happiness that is passional and rests on internal impressions (see Introduction 13. 332). A rational concept of happiness is impersonal and external because our general nature is the same for everyone or approximately the same. That our general nature is the same would not, however, rule out more specific natural abilities and talents that we might share with some, but not all, others. I also wonder if Annas grasps our social nature at its fullest. If we are parts of a whole, would not our happiness be at its best when in harmony with our whole? We would be taking cognizance of and acting in concert with a larger self. But, I hasten to add, we need hardly think of ourselves as parts of one whole exclusively.

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Truth in words, he argues, is a finer thing than truth in deeds (Republic 5. 472b–473b; see, too, Republic 6. 484b–d). But I must now diverge, if ever so slightly, from our dear Plato. I would agree that we may use dialectic to attain theoretical knowledge. But I would argue with Aristotle that for practical knowledge we ought to employ rhetoric. With rhetoric we may discover the paradigms that we can embody in our action, if we so wish. Especially with argument by example (!) we ought to establish our moral principles – our own concept of our happiness. We ought to employ, accordingly, not the logical principle of contradiction but rather of the empirical principles of association. With these principles we can define only a deformed form, so to speak. That is, we can form only an empirical concept of our specific happiness as best we can from what we take to be our actual abilities to grapple with objects apparently situated before us at a given time and place.29 I must ask yet again, Why ought we as creatures of becoming expect our ideals to be anything more than imperfect? Even our most general precepts arise solely from our empirical percepts. We can thus resort only to remembered or imagined impressions for guidance in our present pursuit of happiness. That is to say, we must rely merely on ideas in a humble Humeian sense. 4. But is happiness truly our goodness? If we were to eschew a dialectical life of intelligibles, could we find our final end in a rhetorical life of perceptibles? This question takes us back to American pragmatism. American philosophers do not find the ancient Greek hypothesis about our happiness at all congenial. They express reservations especially about what they take to be 29

Aristotle distinguishes more sharply than Plato between knowledge of a theoretical and a practical kind. Theoretical knowledge has an object that cannot be otherwise, but practical knowledge has an object that can be otherwise (Ethics 6. 1. 1139a6–15). Theoretical knowledge we value for itself only, but we value practical knowledge for itself and its consequences (Ethics 6. 12.). The Platonists so-called would actually appear to be more Aristotelian than Platonic. Aristotle is the one who argues that we ought to strain every nerve to imbibe theory and thus to immortalize ourselves (Ethics 10. 7. 1177b33–1178a2). He is also the one who entreats us not to heed those who recommend that we attend to things human (1177b31–33). I take this plea to address the position taken by his predecessor. Plato clearly argues that philosophers must leave their studies and attend to politics (Republic 6. 519c–520a). Korsgaard agrees that Aristotle finds in theoretical knowledge an activity valued exclusively for itself (Creating 8. 238–239). But she also agrees in general that we may value what we do for itself and for its effects. She rests her discussion on Aristotle’s distinction between an activity ( ) and a motion ( " ). An activity we engage in for the sake of itself, but we engage in a motion for the sake of something else. We may take a walk, for example, for its own sake, or we may walk to the bank in order to withdraw some money. But we may also perform as an activity something that is a motion, she points out. We might engage in building houses as an end in itself, but we are at the same time producing houses (236–238).

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the metaphysical status of the ancient concept. They take the concept, as do so many contemporaries, to be an eternal, unchanging ideal. What an odd notion! Because of their metaphysical qualms, these pragmatic philosophers, ironically enough, neglect to give any consideration to the content of the Greek concept. They proceed instead to propound a very different hypothesis about our happiness. They argue not only that human values are not eternal or unchanging but also that our values are, therefore, not rational or objective. What values do they espouse, then? Those which arise out of our passions and are subjective. Their aversion to Greek metaphysics, however, and their subsequent neglect of Greek values present us with an exceptional opportunity for testing our own hypothesis. I propose to ask, How well could the Greek concept of happiness stand up to the American concept? Ought we to advance the ancient, objective concept of our goodness or the contemporary, subjective concept? That is, ought we to seek our happiness in an activity valued for its own daimonic self or in an activity valued for its hedonic effects? An answer to this question entails consequences that are not inconsiderable. I wish especially to ask, How compatible is the American view of knowledge and its object with the Greek view of our goodness, should it prevail? Could we possibly combine the contemporary pragmatic method with the ancient concept of happiness? A moral theory combining a pragmatic method with a daimonic end would avail us of the advantages of American and Greek ethics both. We would be able to enjoy the resourcefulness and refinements of an empirical methodology together with the fulfillments and finalities of a moral teleology. I suggest, then, that we turn to a paradigmatic pragmatist to see whether the ancient hypothesis can prevail. Consider William James, to take an example at random. One can see immediately that James advances an ethics containing a rather astonishing concept of human nature. His concept bears a salient similarity to that of the Greeks. James argues that our intellectual faculty has a function that, he explicitly asserts, is “teleological”! The mind in its capacity for conceiving or theorizing “functions exclusively for the sake of ends” (Will 4. 117–118, his emphasis). What is more, James not only advocates a teleology, but he also advocates a teleology that rests on an organic concept of our psychological faculties! Our intellectual faculty, he explains, appears only “as one element in an organic mental whole.” This whole includes, besides our cognitive ability, our emotional responses to external things of practical interest (140–141). One might, then, be tempted to surmise that James has a moral position more similar than we might have thought to the position of the Greeks. After all, Plato clearly argues in favor of a teleology, though he does not use the term, which German philosophers invented in the eighteenth century. And the teleology that Plato advocates is an organic one as well. Our psychological

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faculties each have a function to fulfill, he argues, and they function together in a whole within which the mind rules over our passions. But our conjecture would be a tad premature. James develops a concept of our psychological faculties with a dissimilarity to the Greek concept no less striking than its similarities. He argues that our intellectual faculty ought to be ruled by our instinctual ones. Though part of an organic whole, our cognitive faculty is a mere “minister to higher mental powers.” But these higher powers, he claims, are “the powers of the will.” They are our “response to the nature of things,” a response that he characterizes as “moral and volitional” (140–141). The teleology that James advances follows from his concept of reflex action. A reflex action is “the result of outward discharges from the nervous centres,” and these discharges are “the result of impressions from the external world” (113–114). Relying on modern physiology, he explains further. Though it is an “essentially teleological mechanism,” our mind effects concepts for no other purpose than “the interests of our volitional nature.” Its ends are set by “our emotional and practical subjectivity” and not by our sense impressions (117–120). James thus agrees with Plato in advocating a moral teleology, and both philosophers favor an organic psychology. But Plato advocates a teleological end that is intellectual; James prefers an end that is passional. With their psychologies the one gives precedence to our mental powers, the other to our emotional powers.30 We might wonder, then, What does James have to say about our goodness? James does argue that human goodness is happiness. But his concept of happiness bears to the ancient concept a resemblance no more than verbal. Happiness, on his account, is the satisfaction of desire. “The essence of the good,” he declares, “is simply to satisfy demand” (Will 6. 200–201, emphasis his). By “demand” he means nothing other than the demands of desire reinforced by a physiological reflex. What demand we satisfy depends on what demands we have. We cannot, alas, satisfy them all. Our desires are always greater than our world can 30

McDowell is a contemporary ethicist who takes a position similar to that of Plato. He denies that his position is Platonic. Or, at least, that it is “rampant platonism.” He argues rightly, I think, that reason is not autonomous in the sense that it is independent of anything human, and that spontaneity is “our way of actualizing ourselves as animals” (World 4. 77–78). Yet he does advocate what he calls “naturalized platonism” (91–92). We can actualize ourselves only from within “a specific ethical outlook,” he argues (78–80). He explicitly asserts that a “decent upbringing” alone can initiate us into our ethical thinking. Thinking of this sort we cannot escape, though we may refine its “detailed layout” (80–82, 91–92). He would thus substitute for eternal Platonic values inculcated traditional values. Williams is a contemporary who takes basically the same position as James does. But he makes matters even more acute, or perhaps more chronic, by placing an emphasis on our acquired emotional dispositions, which he takes to be all but incorrigible (Ethics 3. 47–53, esp.).

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possibly supply, he continues (202–203). We ought, therefore, to satisfy as many demands as we can. That is, we must strive for the “best whole.” But the best whole turns out to be the one that results in the least dissatisfaction or that, in other words, prevails with the least cost (205–206, his emphasis again).31 With his moral teleology James is, we might say, standing Plato on his head. Plato claims that we are happy only when our intellect rules our passions, and not when our intellect is ruled by our passions. But James claims that, when our passions rule our intellect, we are happy, and not when our passions are ruled by our intellect. Happiness for the Greek is a reflective action, but for the American a reflex action. We may thus reformulate our original question, Is a Platonic or a Jamesian teleology more desirable? Ought we to pursue happiness in the ancient sense of an action valued primarily for the sake of itself? or in the contemporary sense of an action valued primarily for its satisfactory consequences? What is at stake is thus whether our action has value that is primarily intrinsic or instrumental. Whether or not its value is inherent is not at issue. Inherent it is on either hypothesis. With this articulation of our question, we now summon another ancient spirit who has been lurking about the premises of our argument. This spirit is that of Callicles, who was a reluctant host for the dialogue between Socrates and Gorgias. The dialogue was the one in which they discuss rhetoric and its power, you may recall. Plato portrays Callicles as impelled to come to the defense of Gorgias. In defending his guest, Callicles actually charges Socrates with speaking as if our lives had been turned upside down (:) . ' # <" ) ' %$ ) and with suggesting that we do the opposite of what we must (Gorgias 481b–c)! And no wonder! Happiness Callicles defines in essentially the same manner as does James. He argues that we ought to use our prudence and our courage to service our desires and to make our desires as mighty as possible (491e–492a). One would imagine that he could only applaud James’s idea of subordinating our intellectual faculties to our emotional ones. He could no doubt buttress his position with James’s theory of human physiology.32 This Athenian, however, is less genteel than the Bostonian about how we might pursue happiness of this kind. He argues that we ought to hold sway over the many, who are uncourageous. We can attain happiness only by aspiring to political power of one sort or another. If we do not happen 31

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Nagel takes a similar view. He holds that there is an ineliminable conflict between our objectivity and our subjectivity (View 11. 209–211). Objective reason does serve our passions, but it also recognizes our passions to be those of a particular individual. Reason thus devotes itself to the interests of one person, but it realizes that he is “no more important than anyone else” (221–222). Dodds would likely agree about this and other similarities between the sophists and the pragmatists (see, e.g., Progress 6. 96).

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to be of royal lineage, we need to contrive to establish a rule of our own, either tyrannical or dynastic (492a–c). He would likely approve of Archelaus, whom Polus praises (471a–d). Our contemporary pragmatist and this ancient sophist, then, agree about the source and nature of our ends. They both argue that happiness is the satisfaction of desire, though the one is more democratic about its satisfaction and the other more despotic. But do we not now have at our disposal new resources for an answer to our question? We might ask, Is Socrates able to respond to Callicles with successful arguments? and, if so, Could we respond to James with similar arguments? Our stratagem appears to hold some promise. Socrates does present a response that Callicles, with a nudge or two from Gorgias, must begrudgingly admit to be a success. What is more, his response appears to succeed because it has recourse to his concept of rhetoric, and we ourselves are exploring a rhetorical concept of happiness. So we might now ask, Can Socrates help us defend objective values of a rhetorical sort? or, if you prefer, objective values of a pragmatic sort? Socrates in fact begins his response by defining rhetoric. He first distinguishes an art (! ") from a mere routine (.5 or ). For this purpose he uses as examples medicine and cookery. Medicine we may number among the arts, which, he explains, have knowledge ( $) of what is good and bad for us. It aims at our health. But cookery falls among the routines. They are ignorant (' *) of what is better or worse for us. They aim at pleasure taken in satisfying desire (Gorgias 500a–b; 464b–465a)! He explains further. An art, such as medicine, considers both the nature (0 3 ) of that which it treats and the cause (0 = ) of that which it does. It can thus give a principle ( ) for this nature and its treatment (500e–501a). But a routine, such as cookery, uses memory only ( 5" ) of what usually happens (* =% %). It proceeds without any principle (' ), not having looked into the nature (0 3 again) of pleasure or its cause (again 0 = ) (501a–b; 465a). Would rhetoric, then, be an art or a routine? Socrates now does something rather extraordinary. Rhetoric, he explicitly asserts, is of both kinds (* )! The one kind he calls a thing of beauty ( ), the other shameful demagoguery (=! "" ) (502d–503b). I would imagine that the beautiful kind would most likely be an art, and that the shameful kind would be a mere routine.33 33

Few scholars attach sufficient importance to this statement, unfortunately. Most recognize only that Socrates deems rhetoric a routine in his initial classification (Gorgias 463a–466a). Irwin, for example, focuses on this classification and overlooks the subsequent assertion (Ethics 7. 96–97; Gorgias 212–213; see 131–132, 135–136). But when he makes his initial classification, Socrates does express a reservation, which ought to put us on our guard. He is almost apologetic to Gorgias (Gorgias 462e–463a). He also invites Polus to refute him (463e–464a; also 466e–467a).

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Socrates argues ultimately that rhetoric ought to be an art, of course. The rhetorical art, he explains, implants a form in the souls of her audience, and this form makes their souls good. He relies on a comparison between a rhetorician and an artisan, or a demiurge (" !) in the arts and crafts. A good rhetorician, he argues, works in the same manner as a good artisan. His purpose is to give some form (+ ) to the object with which he works (503d–e). He implies that this form imparted to our souls consists in an organic whole of some kind. Both artists and artisans, he explains, bring that which they make into an order (= 9 . . .). They force its different parts to fit together ( . . . + ) with one another and to harmonize (> ) with one another. They thus systematize the entirety ( ; ) into an entity that is ordered ( ) and organized (" ) (503e–504a). But what might this organic order have to do with our goodness? Our souls, Socrates specifies somewhat tediously, have an order and organization called lawfulness and law ( ), from which they become lawful and organized ( . . . ) (504b–d). He explains that with this psychological organization virtue comes to be. He states explicitly that this organization is justice (3 ") and temperance (3 ") (504d–e, 506c–507a). With a play on words, he argues further that a man who is prudent ($ ) is pious (? ) as well as just, and that only a prudent man is courageous (' 2 ) (507a–c).34 We thus see, albeit in general terms, that a rhetorician, when practicing an art, would do nothing less than make us happy or even blissfully happy ( ) (507b–c). A true artisan with this linguistic art, we may infer, would know our tripartite nature and its activities. He would attempt to employ this knowledge with the purpose of creating order and organization in our soul. With his arguments he would present us with a true concept of ourselves and our virtues.35 Unfortunately, rhetoric need not be so artful. Initially Socrates does classify it as a routine. Rhetoric of this variety resembles cookery, he argues, and it is no more than flattery ( ) (501b–c; also 463a–c). He includes as 34 35

Piety being a branch of justice concerned with the gods (Gorgias 507b). Reason thus controls our passions. With a rhetorical art our reason can grasp a form and initiate an action in accordance with it. Irwin suggests, however, that reason is controlled by our passions. The Gorgias shows that “the excessive satisfaction of some desires actually causes us to be indifferent to considerations of our longer-term interest.” But “once we notice this feature of these desires, we will no longer be tempted to satisfy them excessively” (Ethics 8. 116). He would argue that Socrates advocates “the adaptive conception of happiness.” Happiness of this sort consists “in the satisfaction of desires,” but it has “plasticity.” That is to say, one satisfies only desires that are feasible. A rational person simply gives up “desires which have become unfeasible,” presumably because of longer-term costs. He further explains that “once he has given them up, the fact they are not satisfied no longer causes unhappiness.” These desires, he claims, “will disappear (according to Socratic psychological eudaemonism) once we know that they are bad for us” (Ethics 8. 117–118).

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parts of rhetoric in this pejorative sense instrumental music, vocal music, even tragedy, and, of course, political speeches (501d–503b). A contemporary critical theorist could hardly do better. Do not our mass media today indulge in flattery of this unsavory sort with their political slogans and commercial jingles? But we now ought to ask, Could we apply the distinction between an art and a routine to James? We can. To show that we can, I want now to draw your attention to the fact that the conflict between Plato and James turns not so much on the difference between rational and emotional values or between objective and subjective values. Nor does the conflict between Socrates and Callicles turn on a distinction of this sort. Their conflict arises rather out of two objective concepts of human nature. Are we essentially rational, or are we merely emotional?36 James and Callicles do, in fact, argue that their passional values rest on human nature. Callicles relies on ancient political theory, James on contemporary psychology. By nature the more powerful ought to rule, Callicles claims. But these natural rulers moral convention, if strong enough, can unfortunately hold back (Gorgias 483a–484c). He is almost Nietzschean. James argues, as we have seen, that his passional values rest on the nature of reflex action. He is more Humeian. Let us see, then, which concept of human nature and happiness might prove the more desirable. To do so, we might follow Socrates a little further. Socrates defends his position with what can only be, by his own admission, a rather odd inductive argument. This argument, he informs us, is an ancient myth, and an ancient myth that borders on the absurd (Gorgias 493c). But this myth, though imagined, does illustrate a hypothesis, and its hypothesis can serve us well for understanding our concept of happiness and our happiness itself. The hypothesis, bluntly stated, is that we are all dead, and that our body is a tomb (492e–493a). The paradoxical fact that we are deceased, I hope, is not terribly perplexing. This fact, Socrates explains, means merely that we are in Hades. Cold comfort, you may be thinking. But Hades, he hastens to explain, relying on etymology, is merely the realm of the invisible ( ' ) (493b). Or, we would be more apt to say, the intellectual realm, which is none other than that of human knowledge. This realm ought to be familiar to readers of Plato. Death is, curiously enough, not an uncommon topic in his dialogues. Socrates and his visitors 36

Nagel would have to agree, I think. He subscribes to the view that we may objectively understand pleasure and pain as moral values. He asks us to consider a theory with the basic tenet that our reasons for action depend exclusively on our desires. This very proposition, he argues, is a minimal objective generalization from our own case (View 8. 149–151, 156–158). He is, by the way, open to alternative claims of objectivity that might improve upon this limited theory (151).

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discuss death in his cell on the very day of his execution, for example. They agree, as you may recall, that death marks the departure of our soul from our body. That is, this event is the separation of our intellectual functions, such as cognition, from other psychological functions, such as sensation and emotion (Phaedo 64c). Philosophers, Socrates argues, ought especially to welcome any opportunity to die. Why? Because our profession is nothing other than the practice of death (63e–66a, 67b–68c). We can best hope to attain knowledge when we attempt to know with our soul alone without the body and its hindrances. Our mind can by itself more clearly grasp the concept of justice, for example, than it can with our senses and their supposed aid. Our emotions, of course, are a decided hindrance (65a–67b). But how ought we who profess to be philosophers embark on our macabre mission? Assuming that we ought. By hypothesis, of course! Our soul is able to grasp concepts only by formulating and examining hypotheses. Socrates in fact begins his famous second sailing with his decision to employ hypotheses. He decided to have recourse to arguments and to employ them in the examination of his concepts. He was afraid that he might go blind, as do those who watch an eclipse, if he attempted to examine things with his naked eyes (99d–100a). I would imagine that James would find this part of the Sicilian myth acceptable enough. His own concept of experience, which you may also recall, bears some resemblance to a Socratic death. One might describe pragmatic experience in his sense as an intellectualization of ourselves and our surroundings. Our experience, he argues, divides into a subject who knows and an object that is known. But this subject and its object are not pure conceptual entities. They are rather apperceptual or, more commonly, perceptual entities. But with our associations we can distinguish these two perceptual entities from entities merely sensed. He also agrees with Socrates that a philosopher can know only by means of a hypothesis. A hypothesis is the very basis of the pragmatic method. Only by examining our concepts in light of their consequences can we know their truth, he avers. But he, again, does not advocate knowledge solely of a conceptual variety. He argues rather that our concepts enable us ultimately to know our percepts. James thus might seem to be a philosopher who practices an art of dying, though his soul dwells not in an ideal but in an experiential realm. But he is not entirely ready and willing to give up the ghost. He is possessed of a soul that cannot quite take leave of life (see Phaedo 81b–d). He is unable to acquiesce in his death because he refuses to free himself from his passions. On the contrary! He unabashedly advocates that we allow our passions to decide between our hypotheses. We thus find ourselves in the company of a pure Socratic soul who dwells with her hypotheses in a conceptual realm, and a pragmatic Jamesian soul

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who lives in a perceptual and passional realm with her hypotheses. We shall ultimately have to decide, With whom ought we to cast our lot? Which shade ought we to take for our guide and inspiration? But before we venture an answer, we had best return to our archaic myth and consider its second part. That our body is our tomb appears to be a proposition obvious enough if we are already dead and in a body. But what could this metaphor mean? Indeed, the myth presents in this proposition a paradox more perplexing and hence one potentially more heuristic. Socrates himself appears to attach greater importance to it. He devotes considerable detail to developing this metaphor into a rather elaborate allegory.37 What might our purported tomb be like? Our tomb bears some resemblance to a household. It is not without its furnishings, Socrates informs us. We dead would appear to have at our disposal dippers and jars. The jars serve to store various liquids, such as wine, milk, and honey, which are, I imagine, to provision us in death (Gorgias 493d–e). But our jars do not always function well. The jars in some tombs are sound (42 ), but in some they are leaky (" ) (493d–494a, 493a–b). Our dippers serve to fill the jars, but these may leak as well, he explains. The leaky dippers he in fact calls sieves (493b). Socrates relates further that our tomb is not a place of eternal repose. After death we are obliged to perform household chores, we might say. Our souls have the task of keeping their jars full, and they can have an easier or a harder time of it. A soul leading a life that is organized ( ) has a dipper and sound jars, he tells us. She keeps her jars filled with ease. But a soul leading a life that is intemperate (' ) has a sieve with which to fill leaky jars (493d–494a; also 493b–c). Hardly an enviable task! How, then, does this myth help us understand our happiness? Are we to understand with Solon that we may count no one happy until he is dead? Apparently, we may count no one either happy or unhappy until he is dead. Socrates asserts that the two souls in their tombs illustrate the differences between someone who is more happy ( ) and someone less so. The happier soul is one who leads an organized life, he asserts (493c–d). An organized life is, more specifically, a life of temperance (* . . . $ ) (493c–e). But the disorganized soul leads a life of intemperance (* ). She is “pained with extreme pains” ( ! 2 3 ) (493e–494a). What, then, does the myth mean? I think that we may divine more deeply its meaning if we call to mind rhetoric and its two kinds. We might begin with a general note of similarity between rhetorical power and our life after 37

Too perplexing for most commentators, I am sorry to say. They sorely neglect to give an analysis of the myth in any detail. Irwin, for example, has very little to say about it (Gorgias 195). Even Dodds turns aside and merely points out historical and literary sources (Gorgias 296–299).

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death. This power, as we have seen, may be either an art or a routine. What it is depends on how we choose to practice it. We practice rhetoric as an art if we speak with knowledge, but if we speak without knowledge, we perform in a mere routine. Similarly, we may choose to engage in a life after death with or without knowledge. The dippers and sieves, Socrates explains, represent our intellect. The soul with a dipper appears to have an intellect with understanding ( * ), though he does not explicitly so state.38 The soul with a sieve, he does explicitly state, is a soul without understanding (0 ) ' 5 ) because of its lack of belief and its forgetfulness (@ 5%" ) (Gorgias 493b–c).39 We now see once more the moral import of rhetoric. May we persuade not only others but also ourselves to perform or not to perform an action? If so, we may persuade ourselves to act with or without knowledge. A person who is temperate would thus practice a rhetorical art. His art is a dipper, to speak metaphorically, and he acts with knowledge. But an intemperate person would engage in a rhetorical routine. He lives a life without knowledge. He has only a sieve, metaphorically speaking.40 But what knowledge does a person with temperance have? And how does his knowledge make him temperate? He would know the very nature of his soul, would he not? He knows her form, in a word. But what form would this be? This form would be a concept of the organization proper to his soul, would it not? The form is, therefore, a concept of her faculties and their functions. A form of this kind his intellect can impose on his passions. His intellect can function as an artist or an artisan. A temperate person thus has an intellect that lends integrity to his funereal jars. Indeed, Socrates tells us that the jars represent our appetites (493a). The soul that is temperate would appear to have jars that are sound. Her appetites, he implies, do not make many demands. But the intemperate soul has jars that leak. Her appetitive part is, he explicitly states, intemperate ( ' ) because of its insatiability ( 0 '" ) (493b). An intemperate soul forgets what she knew about her soul, if she ever did know anything, in order to satisfy her passions as they are aroused. Her 38

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Socrates probably is not as explicit about temperance as he might be because he focuses on intemperance in response to what Callicles has urged earlier (Gorgias 491e–492a). Socrates states literally that the sieve represents the soul (Gorgias 493b–c). But this implement cannot represent the soul in its entirety because the jars, he also states, represent the passions (493a–b). Actually, Socrates may overstate his position slightly. He clearly argues that someone who practices a routine has memory, but he suggests with his allegory that someone whose mind is a sieve has an empty mind because of his forgetfulness. But without any memory at all a soul would be in a very sorry state. Indeed, a soul completely forgetful could have no desire (see Symposium 204a). A person with a routine would thus be not as well off as a soul with an art, but he could be not as badly off as a soul without memory.

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intellect lacks a form to impose on her passions, and her passions appear to impose themselves on her intellect. They rise and fall ( ), Socrates asserts, presumably as they are subject to stimulations and satisfactions (493a). This poor soul has jars without integrity.41 Could James find this part of our myth acceptable? Does James advocate a more temperate life? Or does he prefer a more intemperate one? James does argue that we know our nature. An organic teleology for him is an established physiological fact. But does he argue that our soul has an organic nature and a rational function that is itself an end? He does not. Our soul, he implies, has an organic nature but a rational function that is a means to another end. We use our rational activity as a mere means to satisfy our passional drives. Reason provides a more efficient way to service our passions (Will 4. 117–120). James argues, then, not that our moral end is a known form but that our end is a felt satisfaction. We can find, James claims, no ends or order in nature without our “purposes, preferences, fondnesses for certain effects, forms, orders.” Our experience at any moment is “an utter chaos,” and we can only hope to make any order out of nature with our associations. We combine our concepts and percepts, he suggests, into rational thought, but our thought is rational because it leads to conclusions congenial to an appreciative organ that, he implies, is emotive (117–120). James would thus favor an end that implies a rhetoric resembling less an art than a routine. What he asserts about nature generally James applies equally to our own nature. He conceives our very soul as ordered and organized for the sake of our “purposes, preferences,” and “fondnesses.” I do note, however, that James would offer a rhetoric that, if not temperate, is more tempered than that of Callicles.42 41

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These two souls, incidentally, lead intellectual lives closely resembling those of Socrates and Callicles. As you may recall, Socrates leads a mental life of constancy, Callicles one of inconstancy. They lead lives that are so different, Socrates explains, because they pursue loves that are different. Socrates is enamored of philosophy, which has a nature constant and unchanging; but Callicles loves the populace, who are passionate and fickle (Gorgias 481c–482c). Suckiel criticizes James for not taking into account unperceived value. She agrees with him that “morality would be meaningless in the absence of sentient life.” But she argues that “felt demands” cannot determine “how moral value shall be constituted.” Why not? Because “things may be better or worse for sentient beings even though they may fail to recognize them to be so.” The social and natural sciences have reached conclusions about human nature that we cannot ignore, she continues. For example, “genetic predispositions,” “personality patterns,” “individual talents,” “biological and emotional conditions” ought to be taken into account, even if they are not felt demands (Philosophy 4. 54–57). I agree with Suckiel that one must allow for values that may be unperceived. But I am arguing with Socrates that morality can have greater meaning in the presence of rational life, though it does have some meaning for sentient life. We must, then, be on the lookout for overlooked values that we can literally perceive and not merely feel. I can agree, too,

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I conclude, then, that Socrates has the upper hand. He argues that someone who practices an art knows the nature of that which he treats, and that someone who follows a routine does not. Those who follow a routine may pretend to have a concept of our nature. But they have a concept that is false, I say. Why? I hypothesize that we are rational animals, and that our reason can determine better than our passion the very hypotheses that we ought to entertain about our own soul or any other entity. Or ought we to let our emotions decide for us? I think not, and I think that you by now agree.43 But James might protest, Are you not advocating an alternative that at bottom can be only a gnostic position? If we embrace our rationality at the expense of our passionality, must we not seek to know a good that itself is through and through rational? And if so, do we not commit ourselves to a rationality that must ultimately become one with an eternal and immutable object (Will 4. 136–140, for example)? No, I am not. I would remind my reader that I am advocating not dialectic but rhetoric for acquiring moral knowledge. One might in fact distinguish rhetorical arts of two kinds from routines. Plato advocates the use of dialectic to subsume rhetoric. He might accordingly give the appearance of gnosticism in James’s sense. But I am arguing that we may use rhetoric in its own right. We might even subsume dialectic under rhetoric simply by viewing our concepts as percepts, both general and particular. One may also distinguish the position I am advocating from that taken by James in another way. Grant me, if you will, the eighteenth-century distinction between external and internal sensations. What I am arguing is that we ought to make use of external sensations in our pursuit of moral truth. James is advocating that we use internal sensations to determine moral truth. But are we not an obvious object of our own perception? Or, rather, may we not be – if we so choose?44 Ultimately, dear reader, you yourself must decide for yourself between these two lives. You must ask yourself, Which life would I find more desirable?

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that the social and natural sciences can tell us much about human and nonhuman values that we ought to take into account, though we may at present be unmindful of them. Foot agrees. Morality, she argues, demands of us that we act rationally, “even against desire and self-interest.” Our awareness of our goodness sets “a necessary condition for practical rationality” and is “a partial determinant” of our rationality itself (Goodness 4. 62–63). The goodness we are aware of she calls a form of life, and a life form is the teleology of a species. Its teleology determines what organisms of a given species do and what their characteristics are. Plants and nonhuman animals have lives concerned with self-preservation and speciespreservation (Goodness 2. 30–31). But human animals lead lives concerned with more than survival. We can fulfill intellectual and social functions that other animals cannot (Goodness 3. 39–44). Nagel, I believe, recognizes this same distinction, which he refers to as objective and subjective or, simply, outside and inside. But he retains a subjective surd and thus sides less with Plato than with James (View 8. 158–162).

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Which hypothesis offers a concept of higher value? The hypothesis that we ought to perform an action in concert with our knowledge of ourselves and our circumstances primarily for its own sake? Or the hypothesis that we ought to utilize our knowledge of ourselves and our surroundings to engage in action at the behest of impulse for the sake of indulging it? I conclude, then, that we can, if we so choose, enjoy the resources of an empirical epistemology together with the restfulness of a moral teleology. That is to say, we could use an experimental method to define and to refine concepts of our activities, and we could also pursue our activities as ends that we value for their own sake. We may combine the pragmatic method, rhetorically refined, with a moral teleology, perceptually defined. But the concept of happiness has additional consequences that attest to its viability and vitality even. The concept provides a philosophical or, more specifically, a rhetorical foundation for our human freedoms, for our human imperatives, and for our ultimate ends, not to mention our virtues. But I anticipate.45 5. That we might best be ourselves in a rational activity is today hardly an unfamiliar concept. No less a personage than Immanuel Kant revived this ideal and won for it many modern adherents. To see that he advocates a rational activity as our end, no proof is necessary for those familiar with his work. But if we analyze his concept of a good will, we shall be better able to see how ancient moral philosophy compares with modern. We shall also see why contemporary philosophy exhibits a decided tendency to reject happiness as a rational teleology. A good will (ein guter Wille), Kant declares, is the only thing that is good without qualification (Groundwork 1. 393). He actually asserts that nothing in the world or even out of it is good except a good will. He concedes that some character traits might seem good without qualification. But without a good will these qualities have the potential to be extremely bad or harmful. He mentions explicitly calm deliberation, self-control, and moderation. To show that these traits need not be good, he cites the example of a character with whom we are already acquainted. The cool, calculating criminal makes another furtive appearance (393–394). The gifts of fortune, too, can be harmful without a good will. To show that they can, he cites, curiously enough, our own happiness (Gl¨uckseligkeit)! But happiness he defines differently from Plato. His definition resembles rather the false definition that Callicles and the pragmatists favor. Happiness on his account is merely our well-being (Wohlbefinden) and satisfaction (Zufriedenheit). Without a good will to correct its influence, he argues, this good can easily lead to pride and arrogance (393).

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Chapters 4, 5, 6, and 7, respectively.

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Why, then, is a good will good? The will is good for the sake of its own action and not for the sake of the consequences of its action. The will is good “in itself” (en sich), he asserts, and not for “what it effects or brings about” (was er bewirkt oder ausrichtet) (Groundwork 1. 394). More explicitly still, our will is good only through its own willing (Wollen) and not through its usefulness for the attaining of any proposed end (Tauglichkeit zu irgend eines vorgesetzten Zweckes) (394). To show that our will is good in itself, Kant analyzes our ordinary concept of duty (Pflicht). He assumes that we humans act from our will under “subjective constraints and hindrances” (Groundwork 1. 397). That we can act out of duty, he accordingly argues, is clear if we consider someone who finds himself in hopeless affliction. This poor soul has no desire to live and even wishes for death. But he can still bring himself to preserve his life out of duty (aus Pflicht). He thus performs this action solely for its own sake. Someone who is not so afflicted may also act to preserve his life. But he may well act out of an inclination (aus Neigung). He would thus preserve his life for the sake of mere satisfaction (397–398).46 But, then, what does a good will will if it does not will with any regard to the consequences of its activity or if it even wills with a disregard to them? When we act out of duty, Kant explains, our action derives its value only from the principle of willing (Princip des Wollens) and not from any objective (Absicht) that might be attained. That is, its value lies in the maxim on which we act and not in an object that we may happen to desire (Groundwork 1. 399–400). This principle of willing is none other than the concept of universal lawfulness (die allgemeine Gestzm¨aßigkeit), of course. According to it we ought to act in such a way that we might will a maxim on which we act to be a universal law (ein Allgemeines Gesetz). The general concept of lawfulness itself, Kant explains, can serve our will for a principle of its activity and can serve it for a principle without any regard to the consequences of its activity (402). Kant thus agrees with Plato that human action can have value for its own sake and that we can act without regard for the consequences of our actions. I acknowledge, of course, that Kant and Plato differ about the principles of our action. Kant argues that we ought to act in accordance with a concept of a legislative function, Plato that we ought to act in accordance with a concept of a social function. Plato would add, too, that we ought to engage in rational activity primarily for itself and also for its consequences. Kant, however, does not agree with Plato, though he may with the Platonists, when he presumes that we can embody an eternal concept in our 46

With other arguments O’Neill nicely contrasts Kant’s concept of our rationality as an end in itself with the common contemporary concept of our rationality as a means to another end, such as satisfaction (Constructions 4.).

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moral actions. He presents in his ethics more a divine demigod than a living, breathing human daimon. In his hands an activity valued for itself becomes one of a pure reason that is practical, and its content derives from pure reason as well. The principle that we should will our maxim to be a universal law is simply a fact of pure reason (ein Factum der reinen Vernunft), he avers (Practical 1. 46–47, 55–56; see also Groundwork 3. 453–454; or Prolegomena 3. 344–345).47 Indeed, Kant argues that he can derive this principle from an analysis of our common concept of duty because even our common reason in its judgments coincides with this fact of reason. Though it may not think it abstractly, ordinary reason uses the principle of universal law in its moral judgments (Groundwork 1. 403–404). Even the vilest villain, when presented with its examples, can only wish that he, too, might be possessed of a good will, he claims (Groundwork 3. 454–455). Under Kant’s care, then, our mortal spirit takes on the guise of an immortal being, worthy perhaps of the aspirations of its benefactor, but too fine a thing for us mortals, I should think. I am championing with arguments borrowed from Plato the rather homely proposition that we have only hypothetical knowledge. But I also argue that a rational activity constituting our moral goodness is a function of an empirical reason. An activity of this sort we can value for itself primarily and not merely for its effects. Consider again the ancient distinction between knowledge and opinion. I can only disagree with Kant that practical knowledge concerns a universal law that is a fact of reason. Plato, I am well aware, does apparently agree that our moral knowledge arises from our reason itself (see, most famously, Meno 81a–e). Kant himself acknowledges this kinship with Plato. Indeed, he thinks that Plato was so overcome with enthusiasm for supersensible ideas that he strayed into fanaticism ( Judgement 2.1. 63. 362–365). Yet even Plato, despite the self-professed Platonists, would suggest that any eternal knowledge our soul might be possessed of would be of little avail to us. Why? Because he argues that our knowledge, even our moral knowledge, can be hypothetical only. We may understand our concepts, even if eternal, only by means of hypotheses, and only by hypotheses may we reason about our concepts. Knowledge for us mortals is knowledge all too human. With Aristotle I also argue that our practical intellect does not produce even hypothetical knowledge in a strict sense but only opinion that is hypothetical. For action we need not knowledge of eternal verities but only true opinion about verities of the day, so to speak. After all, we are creatures of change who live and die in a world of change. Our moral laws, then, cannot be universal but can be at best only general. These general laws we can know by rhetorical example. 47

Korsgaard, too, acknowledges this fact of reason. Kant allows that we can be motivated by pure ideas, she rightly asserts (Creating 6. 169–170, 175).

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We do not, then, have any knowledge of a moral principle that is absolute. The moral law, Kant repeatedly avers, is valid for any rational being, not merely for human beings (Groundwork 2. 408, for example). But our moral knowledge, I think, can be knowledge valid only for human beings. To possess absolute knowledge would be to have knowledge that is nonhypothetical or, in a word, divine knowledge. But our knowledge and our opinion we can garner in no other manner than by formulating and refuting our hypotheses. Despite this disagreement over moral epistemology, we yet find ourselves in agreement with Kant on other salient points. That a good will alone can employ self-discipline and moderation for moral purposes, and that these characteristics might otherwise serve immoral designs, we may heartily agree. But I would argue with Plato that we ought to employ the principles of non–self-sufficiency and of the division of labor to determine what our functions are and how to develop our faculties. These principles, I submit, we may use to define not only social functions for ourselves, as does Plato, but also natural functions for our species. With Kant we may especially agree that practical reason, besides its cognitive function, has what one might call a conative function. Our practical reason (praktische Vernunft), he argues, is nothing other than our will (Wille) (Groundwork 2. 412–413). Kant seems almost perverse in his interest in the conflict between duty and desire. But his purpose is to show that we have a rational basis for our activity, and this basis he may best illustrate with a conflict of this kind. One most clearly performs an action from a rational source when one acts out of duty in opposition to inclination (Groundwork 1. 397–399). Plato, too, recognizes that our reason has these two functions. Our practical reason not only enables us to form a concept of our happiness, but it also enables us to act in accordance with this moral concept. With our reason and its knowledge of ourselves we can control and, if necessary, coerce our aggressive and appetitive instincts to conform to its dictates (Republic 4. 441c–442d). We are just when we develop in this way an internal harmony in our faculties. Unjust we are when our faculties conflict with one another (443c–444b). Though he clearly disagrees with the ancients about our practical knowledge and its nature, Kant thus offers a concept of a rational action valued for its own sake that is the same as the ancient Greek concept in its root essentials. Kant argues that our goodness is essentially a rational activity of value for itself, and Plato that happiness is a rational activity valued primarily for itself. The German thus agrees with the Greek that our goodness lies in a rational activity that is practical, though they disagree about what this activity is.48 48

Engstrom would seem to have reached a similar conclusion about Kant and Aristotle, though with different arguments. He rightly contends that the highest good for Kant and happiness

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One may, then, find no little irony in the fact that Kant severely criticizes what he takes to be the ancient conception of happiness. Happiness, he reiterates, is our well-being; and our well-being, he explains, is an objective that we have by nature. It belongs not to our rationality but only to our human essence (Groundwork 2. 415–416). In fact, this end is the maximum of our well-being in our present and future condition (417–419). It remains merely the satisfaction of our desire (Groundwork 1. 393). He denies, however, that human reason has the function of fulfilling desire. He argues instead that we would be better served by instinct alone if our end were happiness in this sense. He even argues that the more we attempt to use reason to satisfy desire, the more we are apt to fail in our attempts to attain any lasting satisfaction. Our sophistication brings only more trouble and effort upon us, he states (Groundwork 1. 395–396; Groundwork 2. 417–419). These arguments do have a contemporary ring to them, I must say. But I wonder if Kant did not find this concept of happiness in Hume, though he mentions only Epicurus (Practical 1. 1. 22–25 or 40, for example). Hume clearly embraces a concept of happiness similar to the Kantian one. In him we encounter a modern, if more moderate, Callicles. Human reason is empirical, Hume argues, but it cannot be the source of our moral principle. Our reason can merely assist us with the satisfaction of desire and with its refinement. Reason can “pave the way” for desire, and it can “give a proper discernment of its object,” he states (Morals 1. 172–173). It can also correct for Aristotle are activities fundamentally the same. Human goodness for both philosophers consists in virtuous action together with external prosperity (Engstrom 6. 121–132). He argues in part that not only theoretical but also practical wisdom for Aristotle enables us to perform an action that is an end in itself (112–120). Unfortunately, he is unable to distinguish adequately between theoretical and practical knowledge. His position is that our theoretical intellect contemplates the same unchanging principle that our practical intellect attempts to realize in action (119–120). But Korsgaard would no doubt demur. She argues that Aristotle’s concept of theoretical reason is a source of an unconditioned good, but that his concept of practical reason is a source of a conditioned good. Her terminology is Kantian. By “unconditioned” she means that a good is itself a condition of the value of other goods, and by “conditioned” she means that a good is dependent on human existence and our desires (Creating 8. 225–226, 227; 231–232, 238–239). She, accordingly, alleges a similarity between theoretical reason in Aristotle and practical reason in Kant, which, of course, issues in a good that is unconditioned (228, 243–244). She does recognize that moral action for Aristotle is an end in itself. But she argues that on Aristotle’s account moral action remains a conditioned good because we would not exercise practical reason if we did not have practical limitations and defects to overcome (233–235). But I believe that the same argument would apply to Kant, would it not? Kant argues that action in accordance with the moral law is an end in itself. But he obviously must admit that the law has material content, though its form, not its material, is determinant. This material content, he tells us, is a conditioned good because it comes from our inclinations (Practical 1. 1. 27, e.g.).

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misplaced passion with an enlarged view of the consequences (Morals 2. 2. 180–181). Only passion can determine a moral principle for us, Hume avers. An “internal sense or feeling” pronounces the final sentence of moral approbation or disapprobation (Morals 1. 172–173). This internal sense that serves us for the basis of morality is, more specifically, our sympathy or fellow feeling. This emotion, he explains, binds us together by enabling us to feel what our fellow humans feel. It takes for its object not our own happiness but the happiness of others (Morals 5. 2. 219; also 220–225). Hume thus finds our end in happiness, and happiness for him is merely pleasure taken in our satisfaction. But against Kant he advocates for reason the role of satisfying desire. And he recognizes a rather sophisticated role of this sort for reason. We may – nay, we ought to – deliberate about which desire we wish to fulfill and which satisfaction we are to enjoy. He commends especially the moral sentiment of sympathy. This passion yields a satisfaction that he describes touchingly as “sweet, smooth, tender, agreeable” (Enquiry 9. 281–282). Despite Hume’s eloquence, I find myself obliged to agree with Kant about our practical intellect and its function. Our rational activity does have a final value all its own, even when it is practical. But this rational activity is, I would also argue against Kant, none other than our very happiness itself. My hypothesis, to repeat without apology, is that we are essentially rational animals. Our rational activity, I would thus argue, enables us to be more ourselves than does a passional passivity. I could agree with Kant, then, that sympathy can have no moral value. Kant argues that an act of charity, if performed out of sympathy, lacks moral value, though it may be of benefit to society. Its value is only that of pleasure (Groundwork 1. 398–399). He also points out that an emotional basis for morality, even if found in “soft sympathy,” is not practical but pathological. When all is said and done, our emotion must remain irrational (399). With a remark made in an almost offhand manner, Kant also observes that without any value in itself our rationality would have no function proper to it alone. The consequences of its activity can, and often do, come about through other causes (401). The implication is that our happiness defined as satisfaction of desire is not essentially ours. Satisfaction can come about not only through our own efforts but even without any effort on our part. If only we happen to be so lucky.49 We can now see, I would think, why many, if not most, modern and contemporary philosophers reject the Greek concept of happiness for reasons diametrically opposed but decidedly mistaken. If Kantian, they accept the view that happiness can be only the satisfaction of our desire. And they argue 49

Both the German “Gl¨uckseligkeit,” derived from “Gl¨uck,” and the English “happiness,” from “hap,” capture etymologically the connection between emotional satisfaction and luck.

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that an activity of this sort is not worthy of a human being. If Humeian, they disparage the view that happiness is a rational activity fixed once and for all. And they argue that a human being is not worthy of an ideal of this sort. These positions rest on a false dichotomy that dominates moral philosophy today. These two gentlemen would appear to assume that we humans are either more godlike or more beastlike than we actually are. Kant does distinguish divine beings from human beings. God and the angels, those not fallen, act under a categorical subjunctive, as it were, not an imperative. Their will is infallible. To conceive of a moral action is for them to wish it (Groundwork 2. 412–413). As if they could conceive of any other action. But our human will is fallible, he reminds us. We can act morally only under an imperative. We do not always do what pure reason tells us to do because our will is subject not only to reason but also to passion (Groundwork 2. 412–413). We are at a crossroads, he states metaphorically. We must perforce choose between a rational principle and an irrational one (Groundwork 1. 399–400). He would thus make our will an immortal arbitrator of our morality. One might even say that he finds an immoral distraction in our mortal nature! Hume cheerfully admits that we humans resemble other animals. He denounces what he caricaturizes as “monkish virtues.” “Celibacy, fasting, penance, mortification, self-denial, humility, silence, solitude” are to be numbered among them. These virtues are the product of mere prejudice and superstition, he avers. Nor can they serve any “manner of purpose.” On the contrary, they can only hinder our advancement in the world or society (Morals 9. 1. 270). He clearly argues that we share with other animals even our moral sentiment! That sympathy is present in them, he argues, is evident from the way they share their affections, such as fear or grief. They share these feelings even if they are unaware of their original causes. He also cites the animation of hunting dogs when they pursue game in a pack. They become especially animated when two packs join together, he tells us (Treatise 2. 2. 398). We find, then, that modern and contemporary philosophy present two antithetical tendencies. The one is to seek a fixed human good, which one may define once and for all. Kantians, who succumb to this tendency, view human good as a rational activity and decry Greek philosophy as irrational. The other, ironically enough, is to decry Greek philosophy for being overly rational. Humeians, who succumb to this attitude, view human goodness as the satisfaction of desire and argue that our goodness is irrational. But a more moderate possibility, which I am arguing that we may glean from the Greeks, is that one may engage in a rational activity for its own sake without pretending to a rationality presumed to be absolute. One may accordingly reject both modern positions when applied to ancient philosophy and when applied to moral philosophy. Yes, pure reason is too fine

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a thing for us mortals, and, yes, we mortals are too fine a thing for mere passion. But we may use empirical reason to define a rational activity for ourselves and to pursue this activity for its own sake. Unfortunately, because of the Kantian and Humeian paradigms, a rational end of an intermediate empirical sort, neither one of pure reason valued for itself nor one of empirical reason valued for its effects, moral philosophers today are inclined to entertain with little or no enthusiasm. These philosophers agree that empirical reason can be of value not for itself but for its effects. They disagree only about whether one ought to reject or to accept reason of this species. That a rational activity with intrinsic value may have a content that arises from empirical reason is simply beyond the pale of contemporary moral philosophy. 6. The incorrigible Alcibiades! His debauched specter now swaggers its indecorous way into our discourse. But with its taunting example this ancient shade reminds us that an ineradicable hubris (A. ) ever remains our lot in life. And, hence, an immorality that, despite our very best intentions and efforts, is inexorable we must allow to be our destiny. We poor mortals are doomed to remain miserable to the very end of our days, I am sorry to say. Let us observe what our inebriate has to tell us about Socratic hubris. Yes, Socratic hubris! We may safely say, I think, that Alcibiades reveres his philosophical companion with an admiration that knows no bounds, to put the matter politely. But he doubtless pays Socrates his highest compliment when he reveals that because of our dialectician he often thinks life not worth living for him who lives it as he does (0 . + ! B !) (Symposium 215e–216a)! Why? Because he sorely neglects to improve himself and to do what he knows he must. Socrates is in fact the sole person who is able to shame ( =!3 %) him who seems so shameless (216a–c). This compliment suggests that Alcibiades is not terribly adept at selfexamination. After all, Socrates urges at his trial that an unexamined life is one not worth living for a human being ( . ' %$/) (Apology 37e–38a).50 He is at pains to show that we ought to examine our lives with hypotheses as he examined the oracular pronouncement about his wisdom. Only in this way might we aspire to greater wisdom, he explains (20c–22e). But Alcibiades, even with his evident ineptitude, still manages to tell us something about ourselves. He compares his experience with Socrates to the bite of an adder. No one, he explains, who has been bitten by an adder will say what it is like except to others who have been bitten. Only they understand all one dared say or do because of its pain. And so, he asserts, no one can understand the pain of a Socratic argument unless they have 50

Alcibiades and Socrates thus employ almost the very same phrase, though Socrates uses a qualification less selfish.

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experienced it. Its pain can make us say or do whatever it wishes (Symposium 217e–218b).51 This is Socratic rhetoric at its most potent! Have we not ourselves felt the pain of his philosophical arguments? Surely, we all have on one occasion or another. This pain comes with the refutation of a hypothesis to which we have become attached, especially if our hypothesis is a moral one. Nor may we pretend that we can escape this pain. Our only refuge is to grasp at another hypothesis, which we know is eventually doomed to a refutation of its own, though for the moment it may charm us. Socrates, Alcibiades actually calls hubristic (4.5 ) (Symposium 215b). He explains that his beloved advances arguments that make him worse than the whirling corybants () . $ ). His heart leaps and tears stream from his eyes. He actually finds that these arguments enslave him (215d–e). And the arguments can work their persuasive ways even in the mouths of another (215d). Gorgias himself would, no doubt, take no little pride in giving a speech possessed of such power (Gorgias 452e)!52 Regrettably, Alcibiades uses his experience as an excuse to importune our philosopher. He acts much as does the occasional philosophy pupil who has become infatuated with his professor. He apparently thinks that by seducing Socrates he can become a philosopher. His intent is to exchange sexual favors for philosophical favors (Symposium 217a, 218c–d). He thus exhibits an ardor that is rather comic. One cannot but recall the Aristophanic lover who futilely seeks in a physical embrace to join to with his other half (189d– 193a). Yet with his drunken encomium, Alcibiades does suggest that we ourselves and our own actions are always tainted with hubris because of our inexorable ignorance. We are especially hubristic in comparison with Socrates, who unstintingly devotes himself to philosophy (Symposium 220c–d), who is a paradigm of endurance and courage under military conditions both harsh and harrowing (219e–220c, 220d–221c), and who exhibits temperance amidst embarrassingly ardent temptations (217b–219e).53 Even if we are prepared, as Alcibiades was not, to address our infelicitous faults, we must concede that our actions can never be fully rational. One might wonder if we could wait until they were! We would have to attain knowledge of a divine sort. But our lot is knowledge of a human sort. To wit, opinion. Nor is our opinion incorrigible. It is mere hypothesis, and nothing 51

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Nussbaum implies that a Platonic philosopher would not so suffer (Fragility 6. 192). But a philosopher of this ilk would be Platonic solely in the pejorative sense. To be incapable of being pained by a better argument would be to think oneself possessed of divine knowledge, would it not? Contemporary scholars have considerable difficulty with this confession. Dover takes Alcibiades’ remark about hubris to be facetious (172). Nussbaum argues that Alcibiades is indifferent to argument and enslaved by his passion (Fragility 6. 197). Dover agrees about these virtues (164).

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more, doomed to fail. Only with a new hypothesis do we throw over an old hypothesis if we have the courage of our convictions. We are thus ensnared, as is Socrates himself, in a hubris that is ineradicable.54 Wait! you might say. We can act out of reason, can we not? And we can act for the sake of our rational activity itself! How, then, could we accept an accusation of being hubristic? This objection I accept. But I accept it with a qualification. We are obliged to recognize moral hubris of two varieties. If we act out of reason, we are hubristic only because a new hypothesis will sooner or later overcome our old hypothesis. We cannot but know that we perform for their own sake actions that, if we knew better, we would not perform.55 Alcibiades does not act out of reason, however. Nor does he make any effort to test a hypothesis, if he consciously formulates one. He is hubristic because he acts out of passion. He performs his action primarily for the sake of fulfilling his desire. Had he known better, he would, we can only hope, not have acted at the prompting of passion. He is, in a word, unrestrained. We also see, incidentally, a similarity between our unrestrained Alcibiades and our American pragmatists. The pragmatists invite us to use hypotheses, even hypotheses of natural science, for the sake of a life of pleasure. They invite us to use nature, even our own nature, for the sake of satisfying our desire. Our rationality serves merely to enhance our reflex action. Actually, this ancient debauchee and his contemporary counterparts, admittedly less unrestrained, exhibit what we might better term deliberate 54

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I thus agree with Dennett that we remain subject to what he dubs “syntactitude” (Room 2. 31). But I argue that our apparent syntactitude is due not to an imperfection in our rationality but to an imperfection in our practical application of it. There simply is not time enough or world enough. If only! Nussbaum implores us to follow Alcibiades and his example of love (Fragility 6, esp. 198). Alcibiades is aware that we can learn some particular truths only through passion, she claims. That is, we must learn them “by living in their particularity” (185–186). Because we cannot experience overtly everything that we ought, we may rely on literature for an apparently covert experience of particular passions (186). If we are to do so, we may not, however, take even the first step on the ladder of loves (190). Love of this passionate sort can only happen once with an individual “like no one else in the world.” Socrates, for example, Alcibiades praises not so much for his virtues as for his uniqueness (187–188, 190–191). But Alcibiades does praise Socrates for his virtues, especially for his amazing temperance under an embarrassingly ardent siege (Symposium 216d–219e). And Nussbaum herself concedes that literary stories about a particular love must have a general content (Fragility 6. n. 38). She allows further that our love is guided by a general theory, though somehow not subservient to it (190–191). But if our love has a general content and is supposedly guided by it, do we not have a love that expresses a universal within a particular, albeit only proximately through change? Aristotle would say that we are only accidentally restrained, and that we are essentially unrestrained. He explains that we do follow a principle, but we do not follow a true principle (Ethics 7. 9. 1151a29–1151b4).

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unrestraint.56 With his stratagems we can see how clever Alcibiades was in his attempt to gratify his desire. He arranges matters at home so that he will be alone with Socrates after dinner, for example (Symposium 217d–e). So, too, the Americans with their methodology devise experimental stratagems for better getting whatever they might happen to desire. We thus find ourselves in an unfortunate moral plight that appears inescapable. We are immoral through our hubris. Our morality turns on our happiness, but our happiness is not quite within our grasp. What concept of happiness ought we to act under? We most assuredly can act only under a concept that is false. Hence, we can never act in a manner perfectly consonant with our nature. We may act only under a concept that appears most compatible at the moment. But neither ought we to imagine that our reason exhibits perfect control over our passions. Our will remains fallible, even if we knew what to do, and we do not. We are subject not only to psychological passions with their pains and pleasures but also to physiological fatigue and physical infirmity. We might recall our human daimon. We see that our amorous spirit can take for its object our happiness, and that our happiness in general is an organic interaction of the powers within our soul. Our felicitous activities constitute our highest good because we are most ourselves in them. Or we can be if we act in accordance with an opinion deemed most true. But the specific activities that can constitute our happiness are unchangingly changing. Our activities are variable objects. We need, therefore, to adjust continually our endeavors as best as we humbly can to the variations in ourselves and our circumstances. We must, then, strive to be more circumspect than our dear, queer Alcibiades. We must take care not to allow ourselves to become misologists. Admittedly, we cannot devote to philosophy every waking moment from infancy to senility. But we can be slow to run away from an argument as if from a Siren song (Symposium 216a). Even if the argument is inimical to our own. Or, perhaps, especially if it is.57 56

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To borrow a distinction from Anscombe (144–148). A position of this sort I also take Gorgias and Callicles to advocate as well as David Hume and William James and even Bernard Williams. One might compare Phaedo 89c–91d.

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4 Moral Freedoms

1. Have you ever wondered how really and truly free we are? Perhaps I should ask who has not. I first pondered the question with some classmates in grade school. The conundrum then was, Could 10,000 monkeys poking away at 10,000 typewriters eventually produce The Complete Works of Shakespeare? The question appears even more acute today with the advent of electronic computers. The odds on the side of the monkeys would seem greater than ever. We might thus catch ourselves still pondering the question at odd moments of metaphysical malaise. Could the monks actually do it? Or could the computers do it for them? We Americans feel so strongly that the human spirit must be free that the question might seem all but moot for us. Our attitude may not be entirely atypical of those who inhabit the contemporary world. We have enshrined liberty in our political constitutions, and we continue to advocate new liberties for various and sundry groups within our society. Liberation movements take up the cause of any individuals thought to be unfairly fettered in any imagined manner. The word “liberty” is the byword of the day for liberals and libertarians alike. Yet when I look around, I cannot but wonder, Is our spirit truly so free? Who could fail to notice so many lives that appear neither to express human dignity nor to enjoy its fruits? I see people occupied with drudgery in office buildings and factories during the workweek, and during the weekend they permit mere frivolities to fill up their time. Are lives such as these worthy of human beings? I have my doubts, and you may, too. But, alas, I find myself obliged to argue that the human spirit can never enjoy a single breath of true freedom, neither in principle nor in practice. Why not? Because we are merely human and we are permitted to aspire to a freedom that cannot be at all absolute but can be at best only relative. My argument shall be, paradoxically perhaps, that we would appear to have what philosophers frequently call metaphysical or ontological freedom, but that we also lack what I shall call epistemological freedom. 114

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We can act as if we possess something not unlike liberty of indifference (liberum arbitrium). Our practical intellect apparently is the efficient cause of our actions, and this cause is apparently a sufficient one. Our will gives every appearance of being free, in a word. Yet I shall not be able to prove in an incontestable manner that we are free. We must retain a tincture of skepticism about our will and its nature as we do about any and all matters of fact. We may, if we so choose, act on a moral hypothesis as if we were free. But we can never prove with any certainty that we are in actual fact free. Though we might possess a free will, we cannot possess anything quite like liberty of spontaneity (liberum spontaneum). We shall never be free from an inexorable self-ignorance and its inevitable internal constraints, try though we may. We simply cannot muster knowledge sufficient to give us a selfawareness that could begin to approximate truth in any absolute sense. Our practical intellect proves too feeble for self-knowledge of this exalted kind, and its proper object too fickle. What is also at stake, we shall soon see, is our happiness. No one can possibly be happy without freedom, but even with freedom no one can be entirely happy, either. Freedom, even freedom of will, is not enough. Yet we can do better than those poor drudges who fritter away their soul-forsaken substance. What is required of us is as good a knowledge as we can possibly muster of who we are and of where and when we are. We can have some hope of approaching, at least, freedom and happiness of a sublime sort with proximate truths of these rather mundane sorts. We shall see, too, that our happiness, if we make bold to think of it as a rational teleology, encompasses some profundities that we have yet to plumb fully. Many philosophers have taken occasional notice of various consequences of this teleology, but precious few have espied the ultimate source of these consequences in the teleology itself. Indeed, human happiness, viewed as a rational, yet ephemeral, teleology, provides us with a groundwork not only for our freedoms but also for our obligations. 2. “Reason is,” David Hume declares, “and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them” (Treatise 2. 3. 414–415). This famous declaration has, ever since Hume enunciated it, become a rallying cry for English-speaking philosophers, both British and American. More recently, sociobiologists and cognitive scientists have boasted new evidence taken from the physical and biological sciences for buttressing similar claims. This proclamation rather obviously concerns a general hypothesis that we may use to construct our identity as an agent. Shall we assume that our practical intellect alone can be the efficient cause of our action? Or ought we to concede that our passions are the sole efficient causes? May we act in a manner free from our emotion, in other words? Or must we rely on emotion for our motivation?

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But the proclamation less obviously challenges any theory of eudaimonic ethics or even a theory of daimonic ethics. It entails a question of some significance for human happiness. How happy could we be if our mind were enslaved? If we act out of passion, could we act for the sake of our action itself? Could our passion, in other words, take as its end our very action? I suspect, rather, that we would act for the sake of our passion and its satisfaction, and that our action would serve as a mere means for securing said satisfaction. Hume himself so argues, in fact. Hume’s declaration thus threatens any enterprise that might aspire to combine the pragmatic method with ends hypothesized to be eudaimonic. The American philosophers would in fact appear to ally themselves with his pronouncement and to argue that we ought to use the experimental method to seek the gratification of desire. One might wonder, then, Could the method possibly serve to define and to refine human action as an end in itself? Or, more to the point, could we possibly enlist the pragmatic method in our pursuit of happiness? But let us tarry no longer. We might do well to reconnoiter Hume’s position more closely before attempting an evaluation. Let us begin by asking, What concept of our will does Hume have to offer? Hume himself concedes that his proposition about reason is “somewhat extraordinary” (Treatise 2. 3. 414–415). Nevertheless, he does not hesitate to embrace the proposition and its equally extraordinary consequences. That we can have no liberty of indifference he argues quite explicitly. That is, we do not have any freedom to choose our actions. But liberty of spontaneity we can enjoy, he claims. Liberty of this kind turns out to be freedom from external constraint. Hume, in fact, defines the will in a way that reflects the notion that our intellect is not an efficient cause of action. Our will is rather an affect in our minds. The will, he asserts, is “the internal impression which we feel and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new motion of our body, or new perception of our mind” (Treatise 2. 3. 399, his italics). I take this “internal impression” to be a secondary, reflective impression or, simply put, a passion, which gives rise to a motion and arises from a perception (Treatise 2. 1. 275). Our reason, he continues explicitly, can neither initiate an action nor inhibit one. Demonstrative reason obviously cannot influence our actions. Reasoning of this variety concerns only “the world of ideas,” but we exist in the world “of realities,” he argues (Treatise 2. 3. 413–414). He is obviously making use of his well-known division of human reason and its objects into relations of ideas and matters of fact (see Understanding 4. 1. 25–26). But probabilistic reason, as he denominates the alternative, does not fare much better. Reason of this kind concerns matters of fact, but it can only direct our action by associating a desired object with its causes and its effects. If we were indifferent to it, an object would have causes and effects

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that would not concern us, he argues. He thus contends that a passion only and its accompanying pleasure or pain can cause us to seek or to avoid a particular object. But he recognizes that pleasure or pain we feel not only for an object but also for its antecedents and consequents (Treatise 2. 3. 414). If reason is not, passion must, then, be the cause of our action. We only think that reason must be the cause, Hume explains, because we confuse this faculty and its activity with our calm passions and their activities. These passions affect the mind only a little, and we know them mainly through their effects, presumably external. We also tend to confuse a rational will with calm passions because they can at times prevail over our violent passions (Treatise 2. 3. 417–418).1 When he discusses liberty, Hume argues accordingly that liberty of indifference is an illusion. We may think that we enjoy liberty of this variety, he admits. But we so think, he tells us, only because of what philosophers call velleties, which he defines as images or faint motions of actions not undertaken. We may think that our will is subject to no cause because we imagine that we might have acted on one or another faint image of this sort, though we did not. We thus fool ourselves into believing that we are free. But we in fact usually perform an action that issues from a customary desire. We make inferences that have “a certain looseness” because of our velleties, Hume admits. We frequently imagine that we might have acted under this image or that one. But any observer who is at all acquainted with our character knows very well what we are about to do. Our acquaintance rests his opinion about our action on more rigorous inferences arising from experience. He can infer from our character, motive, and circumstances what our action will be (Understanding 8. 1. 94. n.1; Treatise 2. 3. 408–409). These more rigorous inferences Hume finds a sufficient basis for arguing that human actions are necessary. But this necessity, though perhaps at first startling, is for him merely a subjective one. An observer may find a “constant conjunction” between our natural or acquired character and our past actions. He may accordingly make a “consequent inference” from our character to our future actions. The necessity thus lies merely in reflection about our actions and not in their performance (Understanding 8. 1. 83–86, 88–91; Treatise 2. 3. 399–401). Hume, then, leaves us with liberty of spontaneity. Freedom of this kind he defines simply as an absence of external constraint. It belongs to all who are “not a prisoner or in chains.” More precisely, liberty of this sort is “a power of acting or not acting, according to the determinations of the will ” (Understanding 8. 1. 95, his italics). But the determinations of our will are, as we have 1

I would not deny that the interplay between reason and passion for Hume can be quite complex. Baier eloquently reminds us of this fact (Progress 7. 157–164, e.g.). Indeed, her entire book is a veritable paean to Hume’s concept of reason impassioned.

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seen, the determinations of passion, albeit modified by reason with its considerations of cause and effect.2 Hume thus argues that human reason can have no freedom, except from physical constraint. Neither demonstrative nor probabilistic reason can be a cause of our action. Only a passion, which is a secondary impression, can give rise to action. A passion is our response to a primary impression or, simply put, a perception. In a word, instinct alone is the source of our activity. But now we have some grounds for fearing that the American pragmatists might not defend any freedom for our will, either. These philosophers obviously do accept the Humeian subordination of reason to passion. Though he does not cite it, William James, our paradigmatic pragmatist, clearly abides by Hume’s proclamation that reason is a mere slave of our passions and has no other end than to serve them. James advocates, as you may be aware, the reflex theory of human action. He argues that human action is merely “re-action.” That is, all our actions are discharges of the nervous system, and these nervous discharges are the result of external impressions. “The current of life,” he asserts, “which runs in at our eyes or ears is meant to run out at our hands, feet, or lips. The only use of thoughts . . . is to determine its direction to whichever of these organs shall . . . act in the way most propitious to our welfare” (Will 4. 113–114). He would frequently remind us that even our theories have no other end than our subjective satisfactions. He goes so far as to assert that we may throw over any concept of nature, or at least doubt it, if it clashes with our subjective demands (Will 5. 146–148). Do not forget that our mind is for James teleological. Its function is to fulfill ends, but its ends our passions alone determine. Our mind is merely a part of a reflex arc (Will 4. 117–120).3 James is thus unable to argue that we have an intellect that is free. Our intellect cannot be a cause of action if our thoughts arise at the instigation of passion for the sake of its satisfaction. Yet James would, oddly enough, appear to leave room in his pragmatism for some liberty of indifference. He argues not that human action is determinate, as Hume in effect does, but that our action is indeterminate. He cheerfully admits that he cannot prove that we have freedom of the will, but he does try to persuade us that we may assume that we are free and act as if we were (Will 5. 145–146). How can he so argue? James finds the term “freedom” too eulogistic for his philosophical purposes, and he suggests that we ought instead to use the 2

3

Strawson, of course, presents us with a contemporary version of Hume’s position (Watson 5.). Roth fails to attach enough importance to the reflex arc. He believes that choice must have “the fundamental role” for James. Our existence, he argues, has meaning that “grows and develops with our freedom” (Freedom 7. 109–111). With his interpretation he gives priority to the thesis that we are creatures “who choose and create and who consciously seek meaning for their existence.” He even goes so far as to attribute to James an existential norm: “Act so as to maximize freedom and unity” (111–115, his italics).

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term “chance” (148–149). This term, he observes, has a “singular negativity” signifying that we can exert no control over some thing (179–180). Chance thus defined has two distinct facets. It means not only that a thing is not conditioned by another thing, but also that it may turn out otherwise. If it has a chance quality, a thing has something of its very own, preposterous or pedestrian, not yet in evidence (Will 5. 153–154). This definition may give pause to readers familiar with Hume. What James appears to argue is that our inferences about things resemble not those which Hume calls philosophical understanding but those which he calls common understanding. Hume takes pains to show that a particular inference about an action may fail, but that the causal relation itself cannot fail. Where one cause might seem to fail, another cause is sure to be secretly at work. Things have an “absolute fate,” he decrees (Treatise 2. 3. 399–400). Only a peasant would believe that a cause could falter in its operations (Understanding 8. 1. 86–88; Treatise 2. 3. 403–404). James is more accepting of the British peasantry and the common view of causality, I am afraid. With characteristic open-mindedness, he is willing to accept the possibility that one cause at least may be indeterminate. This indomitable cause is none other than ourselves! His hypothesis about chance is nothing less than a metaphysical claim, in other words (Will 4. 158–159). He agrees with Hume that events may turn out other than we anticipate, and with Hume he attributes their wiliness to chance. But Hume finds chance to be an epistemological phenomenon. Chance, he argues, indicates merely our ignorance of a cause that is actually there, though this ignorance operates in our thought as if there were no cause (Understanding 4. 2. 56). James argues that chance indicates our knowledge of a cause that is actually there! But we cannot know what this cause is until it begins to operate. Chance is for him an ontological phenomenon. The term, he explains, has a positive denotation and a negative connotation. That is, it indicates an existent property in a thing, but its property is not conditioned by any other thing. Only the thing alone is able to reveal to us what it might be (Will 5. 153, n. 1).4 Our inferences, then, about our own actions and the actions of others are not, strictly speaking, necessary. At least, we cannot know that our or their actions are necessary. James implicitly addresses Hume’s argument about 4

Nagel is a contemporary philosopher who would appear to recognize these two aspects of a chance cause. At least, with regard to ourselves he does. He argues that our external view of ourselves is incomplete, and that we have an internal blind spot from which we act. Though we must guard against untoward impulses, we may be rather tolerant of a play of various inclinations issuing from our blind spot (View 7. 127–134). He thinks of this position as merely a reconciliation between an objective and a subjective view, and he thinks it a reconciliation that can only reduce our contemplative detachment from ourselves. It is, he tells us, “not a solution to the problem of our free agency but merely a substitute” for one (126–127).

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reflection. He argues that we cannot decide the matter “outwardly.” On my way home I may walk up University Avenue or Woodlawn Avenue. But no observer can tell if my route, whichever it might be, I selected by necessity or by chance. Either explanation is as plausible as the other (Will 5. 155–156). We can know the character, passions, and situation of another, and yet we cannot tell what the other will do, James is arguing. We may find that this other with whom we are so well acquainted acts in a manner not at all anticipated. We live in a world, he rightly observes, that is indistinguishable from one in which your choices are for me chance events (157–158). One might wonder, then, Is chance, ontologically defined, sufficient to yield rational freedom of the will, ontologically defined? It is not, I am obliged to report. According to James, at least, our reason does not possess freedom; only our passions are free. Our mind remains a teleological entity, but its ends our emotions determine. They do so even though they are themselves indeterminate. Otherwise, we would exhibit no reflex arc. Because we are creatures of chance, our passional freedom bears some similarity to liberty of indifference, however. No one motive, exclusive of others, impinges itself upon us. Several motives make themselves felt, and they all arise from the actual past and lead to possible futures (Will 5. 156– 157). When we act, we thus have different options from which to choose. We decide among alternative actions by “granting consent to one possibility and withholding it from another” (157–158). In a word, our volitions are indeterminate (158–159). Of course, we do retain our liberty of spontaneity. Chance, as James defines it, means not only something with a nature of its own but also something unhindered by other things. We remain free from external constraint. One might say that James is a Humeian who advocates an indeterminate, not a determinate, liberty of spontaneity. That is why he can argue that the inferences that we make about our conduct are of the more common, loose variety that Hume rejects. We see, then, that James and Hume forgo a rational liberty of indifference in favor of a passional liberty of indifference and spontaneity or of mere spontaneity alone. Our mind is enslaved, according to their theories. In more contemporary terms, our practical intellect has no freedom, positive or negative. It has no agenda of its own because it can originate no action. What agenda it has, our passion sets for it by foisting ends upon it. We might note that our passion for James would thus appear to enjoy a freedom both positive and negative. Our passion is the sole source of our action, and it initiates action without interference from causes external to it. It thus pursues a proper object of its own. James, one might even say, advocates a teleology of passion. Indeed, he does so say.5 5

Some philosophers, of course, argue that passion can give us no freedom precisely because it is a cause alien to us. Immanuel Kant does, for example.

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But our question remains: Need we sacrifice our rational freedom to secure a role for an experimental methodology in moral matters? Put more positively, could we combine a rational liberty of indifference with the experimental method in the pursuit of happiness? Both Hume and James employ the experimental method, albeit differently, but they both reject any human liberty of this sort. Need we follow their example?6 3. “Is knowledge,” asks Socrates, “a beautiful thing and able to rule a human being?” Or ought we “to think about knowledge as we do about a slave taken in war, a thing to be pushed around by anyone” (Protagoras 352b–c)? Protagoras, to whom Socrates addresses these questions, readily responds that he would feel ashamed “to proclaim wisdom and knowledge to be anything but the most masterful of things human” (352c–d). From him who finds things human to be the measure of all things this statement is no mean praise! Socrates and Protagoras thus anticipate and challenge the position that Hume and James take, millennia later, regarding the efficient cause of our actions. With their agreement they would suggest that our reason is and ought only to be the master of our passions. If so, our intellect by implication might well have a liberty proper to itself alone. This faculty might be free to initiate actions for an end of its own and free from the untoward influences of passion. We may, then, wish to ask, Do Socrates and Protagoras successfully defend the position that reason can command the passions? If they do, we might also ask, Can we use their arguments or similar arguments against Hume and James? This strategy appears to hold some promise. Socrates does present the key propositions needed to show that reason enjoys a liberty proper to itself, though he himself does not draw this conclusion. But his argument is less than incontestable. He would seem, incredibly, to undermine the very position that he appears to defend. What is this unsure argument? Socrates takes a stand against the assertion that human knowledge can be bettered by pleasure. This assertion he attributes to characters somewhat less genteel than either Hume or James. They are the proverbial many. The many tell us, he states, that those who know better (

) do other things (

) under the influence of pleasure ( ) (Protagoras 352d–e). Contemporary philosophers would say that these characters exhibit unrestraint. To refute the many, he shows that pleasure cannot put down our knowledge but that pleasure can overcome only our ignorance. These propositions 6

Myers also expresses his doubts. James, he remarks, overlooks the fact that we can be “receptive to the voice of reason, whether in ourselves or in others, even if that voice offends a temperamental sensitivity.” Our rationality, he argues, can have the force that James would reserve for mere temperament (James 13. 393).

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Socrates defends with an art of measurement ( ). This art measures present pleasures and pains against future pains and pleasures (356d–357b). One ought to weigh our pleasures and pains as if upon a scale, he argues. If, for example, we were to weigh pleasure against pain, we ought to choose actions in which pleasure outweighs pain and to avoid actions in which pleasure is outweighed by pain. But if we weigh pleasure against pleasure, we ought to seek the more or the most pleasant. Or if pain against pain, the less and the least painful (355b–356c). Without an art of this kind we could be bettered by pleasure only if we act in ignorance (!"#), he continues (357c–e). We would not know that an action pleasant in the present offers ultimately less pleasure or even pain, for example. Or we would not know that a painful action eventually entails less pain in the future or even pleasure. We might soon be led astray by specious enticements and do what we would discover, to our chagrin no doubt, to be undesirable for us. We may compare this art of measuring pleasures and pains to an art of measuring sights and sounds, he explains further. An art of either kind enables us to overcome the power of appearances. We may measure pleasurable and painful objects as we do objects seen or heard. As pleasures and pains seem larger when nearer or smaller when farther away, so do sights. Or as pleasures and pains appear more intense when closer and less intense when more distant, so do sounds (356c–e).7 Reason, on this argument, can thus provide an art for measuring our pleasures and pains against each other. But we can now discern a serious fault that underlies the argument. Would not an art of this hedonic sort rely on the assumption that our goodness and badness are nothing other than pleasure and pain? Yes, it would. Socrates himself so argues explicitly. Some things, though at the moment painful, can be good (!) if they result in health, say, which is pleasant. Or some things, though pleasant at the moment, can be bad () if they cause disease or poverty, which later occasions pain (353c–354e). We are thus caught in a quandary. To combat their instant gratification, Socrates seems to offer little more than a deferred gratification of our passions. He introduces an art of measuring pleasure and pain merely against each other. Perhaps human knowledge cannot be bettered by pleasure, but our knowledge on his account is merely knowledge of how to weigh pleasures against pleasures. Reason would not command passion after all. It could decide only among desires and their greater or lesser satisfactions. 7

Nagel recognizes a mensural art of a similar sort, which he calls “prudential rationality.” This rationality involves both an “objective tolerance” of our desires and an “objective integration” of them. We might thus endorse some desires, suppress some, revise some, or adopt some, he explains (View 7. 130–134).

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Its role would be to enable us to obtain the most satisfactory satisfactions, so to speak. Our philosophical sally against Hume and James is not progressing quite as smoothly as we might have hoped. Socrates and Protagoras develop an intellectual art for deciding moral matters, but their art appears to place reason in the thralldom of passion. An art of this kind would surely lend aid and comfort to our antagonists. Hume himself considers in even greater detail the effects of time as well as distance on our passions (Treatise 2. 3. 427–438). I cannot but wonder how seriously we ought to take this Socratic argument. Perhaps we ought to be wary. If we look more closely, we can see that Socrates drops a hint or two, even as he expounds it, that all might not be well with the argument. He explicitly points out that we might escape from its clutches if we were able to show that goodness somehow differs from pleasure and badness from pain (Protagoras 354e–355a)! And what the science or art of measurement itself might be, he actually promises to consider on another occasion (357b–c).8 Indeed, to take the position that goodness is pleasure and badness pain, you would surely agree, is decidedly unSocractic. Socrates could not very likely hold that our knowledge of pleasure is the measure of all things. He clearly argues with Phaedo in another dialogue that we can attain virtue ( $) only by exchanging knowledge for pleasures and pains. To exchange pleasures and pains for each other would not yield even a silhouette (%") of virtue (Phaedo 69a–c).9 Could Socrates be fighting Protagoras on his own ground? He very well could be. In their discussion Protagoras takes the stance that wisdom and the other virtues are distinct from one virtue that is not at all like them. This virtue, he argues, is courage (Protagoras 349a–d). But if distinct from wisdom, courage would have its goodness solely in pleasure or pain. Assuming no other practical faculties than reason or passion. But even courage of 8

9

Nussbaum cites this promise but does not attach sufficient importance to it. She argues that with his art of measurement Socrates offers an early attempt at moral science. A concept of pleasure serves him for this purpose because it is a single good present in all things of value. Socrates does not present his art merely to refute Protagoras, she accordingly contends, but rather to develop an art of deliberation, to establish the unity of virtue, and to deny the possibility of unrestraint (Fragility 4. 109–113). Irwin also takes Socrates to be in earnest. “Socrates,” he asserts, “does not offer hedonism as an alternative to eudaemonism, but as an account of the good that eudaemonism takes to be our ultimate end” (Ethics 6. 82–83). Irwin apparently does not think that a rational activity could itself be an end. He claims that for Socrates “pleasure seems to be an indubitably choice-worthy end” (Ethics 6. 87–88). And, clearly, he identifies Socrates’ position with Plato’s own. “We have found,” he tells us, “some reasons . . . for taking the hedonism in the Protagoras to express Plato’s considered view” (Ethics 6. 92)! Not to mention Republic 4. 419a–421c.

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this hedonic sort, Socrates is suggesting, would require a science or art of measuring pleasure and pain (357a–b). One might wonder, then, Could there be another art concerned with human goodness but based on knowledge of something other than mere pleasure and pain? Is there another art of measuring – more liberal, perhaps – than this slavish one? An art of this kind would apparently have to rest on a concept of our goodness that does not consist in our satisfactions and dissatisfactions. If not, we would remain burdened with a servile reason and its menial offices. To answer this question, we must take leave of Socrates and Protagoras and invite ourselves back into the company of Socrates and Gorgias. Let us listen this time to what Socrates has to say not to Gorgias but to his host, Callicles. One may surely say that neither the Platonic interlocutors nor the Greek philosophers generally regard freedom as a concept of central concern. But we find in Callicles an egregious exception. He takes a rather ardent interest in the concept. Happiness (& ") and virtue ( $), he declares, are nothing other than freedom ('(!"), intemperance ( "), and luxury ( (% . . . ). Or so they are with the support of arms (Gorgias 492c).10 Freedom for our sophist is apparently nothing other than to let our passions flourish unfettered. It is necessary, he explains, that he who lives rightly ( )!* +, ) let his appetites (

. . . '!(" ) be their greatest (- " .) and not restrain ( /) them. Through his prudence and courage (’ " 0 %,) he must serve ( 1) his appetites at their greatest and keep their cups, so to speak, filled to the brim (491e–492a). He in effect asserts that our freedom does not include any rational liberty of indifference. Whether we might possess a passional liberty of indifference, I cannot tell. But clearly we do possess a passional liberty of spontaneity. With our reason we ought not to restrain our passions but merely to serve them, enabling them to wax strong. We ought with our courage to defend our passions and to overcome any obstacles in the way of their satisfaction. Our passions we ought not only to serve but also to indulge with luxuries. Callicles even goes so far as to argue that to make our passions temperate would be tantamount to slavery! He cannot bring himself to acknowledge that reason might be able to control our passions and to enslave them. But he does allow that through shame (’ 23) we might subdue our passions and unduly inhibit them. We would thus permit conventional morality and its dictates, rather than our other passions and their insurgencies, to become our master (492a–b).11 10

11

One might wonder why Plato gives Callicles the honor of broaching this topic. Could he be insinuating that freedom is a moral principle less than admirable? The shade of the Platonic tyrant lurks in the background (see Republic 9. 571a–572b, e.g.).

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Socrates, then, faces in Callicles an antagonist not dissimilar to those known in more contemporary circles. Philosophical reflection throughout the intervening centuries has no doubt rounded off some rough edges. But in its essentials the stance is quite similar to the ones that Hume and James take. Hume himself defends our indulgence in luxury, though on different grounds (Morals 2. 2. 181, for example). James argues that our desire for luxury distinguishes us from brutes (Will 4. 131–132). Does Socrates have any success with Callicles in overturning this position? He surely does. He quickly forces Callicles to abandon the very same ground that supported the argument against Protagoras. Our goodness ( !,), Callicles concedes with great reluctance and not a little reticence, is not the same as pleasure ( $) (Gorgias 499b–d). But this proposition is the very contradictory of the assumption that was the foundation of the other argument. Socrates successfully employs three reductions to the absurd to undermine Callicles’s assumption about our goodness. His first reduction is simply to show that not all pleasures need be desirable. Callicles soon finds himself embarrassed at the implication that his stance would require him to accept as moral the life of a drag queen (4 * "+ " ), for example (494c–e). This brash sophist blushes at a practice that might not raise many eyebrows in our contemporary moral climate of sexual liberation so-called. But Socrates has other reductions that do not rely on so refined a sensibility. Goodness and badness must be distinct from mental pleasures and pains, he argues, because those who are good or bad feel pleasure and pain in a similar way. The wise or brave and the ignorant or cowardly do, for example. They both feel fear when an enemy attacks; and when an enemy retreats, both feel relief. Though the cowardly or ignorant, he concedes, may have feelings that run a little stronger (497d–499b). Goodness and badness must also be distinct from physical pleasures and pains. We cannot be at once both good and bad, he argues, any more than we can be both healthy and ill. But a physical pleasure and a pain we often do feel together. To drink gives us pleasure, even though we feel thirst, which is painful. Or we may feel hunger, which is painful, even when we are eating and enjoying its pleasure (495e–497d). Socrates thus shows that our goodness and badness are not at all the same as our pleasures and pains. But what pleasures are we to enjoy, then? Only those pleasures that are good! Socrates contends and Callicles concedes. And what pleasures might these be? These pleasures are those which are beneficial. But what pleasures might be beneficial? Beneficial pleasures are those which lead to what is good, they must obviously agree. Pleasures beneficial for the body, for example, produce health or strength (Gorgias 499d–500a). We need now to know what is good, if it is not pleasure. But to determine what good is, we must have recourse to an art, explains Socrates (Gorgias

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500a). Could this art possibly be an art of measuring? Yes, it could. Would this art be one of measuring pleasures and pains? Hardly, if goodness is not pleasure. What, then, might it be? This art is one of measuring pleasures and pains by means of a concept of happiness. It is, in other words, the art of rhetoric! It’s d´ej`a vu all over again, to quote a popular American philosopher! If practiced properly, Socrates argues, rhetoric enables us to take the measure of our very soul. An art ( ), you may recall, knows the nature (%3 ) of the object that it treats as well as the cause (2 ") of what it does. Socrates illustrates these requirements with his favorite example of an art concerned with our body. Medicine, he reminds us, is an art because it knows both the nature of our body and the cause of its treatment (500e–501a). Any rhetorician worthy of the name would impart the form of human happiness to our soul. He resembles an artisan, such as a housebuilder or a shipbuilder, who imparts a form (. ) to his product. A rhetorician in the best sense also knows a form that, presumably, defines our soul and her activities, and this form he engenders in us. But a form of this kind puts our soul in order (503d–504b). This order, in turn, entails the various virtues (504b–e, 506c–507c). The form gives us happiness (& "), in a word (507c). Socrates strongly implies, then, that our reason is the master of our passions. It grasps a form that enables it to distinguish good pleasures and pains from bad, and it apparently has the power to impose this form on our soul. He even implies that rhetoric, properly practiced, is, if not the master, the mistress ( ) of the other arts concerned with our soul (Gorgias 518a). In this respect rhetoric resembles both gymnastics and medicine, which are the mistresses, for example, of diet. Because they rely on knowledge, these two arts can determine which foods are good for our body and which are bad (517c–518a). Notice, too, that the rhetorical art appears to be a liberal art. At least, Socrates strongly suggests that a rhetorical routine is illiberal (3!) (518a). An art differs from a routine, you may recall, in that a routine merely serves our appetites. We may say that an ability of this sort measures merely our pleasures and pains against one another, may we not? But to place someone who practices a routine in charge of our soul, he argues, would be as if to put a pastry chef in charge of our body (518a–518c). We can now see that rhetoric is, or rather ought to be, an art of measurement. We can see, too, that this art uses its knowledge of human goodness, which is other than pleasure and pain, for measuring pleasure and pain. When an art, this discipline uses a concept of our nature and its functions to determine which pleasures and pains are desirable and which are not. A true rhetorician thus resembles a physician more than a pastry chef, to recur to the analogy. But can rhetoric enable us to be truly free? Can this art provide us with liberty of indifference? Apparently it can. But we now encounter the ancient

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philosophical reticence about freedom. Though he implies that it enables us to be free, Socrates does not explicitly link rhetoric with human liberty. He does, however, link rhetoric with power (3 ). Indeed, his very purpose for engaging Gorgias is to ask not only what rhetoric is but also what power rhetoric might have (Gorgias 447b–c, 456a).12 Unfortunately, Socrates quickly discovers that Gorgias cannot answer his original question about rhetorical power (Gorgias 459c–461b). But he is able to return to the question when Polus, who is a pupil of Gorgias, comes to the defense of his master (Gorgias 466a–b). He, in fact, reminds Callicles of his earlier discussion with Polus and its conclusion. To avoid doing or suffering wrong, we must not rely on mere wish alone but on some power or art, he recalls (Gorgias 509c–510a). An art of this kind is one enabling us to seek what is best (513d–514a). And an art of seeking what is best is the true art of rhetoric (515a–517a). How, then, do Socrates and Polus arrive at their conclusion about this art of seeking what is best? In their discussion they give express attention to rhetorical power and agency. They immediately focus on our knowledge and ignorance rather than on our pleasures and pains. Polus tries to argue that rhetoricians have great power because they can do whatever they might wish (5 3+ ). They resemble a tyrant, for example, who can, if he wishes, put anyone to death, appropriate their property, or exile them from their city (Gorgias 466b–c). But Socrates points out an ambiguity in the term “wish.” Rhetoricians can, he implies, act with understanding ( 6 ) and truly do what they wish ( 3). But, he asserts, they may act without understanding ( 6 7+) and do merely what might seem to them best (8 5 & 1 ,9: .). We can have great power, he argues, only if we act on our knowledge of what is good for us. Only thus do we do what we wish. If we do only what seems to us good, we may easily do something that is not good. We act in ignorance of our goodness (466c–e). Socrates does not have an opportunity in his discussion with Polus to define what our goodness is. He suggests only that a rhetorician who acts with understanding practices a rhetorical art (466e–467a). But we have seen that Socrates defines goodness for Callicles with a concept of our soul and her functions, and that a rhetorician who acts on a concept of our soul practices an art. We must concede that someone who is ignorant of his nature could conceivably do what is good. But this poor soul would act well only by accident. He might as easily do ill. Socrates thus appears to present a concept of liberty of indifference, though his concept remains implicit. He suggests that we can have power only if we do what we truly wish. But if we do what we truly wish, we act on our knowledge of what is good for us. We would appear, then, to require 12

Unfortunately, Lamb frequently translates “3 ” as “function” in the Loeb edition.

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a rational freedom to have the power to do what we know to be good. My assumption is that only our reason would give us the power to act on our knowledge. Our passion would give us a power to do merely what seems good. Incidentally, we see again that our knowledge of our goodness is the measure of our pleasures and pains, and that our pleasures and pains are not their own measure. Indeed, we ought, Socrates explains to Polus, to perform all actions for the sake of what we know to be good. These actions could include either those at the time pleasant or those painful at the time (Gorgias 467c–468c). Polus appears to defend merely an implicit concept of liberty of spontaneity. He asserts that we have power if we are able to do whatever we wish, presumably without hindrance. But he soon finds that this concept is untenable because he mistakenly identifies a wish with what seems good. He encounters an internal constraint, that is. He finds himself forced to concede that what seems good to us may turn out to be bad (Gorgias 466c–e). We can, he must admit, have no power worthy of the name without knowledge of our goodness (468d–e).13 Socrates, then, answers the very question that he put to Gorgias at the beginning of their discussion. Gorgias avers that rhetoric is the cause of our freedom and of our ability to rule over others (Gorgias 452d). We can now see that it is and why it is. Rhetoric, if an art, has the power to make us free and thus to enable us not merely to rule but to rule well. But we can also see that rhetoric can make us free only if we can act with knowledge of what is good, and not if we act out of ignorance. We must act on a true wish and not on what seems good. Gorgias trips up on this very point. He finds himself of two minds about whether a rhetorician needs to act with knowledge or not. He initially implies that a rhetorician might not know what justice is when he states that a rhetorician might use his art unjustly. That we ought not to use rhetoric unjustly he does caution. But neither ought we to blame the art if it is used unjustly. We ought rather to blame the practitioner for misusing it (456c– 457c). But eventually he must concede that a rhetorician needs to know what justice is if he is to practice rhetoric justly. If he does not know it, Gorgias admits, he would have to learn justice when he learns rhetoric (459c–460a). But any rhetorician who knows justice, he is also forced to admit, could practice rhetoric only justly. A rhetorician of this sort would wish only for justice, and he would do only what is just (460a–c). He would not do what seems good. 13

The contemporary critical theorists are to be commended for drawing our attention to uninformed rhetoric and its perverse practices. But their explanation for this phenomenon is obviously not the only one available to us.

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Gorgias, too, apparently inclines toward a liberty of mere spontaneity, though he ends with reservations about his concept. He does not elaborate his concept of freedom. But freedom of his sort would require of us only an ability to do whatever we might please without constraint. As do Hume and James, he suggests that we would need only to follow our emotions and pursue their pleasures or avoid their pains. He in fact implies that a rhetorician is not subject to external restraints but can subject others to them. He asserts that with rhetoric alone one cannot be bettered by any other artisan (459c). Indeed, he boasts that the rhetoric enables us to make slaves of the other artisans. The doctor, the lawyer, and the banker will all be working for us if we so desire. We need only produce persuasion in their minds (452e). The art of rhetoric, then, can provision us with a liberty both of indifference and of spontaneity. When we possess it, we have an ability to act in accordance with knowledge of our goodness. When we know what justice is, for example, we can perform actions that are just. But we also have freedom from constraint. We need have no fear that those who practice a rhetorical routine, for example, might constrain us. We may, indeed, very well be able to constrain them. But only with justice might we do so, of course. Those who practice the true rhetorical art can do what is good, but those who practice the false art most likely do what is bad. We may say, then, that a daimonic art can supplant a hedonic routine. Our reason is the master of our passions because it can use its hypothesis about the form of our soul to control them. With our hypothetical understanding of our nature we can direct our passions. We are free to pursue what we deem to be our happiness, and we are free from impulse. Socrates, of course, assumes that dialectic assimilates rhetoric and its function. He might thus appear to advance the supposedly ancient and venerable goal of absolute knowledge. But our knowledge, Socrates hastens to explain, is not at all absolute, as so may Platonists would have it. Mere mortals, such as ourselves, are not privy to knowledge of the divine variety. We must rest content with human knowledge, worth so very little, about our goodness. We may only hypothesize, in a word. But I would urge that we ought not to attempt to dialecticize our knowledge, least of all our practical knowledge. We ought to seek not dialectical hypotheses but rather rhetorical ones. We happen to be, as a matter of fact, not ideal entities but apparently physical ones. We may know ourselves not as perfect concepts but merely as imperfect percepts. Nor may we hope to embody a pure concept in our activity, try as we may. Our hope can only be to live up to a poor percept. So shoddy are our humble lives. Socrates suggests, we might say, that our reason has a liberty that resembles Jamesian indeterminate spontaneity. That is, we have an agency of our own, and our agency is not conditioned by another thing. But I would note that this Socratic indeterminacy is a rational one, not a passional one. Our

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reason is unconditioned. Least of all need our reason be conditioned by our passions. Even though our passions may also be unconditioned, as James suggests. We find ourselves possessed, then, of two teleologies. The one is rational, the other passional. But I am arguing that our rational teleology, though indeterminate, is not eternal but rather ephemeral. Only our hypothesis about our freedom will determine whether we live up to our dignity. We may enjoy our freedom only if we recognize in our feeble way that we might very well have it. We run the risk of betraying our human spirit if we fail to recognize this presumed dignity. I admit, however, that, if we have no freedom, our hypothesis would condemn us to live in delusion. Our lives would not conform to our nature. We do run the risk of inhabiting a fool’s paradise. I remain indifferent about the nature of our passional teleology. It may as well be indeterminate as determinate. But whatever it might be, it does remind us, sometimes importunately to be sure, of objects that may or may not be of practical significance for us. I thus find myself obliged to ask, Why may not our reason enjoy a spontaneity proper to itself if our passion allegedly can? Why may not “the incidental complications of our cerebral structure” occasion an ability to cause rational action for its own sake if our passion may seek an end of its own? James himself argues that we have cerebral complications that, for example, occasion a pure passion for classical music or philosophical consistency (Will 6. 185–189).14 Doubts may linger, I know. My argument, a reader might object, suggests that all our desires are intellectual if they arise out of reason alone. But are not some desires very obviously physical? Our practical desires especially would seem to originate not in reason but in passion. These desires would include, no doubt, those associated with physical needs. Indeed, are not many pleasures as well as pains associated with our body? This objection is a worthy one. Socrates himself addresses it in a dialogue with Philebus and Protarchus concerned in large part with pleasure. He in fact argues, against Protarchus, that our desires each and every one can be only mental. Why? Because only through our intellect can we be aware of an object of desire. We must grasp a desired object either by memory or, perhaps, perception because we do not yet possess it. If we possessed it, we would obviously have no desire for it. We can desire only what we do not have (Philebus 35b–d).

14

Dennett can only be the Zeno of human liberty. He approaches ever so closely but never quite reaches liberty of indifference. On his account we cannot quite reach an indeterminism of reason, but we must remain content with a determinism. He argues that we might think of our intellectual capacity not as a “genuine radium randomizer” but only as a “pseudo–random number generator.” But his genius is, nonetheless, that he can show how we could prove quite adaptable with only his pseudo-random response to our environment (Room 5. 3.).

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I now hear an echo of the Diotima’s conversation with Socrates. Actually, I hear two echoes. The first echo is that we desire only what we lack, even if we might lack it for the future only (see Symposium 199c–200e). The second echo is more faint, that we must have a concept or a percept of what we lack (203e–204b). If we have a concept or a percept, we would need to have a hypothesis, would we not? In what other way can we know except by a hypothesis? Or, rather, in what other way can we opine? Our spirit in its practical guise must form an opinion about an object of our desire. Otherwise, we could not strive to attain the desired object. Allow me to explain further. When we feel it for the very first time, we can have no desire to fulfill a new need. We can have no desire because we do not have a clue about what object might serve our burgeoning urge (Philebus 35a). This predicament occurs most obviously in infancy, though perhaps in adolescence, too. Only after our parents care for us when we are children can we have any thoughts about what might meet our needs. And only then can we have a desire for an object when our need recurs.15 This argument is one often repeated but nearly as often forgotten. The usual modern example offerred in its support is our desire for a drink of water.16 But this example I find rather weak because so very few of us can remember not having a desire for water. I propose to consider, instead, a sip of whisky. If you have tried it, you may well remember your first drink and its salubrious affects. If you have not, you still prove my point. You can have no desire for whisky because you have no idea of its smooth, smoky taste or of its powers to soothe our reason and our passions or of the painful aftermath of immoderate indulgence. Is our desire for distillates the work of appetite? I think not. Our libations, when properly conducted, have for their object an activity of the whole soul and nothing but the soul. Imbibing, like dining, can be a rational activity conducive to the harmonious functioning of our soul and its faculties. This activity we soon learn to appreciate for its own sake, though we may discover it through the promptings of appetite. It is also an activity conducive to other activities, such as dining or conversing or even philosophizing.17 15

16

17

Kant recognizes a similar distinction between interest (Interesse) and inclination (Neigung). The dependence of our will on a principle of reason is interest, but the dependence of our will on sensation occasioned by need is inclination. He agrees, incidentally, that interest, which is practical, concerns our action itself as an object; but that inclination, which is pathological, concerns an object of our action (Groundwork 2. 413 n.). For example, consider F. H. Bradley. Bradley especially draws our attention to the interplay between our concept of an object and our deficiency (Studies 7. 263–268). Dare one say of imbibing what Kant says of reasoning? The activity of drinking has its source in the human spirit and is spontaneous, though occasioned by external stimuli. James would appear to agree with this indelicate suggestion. He asserts that our enjoyment of intoxication has its origin in those “incidental complications to our cerebral structure” (Will 6. 185–187)!

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But can we really expect a concept to motivate us? one might wonder. A reader, especially a teetotaler, might suspect that we are merely rationalizing an acquired and less than desirable disposition. We might seem to be moved to action not by our thought itself of an object but rather by our thought of an object itself and its attendant pleasures. Passion would again rear its unsightly head, and the prospect of spiritual dissolution, if you will pardon the pun, looms large. Our Greek dialectician, no a stranger to the cup, addresses this question, too. Socrates divides pleasures and pains into two kinds. He would not deny us our physical pleasures and pains. We are often prompted to seek physical pleasure, especially by securing relief from physical pain. Physical pleasure arises from a natural harmony, of all things, and displeasure from natural disharmony (Philebus 31d–32b). If these conditions are strong enough to impinge upon our consciousness, that is (33d–34a). But our mind has pleasures and pains all its own, he argues. These mental affects attend our concepts. An expectation ( ,) of a natural harmony we entertain with pleasure, but an expectation of natural disharmony we find painful, he asserts (32b–c). Would we not, then, have a motive to choose an action in accordance with a concept of a natural harmony because this concept is attended with pleasure? Because of its attendant pain would we not be less apt to act in accordance with a concept of a disharmony? When we act to alleviate our pain, we can, I would argue, act on the pleasant concept of a comforting object, though occasioned by pain, for its own sake. We may embody this pleasant concept in our activity, and we may take our activity itself to be its own end. We can become happy, in a word. Nonetheless, we can, I admit, act on the concept of pleasure occasioned by an object and its ability to relieve our pain. We may take our activity as a means to securing a pleasant object. Action of this sort is akin to reflex action mitigated by thought.18 18

I thus agree with Bradley, who deserves more recognition than he has received for his work on this topic. He distinguishes between a pleasant thought and a thought of pleasure. Both thoughts may move us to perform an action. But the one is “an idea of an objective act or event, the contemplation of which is pleasant,” the other an “idea of myself as the subject of a feeling of satisfaction” (Studies 7. 258–259). A thought, as he puts the matter, may occasion pleasure, but this pleasure need not be included in its content (259). McDowell appears to think that we can act from appetite for the sake of an action in accordance with a concept. He clearly asserts that the major premises of a practical syllogism are orectic states (Reality 3. 65–67). We can take no external view of our action, he adds (71). But what kind of desire might this be? I would ask. This desire strikes me as an ad hoc moral desire. After all, it is an inclination to embody a concept in action for its own sake. The assumption is, of course, that we had best go through proper habituation to have this desire engendered and shaped in us (Reality 5. 99–101). That the desire is not a self-contained phenomenon he does assert (105–106). I would also wonder why he thinks that we may not take an external view of our action.

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A sagacious reader might recall Diotima and Socrates and their allegory of love. With their allegory they in effect suggest that our hypothetical knowledge of a form defines the object of our desire. In the allegory they recognize that Eros (; <+ ) is distinct from Aphrodite (=>% " ). This recognition would suggest that love is distinct from what we would call lust. Or one might say, more generally, that desire is distinct from deficiency. The allegory suggests further that our desire can make good our deficiency. Indeed, Eros serves Aphrodite because he is born of Resourcefulness (?, ) and Neediness (?"). What happened, they inform us, was that Resourcefulness was raped by Neediness after he passed out at a party that Zeus had thrown to celebrate the birth of Aphrodite. Love, consequently, is both resourceful and needy because he inherited these characteristics from his parents (Symposium 203b–c). Our desire would appear, accordingly, both to recognize the object of our need and yet to arise in response to our need (203c–e). You may also recall that love is a daimon, and a daimon is a spirit that serves as a messenger between immortals and mortals (202d–203a). He is neither wise nor ignorant but rather a creature of opinion (202e–204b again). He is a spirit whom one might plausibly identify with our hypothesis about a form. A form of this sort could well be a moral one concerned with our very happiness. If so, love would indeed be a desire, and he could be only mental. What, then, is human liberty? I conclude that our liberty would be the power to engage in a rational activity for its own sake, undertaking said activity with full knowledge of ourselves and our circumstances and without hindrance from any internal or external constraints. But we are not allotted full knowledge of ourselves or of anything else. Though we likely possess a free will, we can never, then, because of our ignorance, have any hope of becoming truly free. This internal constraint we cannot escape.19 We see, however, that we can approximate both liberty of indifference and liberty of spontaneity. Our intellect appears free to perform a function 19

Williams suggests that any ideal of a coincidence between our rationality and our freedom is delusive at best. He rightly recognizes that an ideal of this sort would imply a critique of our contingent selves. But he argues that this critique would in turn require that we possess a characterless self, separate from our empirical self, that can perform the critique for us (Shame 6. 158–159). I would argue, rather, that an ideal of a coincidence between rationality and freedom is at best elusive. But that we do not require a characterless self for a critique of ourselves. We need only a new self with a better hypothesis of who we are and of what we are about. This new self with its new hypothesis can criticize our old self and its obsolete hypothesis, and our new self is distinct from our old, though kindred, self in form if not in matter. But both new and old hypotheses with their associated selves ought best be empirical. But, then, Williams would deny us any positive freedom of a metaphysical variety, though he does grant negative freedom of this sort. He thus expresses a decided preference for a Humeian view (Shame 6. 151–152).

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hypothesized to be proper to it, and our intellect is more or less free from internal constraints, psychological and physiological, and, with any luck at all, from external constraints. We are thus capable of pursuing a rational activity for its own sake, and we can do so without the prompting of pleasure or the proddings of pain.20 To put the matter as succinctly as possible, I would assert that human freedom is the efficient causality of a rational teleology. A teleology of this kind rests on a hypothesis that is practical because it purports to concern our very nature. Our practical reason as an efficient cause can attempt to embody our hypothesis as a formal cause of our action. Our hypothesis can thus inform our efficient causality.21 What our choices are, accordingly, depends on what courses of action we believe open to us. But what courses of action we think open depends in turn on our cognitive powers and on powers of memory and imagination. With rhetorical examples we may thus formulate hypotheses about possible courses of action. We may formulate our hypotheses, in other words, with our histories, fables, and parables. 4. The ghost of Immanuel Kant, having posted itself beside me as if a silent sentinel, has from time to time been cautiously eyeing my computer monitor. The apparition now leans over and whispers in my ear, “Do not forget the distinction, my dear boy, obvious even to the most common understanding, between things as they might be in themselves (was sie an sich sein m¨ogen) and things as they affect us (als sie uns afficiren). Otherwise, you can have no freedom for your will” (see Groundwork 3. 450–451). Astonished as I am honored by its utterance, I find myself asking, What can Kant’s kindly spirit be trying to tell me? And in English, too! Kant would not likely object to the idea that our will has liberty of indifference. Liberty of this kind he calls positive freedom. He reminds us that a cause must work its effect in accordance with a law. And he argues that our reason is an efficient cause that can work in accordance with a moral law. To be free for us is to be a law unto ourselves or to be autonomous (Groundwork 3. 446–447). He in fact recognizes that we are free to choose between different courses of action. We can choose between those actions that accord with moral law 20

21

Though he offers a very sophisticated analysis, Dennett can ultimately espouse only a liberty of spontaneity. Liberty of this kind, he explains, is essentially freedom from environmental constraints. In his inimitable style he calls this liberty “elbowroom” (Room 3. 61–63). I could argue that liberty of indifference gives us elbowroom of an intellectual variety. With it we possess freedom from our passions and their constraints. Unfortunately, when she discusses free will, Foot only dismisses a transcendental ontology for it (Goodness 7. 104–105). I would like to think that, had she analyzed it, she would agree with me that we may have a freedom within an immanent ontology. Indeed, she must agree, I would think, if our goodness is a rational activity (see Goodness 5. 67–72).

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and actions that accord with natural law (Groundwork 3. 452). In other words, we can choose between actions that are rational or irrational. Our will is at a crossroads, he tells us with a metaphor (Groundwork 1. 399–400).22 Nor would Kant likely object to the idea that we have liberty of spontaneity. Liberty of this sort he calls negative freedom. Our reason, he asserts, has a causality that is independent of any alien causes (Groundwork 3. 446). These alien causes for him are our passions. Our passions, he explains, are external to our reason, and they occasion heteronomy (Groundwork 3. 457– 458; Groundwork 2. 441). Today we would be more likely to call passion an internal constraint, among which we might also include ignorance. We can see, then, that Kant advances a rational indeterminism not entirely dissimilar to that which I have been advocating. Our reason is free to initiate actions of various sorts, and it is free from causes external to it. He takes a position obviously opposed to any passionalism, either indeterminate or determinate. Our reason ought not to be the slave of our passions. Indeed, Kant uses a rather memorable expression to assert that reason itself has a moving force all its own. Our reason, he says, is the “primordial spring” (Ursprung) of action, both good and bad (Religion 1. 4. 39–40). So why is Kant’s ghost hovering over me in the half-light of this rather large cathode ray tube? I wonder if Kant might wish to challenge my contention that we have no absolute freedom? He very well might, I suppose. He implies that we do have absolute freedom because we are possessed of transcendental moral knowledge. Our freedom is a causality in accordance not merely with law but with law immutable and universal (Groundwork 3. 446–447). Indeed, because its content is law of a kind so splendid, our will is able to possesses an absolute goodness entirely its own (447). What is rational, then, is for Kant what is true once and for all, we might say. Otherwise, moral law would not be immutable or universal. We can thus see that freedom must belong to all rational beings and not merely to human beings (Groundwork 3. 447–448). What is irrational may be true, but it is true for only a single human being. An irrational precept is a natural law (446–447), and a natural law is a law of our passions (447–448). 22

Kant thus implies that positive freedom includes both an efficient cause and a formal cause of action, though he does not make this distinction explicit. Kant, indeed, has the purpose in the Groundwork of showing that practical reason does include an efficient cause of action as well as a formal cause (see Groundwork 2. 419–420 or 444–445). In other works he employs the terms Willk¨ur and Wille to mark the distinction. Willk¨ur refers to the efficient cause and Wille to the formal (e.g., Religion 1. 1. 22–25, e.g., or 1. 2. 31–32). We might note that positive freedom also includes a final cause. If, briefly, we act for the sake of a formal cause, we make the formal cause of our action identical to our final cause. Kant does argue that we can act for the sake of a formal cause, which we ought to embody in the maxims of our action. This cause for him is lawfulness itself. Yet he does not appear to make the distinction between formal and final causes entirely explicit within his concept of Wille.

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But our passions, he assumes, need not be the same for us all (Groundwork 2. 413). I am arguing in favor of immanent moral knowledge. Our moral law, if we wish to call our precepts law, is mere hypothesis and nothing more. We can have no absolute hypothetical knowledge, and our hypothetical knowledge may be more rational or less so. How rational it is depends upon how well we reflect on the concepts and percepts within our humble experience. A moral hypothesis is not even knowledge strictly speaking but only opinion. Nor is a hypothesis of this kind universal or immutable. It is an empirical generalization taken to be about matters of fact. Human freedom, accordingly, cannot be absolute but only relative. Our freedom is relative to our moral hypothesis and its presumed object. We can be more or less free as our hypothesis is more or less true. Nor is human goodness absolute. Our goodness is also relative to our moral hypothesis and its object. It depends on our ability to perceive what appears to be our nature and on our nature itself, and we each appear to have different natural powers and talents, and our talents and powers change with time.23 We can, then, have many freedoms, both positive and negative. Our freedoms do hinge on our rational ability to initiate an action. But our freedoms do not hinge on our ability to follow a universal law. They turn rather on our ability to follow different general laws, if we may so speak, of happiness. These different precepts of happiness rest in their turn on our awareness of the various rational activities with which we can produce and perfect a psychological order and organization within our soul. They depend, that is, on our percepts of what our functions might be in various circumstances, internal as well as external. Yet we do agree with Kant that our reason is free in both a positive and a negative sense. What our positive freedom is, however, differs considerably from the Kantian variety. Freedom in this sense relies not on one universal concept of lawfulness but on our more or less general concepts of happiness. But our negative freedom remains decidedly Kantian. Freedom in this sense includes especially freedom from our passion.24 23

24

Citing Groundwork 3. 440, Hill rightly points out that our will for Kant is “a law unto itself (independently of every property belonging to the objects of volition).” I agree with him that our will “is not only negatively free but is committed to at least one principle acknowledged as rational to follow.” It is neither causally determined, nor does it prescribe a means to an end merely desired, nor does it rest on external authority, tradition, or convention (Dignity 6. 111). But I disagree with Hill and with Kant, too, that our will does not depend on contingent facts about our means and our ends (also 111). I humbly point out that our will does depend on facts of this less-than-comforting sort, but it does so without allowing our ends to be determined by desire in the sense of mere instinct. That rational freedom is free from desire, Williams expounds quite nicely. “Kant supposed,” he explains, that “I can stand back from my thoughts and experiences, and what otherwise would merely have been a cause becomes a consideration for me” (Ethics 4. 66, his italics). What

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But, still, why would Kant haunt me with his distinction between things as they might be in themselves and things as they appear to us? Could this distinction somehow pertain to my less-than-absolute concept of freedom? I am afraid that it could. I am obliged to point out that we are caught in an eleutheric circle, so to speak, not unlike the Kantian circle. That is, we must concede that our freedom and our goodness mutually imply each other. Kant candidly confesses that freedom and moral law are reciprocal concepts. We assume ourselves to be free as an efficient cause so that we may be subject to moral law as a final cause, and we are subject to law as a final cause because we assume ourselves free as an efficient cause (Groundwork 3. 450). We, similarly, may not deny that freedom and happiness are reciprocal concepts. We assume ourselves to be free as an efficient cause so that we may be subject to happiness as a final cause, and we are subject to happiness as a final cause because we assume our freedom as an efficient cause. How, then, can we break out of this circle of efficient and final causality? One might think that we cannot. Kant can escape from its confines only by deploying the very distinction between things as they might be and things as they appear. This distinction, he argues, we obtain from observing that some concepts arise from within through our own activity, but some concepts arise from without through our passivity. That is, some concepts reach our consciousness immediately, but some reach consciousness mediately through our senses (450–451). We can accordingly regard ourselves, he continues, from two standpoints. With concepts that arise from within we may know ourselves as things in themselves. These concepts we would more appropriately call rational ideas. But we cannot know ourselves as things in themselves with concepts arising from without. These concepts enable us to know ourselves only as appearances (450–451, 457). They are, in other words, merely empirical ideas. With his distinction Kant can break out of the circle of reciprocal concepts. We do not beg the question of freedom if we are able to recognize the fact that we are free and subject to moral laws as an intelligible thing and yet subject to natural law and its causality as a sensible thing. As an intelligence we belong to the world of things in themselves, but as a sentience we belong to the world of appearances (452). The fact that we are an intelligence establishes freedom as a grounding for morality (453). This explanation Kant rests on the proposition that our reason possesses what he calls pure self-activity (reine Selbstth¨atigkeit). Our understanding possesses a self-activity (Selbstth¨atigkeit), but its activity produces concepts that might have been a cause, of our actions obviously, is a passion. But Williams argues that we cannot stand back from our passions in this way. Practical deliberation is “first-personal, radically so,” he claims, and it “involves an I that must be more intimately the I of my desires than this account allows” (66–67; also 68–69; his italics again).

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serve only to unite sensations. Our reason possesses a spontaneity so pure (eine so reine Spontaneit¨at) that its activity produces ideas (Ideen) allowing us to distinguish a world of intelligence from a world of sense (452). Among these ideas we find the moral law, of course (452–453). How well I remember my shock when a professor of mine informed me that Kant thought us aware of one thing in itself ! This thing was, he said, our very self, and this very self was our spontaneity. In my youth I had greatly admired Kant for his skepticism, and perhaps in large part because of this admiration I had missed the point entirely. But I once more read yet again Kant’s moral philosophy in an attempt to refute this astonishing assertion. I found to my further astonishment that it is undeniably true (Groundwork 3. 453–454; also Practical 1. 1. 1. 46–50, 55–56; or Prolegomena 3. 344–345).25 Our Kantian ghost might well think that I would reject any self-activity of reason because I do not identify positive freedom with an a priori idea of moral law. I identify positive freedom only with an a posteriori moral 25

I hereby express my gratitude to William G. Swenson, Ph.D., whose courses in general humanities I audited at the University of Chicago. Contemporary philosophers, even avowed Kantians, are embarrassed by Kant’s metaphysical commitment. Hill, for example, asks us to take the idea of a noumenal self “less as a metaphysical account of what we are like than as a normative idea about the task, attitudes, and commitments of rational agents when deliberating about what to do” (Dignity 5. 84, his italics). We need not deny causal determinism nor even disbelieve it while deliberating, he contends. Kant’s point is “that we can act ‘only under the Idea of freedom’” (Dignity 5. 86, italics his, and 92–95; also 6. 116–120; 7. 134–138). Korsgaard agrees with Hill. She argues correctly that freedom is not a theoretical assumption for Kant, but she claims that freedom is only “a fundamental feature of the standpoint from which decisions are made.” Her point is, she explains, “not that you must believe that you are free, but that you must choose as if you were free.” And she offers an example from science fiction. Imagine that you have an electronic device implanted in your brain and that it controls your every move. Whatever you decide to do, the program determines what you decide and what you do. But in order “to do anything,” she claims, “you must simply ignore that fact that you are programmed, and decide what to do – just as if you were free” (Creating 6. 162–163, her italics). But O’Neill rightly points out that we do not prove ourselves free merely by viewing ourselves as free. “For all we know,” she states, “our inability to act or judge except under the Idea of freedom reflects some quirk or illusion of human nature and nothing fundamental about rational beings as such” (Constructions 3. 55). She argues, instead, that Kant takes the position that our autonomy as noumenal beings provides us with principles for self-discipline that serve both theoretical and practical reason (55–63). He argues, in other words, “not from reason to autonomy but from autonomy to reason” (57). Hudson, among others, attempts to make Kant out to be a contemporary compatibilist. To say that the causality of reason determines our actions, he argues, is for Kant “equivalent to a statement of the form ‘if I desire end x, I ought to do action y,’ and that one in fact desires x.” If I do y, I may adduce that my desire and my belief in this proposition are my “reason for doing y” (Compatibilism 2. 44). Obviously, Hudson forgets that the categorical imperative commands an action as an end in itself and not as a means to another end. He would thus identify the categorical imperative with the hypothetical, which, of course, commands an action as a means to a desired end (recall Groundwork 2. 414).

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generalization. I cannot, accordingly, argue that we know ourselves as things in themselves. But why can I not, nevertheless, hypothesize that our will is sheer self-activity?! To enjoy our freedom, we need to recognize our reason only as a cause that is unconditioned. We need not identify our spontaneity with a rational idea. May we not exhibit a spontaneity informed with acquired ideas? Indeed, we do!26 We, too, can view ourselves from two standpoints. But our standpoints differ from the Kantian. They are not those of an intelligible and a sensible world but rather those of a conceptual and a perceptual world. Both these conceptual and perceptual worlds exist within the world of human experience, I would remind you. Within our experience we can hypothesize concepts that define ourselves as agents and percepts that define ourselves as actions. After all, we can with our will impose our concepts on our percepts in what appears to be a physical world. In other words, we can apparently act. Actually, we have little choice but to be presumptuous with our hypothesis and to assume it to be true and to use it for action. With a hypothesis we find that we cannot but create an identity for ourselves, and with it we cannot but create a purpose for ourselves. Even though any hypothesis, so employed, will not fail to be false. If we were not presumptuous, we would have nothing to help us wend our way through this old world of ours. But we ought to acknowledge, cheerfully I hope, that we can never know with certainty even this most intimate fact about ourselves. We can know no thing in itself, not even our very own self! We also acknowledge that empirical knowledge can be more or less true, and that we ought to strive to attain knowledge that is more true. I would especially note that our hypothesis can rest on opinion that is either objective or subjective. But we ought to rely on external rather than internal impressions, or, if you prefer, on sensations rather than emotions.27 We thus make our escape from the eleutheric circle with recourse not to a world of things in themselves but merely to a world of things as they happen to affect us. To be an efficient cause, our reason need not utilize a rational idea, but it may make good use of empirical ideas. Indeed, our reason as possessed of self-activity would appear to be a most pliable cause. It may make its causality felt in many guises, both genuine and jejune. And so we may take on many practical identities, both true and false.

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McDowell is a contemporary who takes our self-activity seriously. He argues that “our lives . . . are shaped by spontaneity.” Our spontaneity, however, does not entail any “involvement in an extra-natural world of rational connections.” Spontaneity belongs, rather, “to our way of actualizing ourselves as animals” (World 4. 77–78, 85). With this proposition, taken as a hypothesis, I can heartily concur. Curiously, Kant would appear to think that our empirical knowledge of ourselves can rest only on internal sensations (see, e.g., Groundwork 3. 450–451).

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This curious circle of efficient and final causality arises, I think, because our reason itself is its own teleology. We are entities that can act from our reason for the sake of our reason. Our rationality is an indeterminate cause, in other words. It is a cause of an activity all its own, and its activity is its own end, whether we think of it as guiding itself with a rational idea or with an empirical idea. To recognize reason as self-activity is thus to cognize reason as a teleological entity. The concept of teleology brings to light another, perhaps more profound way of explaining our escape from the eleutheric circle. We may rely for our escape not on a difference in the ontological status of a cause but on a difference in the species of a cause. We still reject a distinction between transcendental and empirical causality. But we can deploy a distinction between a self-cause and an alien cause. Or, if you prefer, between a teleological cause and a mechanical cause.28 We may, nonetheless, agree with Kant that a moral imperative, though not transcendental, is a synthetic a priori proposition. Kant argues that a moral imperative is synthetic because it includes the concepts of the will both as intelligible and as sensibly affected (Groundwork 3. 454). And so we may argue that a moral imperative is synthetic in this way. But I am arguing that our concept of the will as intelligible is an empirical concept. This concept, too, we may apply in an a priori manner to our sensibility. What might I mean? Allow me to borrow a distinction, often neglected, from the ancient Greeks. Aristotle argues that some concepts are prior by nature (, : %3), and some concepts prior to us ( @ , ). Those concepts prior by nature, he states, are the most universal, but the most particular concepts are those prior to us. The more universal concepts are obviously further from sensation, the more particular nearer to sensation and its illusions (Posterior Analytics 1. 2. 71b33–72a5). He, of course, speaks of concepts that he takes to be universal and necessary. But we are speaking of concepts that are merely contingent and general. He speaks, in a word, of theoretical knowledge, but we of practical knowledge or opinion. That is, I do not take our empirical concepts to be those concerned with objects that cannot be other than they are. I take these acquired concepts to be merely those concerned with objects capable of being other than they are (see Posterior Analytics 1. 33). An a priori proposition, then, we need not define as a rational proposition. Nor is an a priori proposition universal or necessary. An a priori proposition, I would argue, is merely a proposition that is general and contingent. 28

My concept of an ephemeral teleology thus frees us from any noumenal commitments that so many contemporary philosophers, even Kantians, are reluctant to accept. Hill rightly observes that for Kant a being that is a member of the intelligible world is negatively free (Dignity 1. 33–34). I am suggesting that a being that is self-caused is negatively free. Do not forget that we are essentially a rational activity!

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But a proposition of this kind, because of its generality, is prior by nature, despite being hypothetical. A general proposition of this sort is still opposed to a particular proposition, which is prior to us. A particular proposition, of course, is an example from which we ought to draw our generalization and to which we may apply it. But all these propositions, whether prior by nature or prior to us, are a posteriori propositions in Kant’s sense. We derive our general concepts from and apply them to our percepts. I would aver, yet again, that these percepts ought to be external rather than internal impressions. That is, we ought to rest our general concepts on our sensations and not on our passions. We may thus agree with Kant that our reason is at once a faculty of spontaneity and a faculty affected by passion. But we must argue that our reason evinces its spontaneity not by employing a transcendental idea but by applying an idea merely empirical to direct our action. Even with empirical ideas reason is still powerful enough to overcome passion and its untoward influences. At least for the most part, it is. We now encounter a problem more daunting. How can we hope to overcome the conflict between moral law and natural law? an astute reader may be wondering. If our will is free, our actions cannot be an effect of another cause. Our will must itself be a cause solely by itself. But all natural events would seem to be effects of causes other than themselves and to be such without exception. And among natural events we include our actions, do we not? We come now face-to-face with the Kantian antinomy of practical reason, and its conflict between “the footpath of freedom” and the “road of natural necessity,” which is “more worn and serviceable.” This qualification is rather world-weary, I must say. But Kant is right that freedom of the will would surely seem to contradict natural necessity. If we are natural beings, how can our will possibly be undetermined and yet natural events all be determined (Groundwork 3. 455–456)? Kant offers a solution by now quite famous. We as things in themselves are free from the necessity of nature, but as things in appearance we are enmeshed in natural causality. We know ourselves as an intelligent being that is independent of sensible causes and effects and yet can act as a cause in the sensible world. We also know ourselves as a sensible being that is acted upon by causes in the sensible world (457). This position is tantamount to asserting that we are immutable beings above and beyond the mundane world, but that we can still have an effect on this world with its multifarious mutations. But we cannot avail ourselves of this distinction between things in themselves and things in appearance. I have denied us any knowledge of things as they might be among themselves. What are we to do? I must appeal to the Greeks for another distinction. Aristotle again proves helpful. I have in mind his concept of nature. Those things which exist by nature have

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within them, he argues, “a first principle and cause of motion and rest” ( 0 2 " 6 1! 0 A1) (Physics 2. 1. 192b21–23; also 192b12–14). He offers as examples of natural things animals, plants, and, more controversially, the elements (192b8–12). This concept of nature allows Aristotle to distinguish between a cause that is essential and one that is accidental. An essential cause is a first principle of motion and rest, and a cause of this kind is in accordance with what something itself is (!’ ,). But an accidental cause is in accordance with what something happens to be (

(, ) (Physics 2. 1. 192b21–23; also 2. 3. 195a32–195b3). We might say, in other words, that an internal principle of motion and rest is an essential cause but that an accidental cause is an external principle of motion and rest.29 Now, I wish to hypothesize that we have a nature. If you accept my hypothesis, you ought also to be willing to grant that we have an essential cause of motion and rest that is internal to us. But this nature that we possess, I further hypothesize, is our rationality. Our rationality, I would accordingly argue, is an internal cause of our action and non-action! We are hypothesizing animals, in other words, and we can, if we wish, put our hypotheses into action. Our reason can grasp hypothetical truths, and it can embody these tenuous truths in its dubious deeds. We can even create a rational desire with a truth of this sort!30 29 30

I shall have more to say on essential causality in Chapter 5. Chisholm would surely agree. He also recognizes a causation internal to us. He calls this causation immanent and distinguishes it from transeunt causation. But, oddly, Chisholm does not cite Aristotle’s concept of nature. He cites instead Physics 8. 5. (Watson 2. 28–29). Korsgaard argues rightly that for both Kant and Aristotle reason in human beings can be practical (Engstrom 7. 203). She nicely states that for both philosophers “we are capable of authentic mental activity, of an engagement with the world that goes beyond mere reaction.” She even goes so far as to assert that our reason for Aristotle can be, “in Kant’s special sense, spontaneous” (203–204)! Aristotle, she reminds us, holds that with our rationality we can conceive of an action as morally good, and that we can rationally choose to perform an action so conceived (214–215; also 216–217). But she fails to see that Aristotle would trace our rational causality back to a rational teleology that is our nature. Nor does she see that Kant could do the same. Nussbaum is thus correct to argue that Aristotle recognizes a generality underlying human motion and motion in other animals (Fragility 9. 265). But she fails to see that this general concept is ultimately Aristotle’s concept of nature. Citing the Psychology, she finds the generality in Aristotle’s concept of desire (B9 ). She reminds us that Aristotle divides desire into three kinds, which are wish ( 3 ), aggression (!(, ), and appetition ('!(") (273–276). But she overemphasizes the general concept of desire and does not distinguish desire specific to humans from desire proper to other animals. She forgets that wish for us is properly rational, though it can be irrational. That is, our wish can be for the good or the apparent good. The good is good absolutely (C* ) and in accordance with truth ( $!), but the apparent good we pursue for the sake of pleasure ( $), presumably taken in satisfying irrational desire (Ethics 3. 4. 1113a22–1113b2). Hence, Nussbaum also argues that Aristotle does not distinguish voluntary action in mature humans from voluntary action, if we may call it action, in immature humans and

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How does this concept of an essential cause resolve the practical antimony? Because we have an essential cause, we have an internal cause of our action that can exert its effect without dependence on an external cause! Indeed, we may act upon other objects with internal causes of their own, and we may even overpower and control them. But these other objects may on occasion overpower and control us if we are not careful. We might become unhinged by a terrible object, for example. We act in accordance with an essential cause, then, when we act out of our rationality. After all, we remain, by hypothesis at least, rational animals! But when we act out of passion, we allow ourselves to be subjugated by an accidental cause. Indeed, we can scarcely be said to act. We rather exhibit emotions and motions that follow from an alien cause, as Kant so frequently and so rightly asserts. Remember we are essentially our rationality. To act from an alien cause is to act from a cause alien to our reason.31 But I make no pretense of knowing our rationality as a thing in itself, I would reiterate. We can know nothing in itself by any ideas, whether rational or not. Any claim to know ourselves as an intelligible entity can be only a hypostasis and not a hypothesis about what we might perchance be. I must also concede that we cannot be immutable. We are and our freedom are

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nonhuman animals (Fragility 9. 282–283). But when he defines choice, Aristotle quite clearly implies that voluntary action in adults can be rational, but in children and animals it cannot. Why? Adults can choose their actions; children and animals cannot (Ethics 3. 2. 1111b4–10). Nussbaum attempts to counter that our choice rests on passion. Yet she concedes that passion does submit to “the practices of education and exhortation” because it has a “reasonableness” that enables it to respond “to parental injunction” (Fragility 9. 283–287). The practical antinomy usually appears in contemporary philosophy as a conflict between a moral life and a good life. The assumption is that morality is objective and takes others into account, and a good life is subjective and concerns our pursuit of pleasure. Nagel, for example, claims that moral considerations can cause us to make personal sacrifices. His solution is to argue that morality is not the whole but merely part of a good life (View 10. 197–200). Morality, in fact, has limits, and it has to be tolerant. The objective view must recognize that impersonal reasons “have to contend” with personal motives. It simply must take into account our “motivational complexity” (201–202). I am arguing that morality, which is happiness, can be consonant with our pleasure because the one entails the other. After all, our happiness does have value for itself and for its consequences. Within morality, however, we do find conflicts aplenty. Our political or social obligations and our familial or personal obligations frequently do come into conflict with one another. But how we ought to resolve these conflicts is not a question for theory. We can work them out only in actual situations, and these situations may vary considerably. Consider the social extremes, which Hume recalls, of the “poetical fiction of the golden age” or the “philosophical fiction of the state of nature” (Morals 3. 1. 188–190, his italics). These hypothetical extremes, he points out, do have their existent counterparts (183–188). Because she distinguishes our happiness and our goodness, Foot must also face a practical antinomy. But her solution would appear to be what Kant call a Stoic one (see Practical 1. 2. 111–112). Our happiness, she argues, is a delight taken in a consciousness of our virtue (Goodness 6. 82–85).

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subject not only to corruption but also to dissolution. I hope that my reader finds these infelicitous facts of life obvious enough.32 I accordingly prefer Kant’s theoretical solution to his antimony rather than his practical one. Among his cosmological ideas Kant includes the idea of freedom. This idea he takes to be a concept of a noumenal causality compatible with natural causality. We must view it as a property of a thing in itself, he explicitly informs us (Prolegomena 3. 343–345). But he cautions that we ought with our theoretical reason to take any idea, even this one presumably, only as regulative, not as constitutive. With reason of this kind we may use it only to understand appearances but not to venture beyond them (349–350). I would suggest that we, too, ought to view our freedom as a regulative idea. We cannot but hypothesize that we are free and that we have an identity. But we know very well that any hypothesis, even one concerned with our own identity and our activity, need not be really and truly true. We surely cannot know ourselves to be free, nor can we presume ourselves, except under a delusion of one sort or another, to have any identity more particular. We know no thing in itself. When we act, we do, however, regard this regulative idea of our freedom as if it were constitutive. By acting on a hypothesis, we might even be said to constitute an identity for ourselves. But we do appear to encounter limits. True, we have much leeway to perform actions and to construct a self of our own choosing. But we also appear on occasion to encounter a natural surd when we get too carried away with ourselves. At the very least, we experience stress and strain in a manner that can be rather disconcerting. I would remind you that our comparison with Kant concerns two rational teleologies. We may agree with Kant that our reason is the efficient and the final cause of our goodness. Our will acts of its own accord for the sake of its own action. But Kant finds that our will has a formal cause that is transcendental. I would argue that our will acts on a formal cause that is immanent. The distinction for Kant is between a transcendental cause of action and natural causes. For us it is simply between an essential cause of action and accidental causes. 32

Nagel despairs of a solution to the problem of human freedom. He wonderfully ponders how our agency could appear at once both inexplicable and explicable. He even recognizes that an explanation may rely on an internal or an external cause (View 7. 110–120). But he acknowledges only an internal cause that is not rational but passional. We, however, happen to be an internal rational cause or, if you prefer, a rational teleology, which is self-caused. I thus offer a phenomenal alternative to what Nagel calls the unintelligible intervention of a noumenal self (119). Nagel himself argues that we exhibit an a priori faculty of thought without having any innate knowledge of the natural world (View 5. 82–84). So I would ask, Why may we not also exercise an a priori faculty of action without innate knowledge of the moral world?

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That a rational teleology of this kind is mysterious I cannot deny. Kant himself admits as much (Prolegomena 3. 344–345). But the mystery is no greater than that of any other natural teleology. That I might move my fingers to poke away at this keyboard in defiance of the law of gravity is no more or less mysterious than that a cougar might use its bones and muscles and its teeth and claws for pouncing and slaying, but that the bones of its now-dead prey should lie idle upon the ground. Nor is it any more mysterious that an acorn might assimilate water and minerals and grow into a scrub oak, but that the minerals and water beyond its roots lie inert in the soil. Permit me one further point of significance. Kant argues that freedom is a postulate (Postulat) of practical reason (Practical 1. 1. 93–94; 1. 2. 132). That freedom is possible we can show with theoretical reason, Kant argues (Groundwork 3. 456–458). But how freedom is possible we cannot explain with reason of this kind. Our freedom could have an explanation only in another cause, but it obviously cannot be subject to another cause. We can offer only a defense of freedom, he explains. That is, we can refute those who claim to offer an insight into its nature. His assumption is that any supposed explanation of freedom would deny an intelligible cause behind a sensible one. An explanation would attempt to apply to freedom concepts taken from appearance (458–459). Freedom, he explains further, is a point of view that we must take with our practical reason. Only if we can view ourselves as an intelligible entity, he argues, can we have a rational faculty that is practical. Our reason can then be a cause of an action because it is not subject to any alien cause. In other words, if we were only a sensible entity, reason would fall under the influence of natural mechanism. But we would then not be free (458). Freedom thus presents a point of view that is both positive and negative, he reminds us. It is positive because reason is a causal agency with a content of its own. Its content is the principle that its maxims must have the universality of a law. It is negative because its causality does not receive a law from any other source. If it did, reason would be determined by passion (458). We can only agree that freedom is a postulate. But I would argue that our freedom is not a transcendental but a daimonic postulate, if you will. We can know our freedom only through a hypothesis about our happiness. Our hypothesis alone provides our freedom with a content not purely formal but yet formal. We are obliged to act as if we knew that we were free and as if we knew what we were about. But we know neither. We have no transcendental knowledge to tell us who we really are or what we truly ought to do. We can only make the best of our empirical knowledge about these moral matters. We can agree, too, that freedom can have no explanation. But I would again appeal to the Aristotelian concept of nature and the accompanying distinction between an internal and an external cause. A nature, because it is

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an internal cause, can have no explanation in an external cause. An essential cause, in other words, is its own explanation. It can have no explanation in an accidental cause. If it did, it could not be an internal cause, and it could not be a nature. It would have become quite literally perverse! Nor need we disagree that freedom is both positive and negative. Freedom is a causality with requirements of its own, and it does not receive stipulations from any other source. With a moral hypothesis we may formulate a course of action deemed worthy of our efforts. And, obviously, we may act on our hypothesis. Though empirical, our hypothesis, I remind you, can be a concept of a rational function. It need hardly be a concept of a function merely passional. I thus must deny that we have an immediate consciousness of any pure activity. But I would agree that we cannot know who we are in ourselves by external or internal sense. We are aware of reason as an intelligible entity and its internal causality by cognizing what it does under the hypothetical guise of what it does. That is to say, we do not know our will as a thing in itself. We can only infer a will without assuming any concept to constitute its ultimate essence. We are thus obliged to acknowledge, still with cheer I hope, that we can never reconnoiter the no man’s land of things as they really and truly are! We can never enter this no man’s land, let alone hope to know ourselves as an inhabitant of it. We can only infer that we are privileged to employ a hypothesis of our own free will, if we so choose, when we engage in an action. We can only conjecture that our hypothesis functions as an efficient cause and as a final cause for our action. Our postulate of freedom, then, functions as a transcendental postulate does, but our postulate does not rest on transcendental consciousness. Any postulated freedom can, I would argue, rest only on our everyday immanent consciousness. I thus offer only an empirical postulate of freedom. But is not a postulate of this ordinary kind sufficient for the likes of us mortals? Kant might well riposte that I am attempting to make the invisible intuitable. The common understanding, he tells us, often makes this mistake. This understanding easily recognizes Kant’s distinction between the intelligible and the sensible. It sees that something invisible behind visible objects acts of itself. But this understanding collapses the distinction between the intelligible and the sensible. And it imagines that the invisible is visible and attempts to make the invisible an object of sensation (Groundwork 3. 451– 452). We might thus seem to substitute for a transcendental (transzendental) point of view a point of view merely transcendent (transzendent). We would seem to apply to a thing in itself a concept taken from experience. But if we do this, we extend our empirical knowledge beyond its limits and pretend to know what cannot be known. We might thus seem to “lose ourselves among the yarns of our own brain” (462–463).

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Not so, I must reply. I am obliged to argue that from our point of view Kant offers a position that appears to have a transcendent tint to it. I cannot but point out that Kant would appear to take a transcendental moral idea and to make it constitutive of a transcendent subject. A transcendentism of this kind would thus be one that is intelligible rather than sensible. A transcendentism of this variety differs in the source of its ideas from the transcendentism that he attacks. The one finds its ideas in reflection, the other in perception (Groundwork 3. 450–451 again).33 I would argue further that our point of view is not transcendent. Yes, we postulate with Kant our freedom. Yes, we do rest our postulate on an empirical concept. But our postulate is nothing more than a hypothesis. We presume to know no matter of fact, not even our own freedom. All facts we take to be merely hypothetical, even the fact of our causality. We can never know a concept, internal or external, to be truly true. We only assume a concept true enough for the sake of action. That Kant offers a transcendentism, albeit of a pure sort, is perhaps most clear, I think, once we deny him any formal ideas of reason. I would argue that even our formal ideas we surely acquire from experience. And that we have no more justification for employing these ideas transcendently than we do for so employing other ideas. They apply to our will because we choose to conceive of it as a cause with a certain potential. Namely, a potential for action.34 My reader, if of a Kantian stripe, will no doubt take umbrage at any hint of transcendentism in Kant. But perhaps he or she would be more amenable to my point if I were to distinguish transcendentalisms of two varieties. These varieties would rest either on rational ideas or on empirical ideas. Kant advocates a transcendentalism of rational ideas, but I would favor a transcendentalism of empirical ideas. I postulate merely acquired concepts in the employment of our will. But I would urge that both a Kantian transcendentalism and an empirical transcendentalism be theoretical only. Even for practical reason a postulate of freedom cannot be a hypostasis but only a hypothesis. Kant thinks that life would be absurd if we were not subject to immutable laws (Groundwork 3. 446–447). And the old boy is quite right! Life is absurd! 33

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Kant, of course, argues that he takes the transcendental idea of freedom and gives it not a transcendent use but an immanent use. He distinguishes theoretical reason and its employment of this idea from practical reason and its employment. Theoretical reason can assume only the possibility of freedom, but practical reason can prove its objective reality. But he claims, I would note, that practical reason with its immanent use becomes an efficient cause within experience (Practical 1. 1. 1. 48, 48–50). My own position would thus resemble more the interpretations of Hill or Korsgaard than the theory of Kant himself. I agree with them that our moral precepts are not grounded in any awareness of a noumenal entity. But they would appear less than likely to agree with me that our precepts are our best hypotheses about our humanity.

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But it is only absolutely absurd! Only absolutely absurd?! Yes, relatively life does make, if not perfect, imperfect sense! That is, life is not absurd relative to its actual foundations, shifting though they may be. These foundations are not metaphysical in any highfalutin sense but metaphysical only in a common, everyday sense. They are not metaphysical in the contemporary, pejorative sense of eternal concepts but in the common, ordinary sense of temporal percepts. They are, once more, metaphysical merely as empirical matters of fact, to deploy again the felicitous phrase of the debonair David Hume. We might observe, then, that our rational activities appear to rest on a natural function, but that this natural function is not immutable but rather quite mutable. At least, in principle it is. We would appear to have no evidence of any change in these functions from the historical record, cantankerous colleagues notwithstanding. But the anthropological record does suggest otherwise. Not all our progenitors enjoyed rationality as we know it. Homo erectus apparently did not, for example, nor did Homo habilis, not to mention many others.35 5. A new courage we have discovered deep within us. I mean a courage of an epistemological and an ontological kind. Human freedom requires us to live our lives cloaked in pretense, we might say, and we cannot hope for more than to pretend. Pretense? Yes, of course! We can have only hypothetical knowledge about a hypothesized self. Our hypotheses, even moral ones, are merely human ideas that we formulate on the basis of our impressions. But our impressions are but flimsy stuff without any substance, except of our own imagining. We thus find ourselves obliged to grapple endlessly with an absurdity. We must embolden ourselves to accept the fact that we know neither who we are nor what we do. We can find no surety in any facts of the matter. What scant evidence the facts provide suggests little more than that we are contingent creatures enmeshed in contingent circumstances. We are obliged, therefore, to be courageous, to follow our hypotheses, and to accept our absurd lot in life. We must take care, then, not to deify ourselves because of our fearful plight. We cannot construct an impermeable redoubt for ourselves within our intellect and hope to escape from life and its assaults on our sensibilities. 35

Dennett puts the matter in evolutionary terms. Environmental stimulation is “a benign tendency of the selecting environment, over the evolutionary long run, to design creatures that have in themselves a benign tendency to make the right discriminations” (Room 3. 58–59). I would add only that these creatures can, if they are Homo sapiens, make the right discriminations through free will. Why may not evolution create within ourselves an intellectual teleology, which is self-maintaining?

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We may not hypostatize our hypotheses and presume an absolute knowledge of an absolute subject. If we were to do so, we would make of ourselves overbold creatures, indeed. We would become invincible moral agents doing battle with natural vicissitudes. Yet we ought not to capitulate to our emotions, despite the ofttimes gentle genteelness of those who do. We are obliged to stand firm in our defense of reason and its causality. At least, until we learn without a doubt that our position is untenable. To surrender our reason to our passion would be nothing less than to be cowardly and to condemn ourselves to an unsavory slavery of a moral sort. Our freedom, then, is to act on our rationality, such as it is, in the face of rash rationalism and timid emotivism. We postulate that our intellect is an internal cause of our action, and that we are free to do what we believe best and free from emotional enslavement. We do find that we have the power to engage in our action for its own sake in spite of any adversity, internal or external. But now an all-too-familiar doubt may begin to nag at us. We may still wonder, Are we really and truly free? If we cannot know for sure that we are, perhaps our actions, despite our nonhypostatized hypotheses, are, after all, mere machinations. I now hear in the distance the haunting sound of our monkeys tapping away at their typewriters. Could we all be monkeys poking away at typewriters or, perhaps nowadays, electronic computers? Whether or not the monkeys could accomplish their literary feat, we can now say, is beside the point. I confess that I am not an ethologist. But I have my doubts that any ethologist worthy of the name would be so daring as to advance the opinion that monkeys could ever understand Shakespeare. Could macaques comprehend Hamlet and his dilemma or Macbeth and his horror? Could they apprehend the temperateness of a summer’s day? One can understand Shakespeare only if one can divine what his characters have at stake in their lives. And one can divine what is at stake in their lives only if one can see what concepts they attempt to lead their lives by and what complications and tribulations these concepts entail for them. We must see that they have an ability to choose to embody a concept in their actions. Only then is one able to witness the tragedy or comedy that can unfold in any human life. And that Shakespeare understood so well and so well expressed! Besides, the monks could never do the job. Consider the letters of the Roman alphabet. How many are there? Twenty-six, I believe. Consider the plays and poems of Shakespeare. How many letters do they contain? An Incredibly Large Number, I would imagine. Now compute the odds of hitting upon this incredible sequence of letters by chance. The formula would be (26ILN – 1) to 1 against their success. These adverse odds would

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constitute nothing less than a Mindboggling Incredibly Large Number. Far too large for my pocket calculator, at least.36 To get some impression of how large a Mindboggling Incredibly Large Number might be, consider a much smaller challenge. If he had twenty-six hats, twenty-six vests, and twenty-six pairs of boots to wear while he was poking away at his typewriter, how many possible outfits could a monkey have? Obviously, 263 or 17,576! The odds against his wearing any one outfit would be 17,575 to 1. This fashion example illustrates merely the odds against typing out one three-letter word, such as the definite article “the”! But I am assuming that our monk cannot put his hat on upside down, cannot put his vest on inside out, and cannot put his boots on the wrong feet. If he can, the odds against him become 140,607 to 1! This not unlikely variation would be the equivalent of adding capital letters to the literary mix. I omit other possible mishaps, such as putting a boot on his head instead of a hat.37 My conclusion? Typically American, I suppose. I end on a melioristic note. To conclude that we could ever experience perfect liberty would be a tad too optimistic. But to conclude that we could never enjoy any liberty at all would be pessimistic indeed. My hypothesis is that the human spirit may 36

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Notice that I have simplified matters considerably by omitting capital letters, punctuation marks, and spaces from my calculations. I also assume no other keys, such as those for numbers and symbols, on the keyboard. Nor does this classic conundrum take into account other great authors, such as Francis Bacon or Christopher Marlowe, to name only two who spring immediately to mind. Obviously, the monkeys would have to duplicate not only their works but the works of all other luminaries of the human race. But I am not the only one to remember the monkey conundrum. Dawkins also does, and he agrees that the monks are doomed to fail. To defend evolution, he distinguishes between what he calls single-step selection and cumulative selection. The single-step process is random, he implies, but the cumulative process nonrandom (Watchmaker 3. 43). The single-step selection sorts entities by change, but it does so only “once and for all” (43, 45). The odds in favor of typing a short sentence from Hamlet in this way would be, he somehow estimates, “about 1 in 10,000 million million million million million million”! In his example he admits only uppercase letters and a single space and omits lowercase letters. The sentence in question is only twenty-eight characters long (46–47)! Cumulative selection also sorts entities by chance, but it allows one selection to serve as a starting point for another selection. He calls these selections “generations,” and he suggests that they “reproduce” themselves (43, 45). He does not give the odds in favor of typing the same sentence from Hamlet in this way. Instead, he simply programmed a computer to do the job, and he ran the program three times. The computer took forty-three generations to complete its task the first time, sixty-four generations the second time, and the third time only forty-one generations (47–49). The odds, whatever they are, appear considerably more favorable. I would like to draw your attention to the fact that cumulative selection depends on the ability of a form to reproduce itself with possible mutations (55–57). But if it reproduces itself, do we have not merely a form but a form that is teleological? The question answers itself. A form of this kind would thus be none other than an ephemeral entelechy capable of change!

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ever endeavor toward greater and greater freedom, but our spirit shall at times attain more and at times less freedom. The important point to remember, I think, is that even with its imperfect knowledge our will is free enough to enable us to engage in a rational activity for its own sake. Therein lies our humanity and our happiness. To perform a rational activity for the sake of performing it and nothing more is truly spiritual work. Dare we ask for more?

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5 Moral Imperatives

1. Have you ever wondered why we find ourselves obliged to do things? Indeed, I sometimes wonder why I must do anything at all. Do I sound like a lazy fellow? I hope not. What I am asking is, Why must I scribble away so many mornings? What makes indolent days appear so unappealing? Granted a day off now and then for diversion, of course. But generally inactivity can be downright miserable, I am sure you would agree. Who can forget the indolent afternoons of youthful summers with their dragging ennui? I do not deny, of course, that many people seem to pass their lives in near-total listlessness. At least, they are said to pass their personal lives in a quiet lethargy of one sort or another. These individuals stereotypically spend their time in front of a television set, drinking beer and watching sports or sitcoms. But I must ask, Are these souls as contentedly uninspired as they are reported to be? I wonder if their apathy might not be a manifestation of an inarticulate misery. If we do feel obliged to do something, we may also find ourselves inclined to think that our obligations will detract from and even curtail our happiness. Nay, we may think that our moral obligations especially might constrain and constrict happiness almost to the point of denial. We are thus quite likely to feel a distinct conflict between our morality and our felicity and to question all over again our obligations. My astute reader may well be able to surmise what I am about to argue. I am about to argue that we are not, strictly speaking, obligated to do anything! There is neither a necessary nor a universal warrant for any moral imperative. Our hopes for redeeming ourselves can lie only in mere approximations to moral imperatives as usually understood. Nonetheless, these approximate imperatives, inexact though they are, are proximate. We mortals are obliged to follow them and to follow them categorically. If we are not careful, we may eventually discover that, because they are proximate, these less-than-absolute imperatives oblige us to pursue our happiness and not to impede our happiness! This proposition might 152

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seem paradoxical, given the contemporary moral climate of restrained selfindulgence. But ought not our moral obligations to require that we seek our goodness? And is not our goodness our happiness? The conclusion is obvious enough, I should think. The American pragmatists also argue that we have no moral obligations that are universal and necessary. How could we if we have no knowledge, theoretical or practical, that is necessary and universal? But they prove, as we shall see, unable to discover any rational commands of a moral nature. They allow themselves to rest content with passional demands. They thus offer obligations that are not at all categorical but only hypothetical. They solicit us to pursue not happiness but pleasure, though they think them the same. 2. “Each rational being exists as an end in itself,” proudly proclaims Immanuel Kant (Groundwork 2. 428, his emphasis). This proclamation many contemporary philosophers have neglected and have neglected to their peril. Few moral philosophers today rally around its cause, and these precious few are mainly avowed Kantians. Even many Kantians, I must say, do not appear to attach any importance to the proposition, if they in fact take notice of it. We shall find this proclamation most worthy of our attention, however. Kant, too, wondered how an imperative, especially a moral imperative, could be possible. How can we conceive of the necessity imposed on our will by an imperative? he asks (417). How can we be morally obliged to avoid an action bad in itself and, presumably, to perform an action in itself good (419)? A moral obligation, he observes, leaves our will with no choice but to meet its demands (419–420). This very proclamation he uses to explain why we are obliged to perform some actions and not to perform some. Our rationality for him provides the grounds for an answer to our question. We must, he argues, act for the sake of our rational nature precisely because it is an end in itself. If we act for the sake of an end other than our rationality, we permit ourselves to succumb to our passions and their all-too-tempting temptations (428). An innocent reader, one not conversant with Kant, if any there be, might very well think that Kant thus provides us with a foundation for a morality of happiness. He advocates rationality as our end, and our rationality would surely include our eudaimonic, or rather our daimonic, activities, would it not? Happiness, in the ancient Greek sense at least, is a rational activity of value essentially for its own sake. When we are happy, we are performing a rational activity that we undertake primarily as an end in itself. If only our nave reader might find that Kant would agree! But expectations of such empyrean purity are all too often destined to be dashed upon empirical shoals. Kant can hardly be said to agree. He argues that our rationality we ought to define as a self-legislative activity. We ought to act only on maxims that accord with the concept of lawfulness itself. Activity of this

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sort, he explains, is an end in itself for all rational beings, among whom he is kind enough to include us human beings. He disdainfully argues against any concept of happiness as an end for morality. A moral imperative, on his account, can enable us to attain only the worthiness to be happy. Only a prudential imperative can enable us to be happy. Any philosopher who advocates happiness as a moral end is promoting a specious ethics! he asserts. He has in mind, among others, the ancient Greeks themselves. He does not mention, oddly enough, Plato or Aristotle, but he does cite Epicurus by name (Practical 1. 1. 22–25 or 39–41). Indeed, Kant is probably the modern philosopher most responsible for the reputed conflict between our morality and our felicity. His theory with this dichotomy permeates our contemporary moral world. We tend, whether we are Kantian or not, to couch our moral discussions and debates in his very terminology. Nowadays a grasp of the Kantian theory and its basic tenets is almost a propaedeutic, as it were, for thinking about our moral identity and our obligations. I wish to argue that we may accept Kant’s proclamation, but that we may also reject his concept of rationality. We may proclaim with Kant that our rational nature exists as an end in itself, but we need not presume with him that our rationality has a self-legislative function. Besides that of making laws for ourselves, I would argue that we can readily discover, if we only take the trouble, other rational activities more interesting and more intriguing even. Among these other activities, we might even be fortunate enough to find our own happiness!1 I would like, therefore, to ask, in a spirit of navet´e perhaps, If we embrace our rationality as an end, must we abandon happiness as our moral end? Let us examine Kant’s declaration and see whether we must. Kant surely begins innocuously enough. Our practical reason (praktische Vernunft), he argues, is our will (Wille). Why? Because it can derive its activity from a concept. Every being acts in accordance with a law, he explains, but only a rational being acts in accordance with a concept of a law (Groundwork 2. 412–413). The concept that a rational being uses to guide his activity must ultimately be one of an end (Zweck), he continues (427–428). Obviously, with a concept of this kind we would know what we are doing, and we would have a purpose that we might hope to accomplish. Without a concept of this sort, our actions would be either pointless or listless. We would have no goal at all. With this concept alone Kant already allows us to see a way out of our canicular ennui. 1

Foot also finds that Kant’s concept of our rationality is a tad too abstruse. She argues that Kant was quite right to insist that moral goodness resides in goodness of will. But she criticizes him for arguing that a concept of practical reason suitable for rational beings as such would yield a morality suitable for human beings. She rightly favors a concept of rationality that rests “on the essential features of specifically human life” (Goodness 1. 14).

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But what is our end? Our end may be what Kant calls a motive (Bewegungsgrund) or an incentive (Triebfeder) (427–428). We have only one possible motive on his theory, and this motive is our reason itself. “Rational nature (die vern¨unftige Natur) exists as an end in itself (als Zweck an sich selbst),” Kant reiterates (428–429, his emphasis). This proposition asserts in effect that we exercise our rationality, if we act for a motive, for the sake of our rationality. Our reason can, simply put, act for the sake of itself.2 We may have many incentives, but they are all of a kind. An incentive is an end, too, but it is an end for our faculty of desire (Begehrungsverm¨ogen). We have an incentive only because we have a desire (427–428). Our practical reason, therefore, does not act for its own sake if we act for an incentive. Our will acts for the sake of an object that is other than itself. This object is the satisfaction of desire. Or, as Kant himself asserts, it is a pleasant sensation (413). We now come to the crux of the matter. With this distinction between motives and incentives Kant can explain why imperatives are necessary. We are approaching his celebrated distinction between categorical (kategorisch) and hypothetical (hypothetisch) imperatives. Any imperative, he argues, represents a principle that our will is obliged to follow (Groundwork 2. 413). But a categorical imperative requires us to perform an action as an end in itself; a hypothetical imperative requires an action as a means to another end (414).3 This distinction allows Kant to separate moral from amoral imperatives. A moral imperative is, of course, a categorical imperative; and a categorical imperative, as the name implies, takes for its object our rationality itself. This imperative is necessary on the acknowledged proclamation (Gesetz actually) that rational nature exists as its own end. It commands what our reason must do for its own sake. Only because we are rational do we have an obligation of this variety (428–429). A hypothetical imperative, which is of itself neither moral nor immoral, aims at an object of a desire. An imperative of this sort, as its name suggests, is necessary only on the assumption (Voraussetzung) that we have a desire 2

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In a footnote Kant remarks that this proposition is merely a postulate, and that he will present its grounds later (Groundwork 2. 428–429, n.). But later he points out only that we exist as intelligible beings as well as sensible beings (Groundwork 3. 450–452). His assumption would accordingly appear to be that an intelligible being is an end in itself. And we can see without difficulty why he would so assume. As an intelligible being we are nothing less than pure spontaneity, and pure spontaneity is identical with self-legislation, and self-legislation we can value as an end in itself (see 452–453). Hill would appear to overlook Kant’s explicit distinction between the categorical and the hypothetical imperative. He argues instead that the categorical imperative binds us if and only if we have an autonomous will. This imperative expresses constraints that “all rational and autonomous persons would impose on themselves” (Dignity 1. 34). A hypothetical imperative is “appropriate for us as imperfect rational beings.” It binds us only if we will an end, and it requires that we will the means to our end (17–18).

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for an object. This imperative commands what our reason must do for the sake of satisfying our desire. Only because we have a desire do we have an obligation of this sort (417–419). Kant thus explains our moral obligation by arguing that we have an undeniable end, we might say, which is our rational nature, and that we must act for the sake of this end. Other obligations arise because we may have another end that is desirable only. These obligations are prudential if they aim at an actual purpose, or they are technical if they aim at a possible purpose. One actual purpose that we have, he adds, is our happiness (Groundwork 2. 415– 417).4 We also see that a moral end is rational and that happiness is an irrational end. At least, according to Kant. But why is our pursuit of happiness irrational? I would beg to ask. Kant answers that happiness is simply the maximum satisfaction of our desire (417–419)! That is why, if we pursue happiness, we can act only on a hypothetical imperative for the sake of a mere incentive. Already our dear Prussian has taken us far from the ancient concept of our happiness. At least, verbally he has. I now wish to draw your attention to a salient, yet very often overlooked, similarity between the Kantian concept of a moral end and the Greek concept of human happiness. A rational end, 4

According to Korsgaard, Kant takes a position that frees us from “the apparently ontological task of assessing things chosen” (Creating 9. 261–262). Because we regard our ends as good, she claims, we are “capable of conferring value on the objects of our choice.” If a rational being with a good will chooses it, an end thereby becomes an objective good (260–261). In a word, a good will confers value upon its ends (260). But Kant accepts the ontological task of value assessment. “Rational beings are called persons,” he argues, “because their nature (ihre Natur) clearly marks them out as ends in themselves.” Other beings of which their existence has its cause in nature (auf . . . dem Natur beruht), if they are not rational, are merely means and are called things. Persons, he concludes, are objective ends (objective Zwecke) (Groundwork 2. 428). Again, he asserts, “Rational nature (die vern¨unftige Natur) exists as an end in itself ” (428–429, his emphasis). He also suggests that our worth depends upon our humanity “as a rational nature” (als vern¨unftiger Natur) (438–439). A good will, then, does not confer objective value on our rationality. But a will becomes good when it recognizes and accepts the objective value of our rationality. Kant himself, Korsgaard might respond, asserts that our rationality is a subjective principle of action (Creating 9. 260–261; 4. 122–123). Only because all rational beings choose it as their principle, she explains, does our rationality become an objective end (Creating 4. 120–121, 122–123). I would counter that all rational beings can choose their rationality as an end only because it is an objective end. Our rationality becomes a subjective principle for us only if we can recognize its objective value. Besides, if human choice, unanimous or near-unanimous, could determine what our good is, then our moral good would be good by social contract or mere convention. Hill would agree with Korsgaard. Kant, he argues, does not hold that “an act is rational because it is (or promotes) good, but rather an act is counted as good (or good producing) because rational considerations favor it” (Dignity 7. 124, italics his). Again, each rational agent, he informs us, is “a source of value . . . but not because of what is valued but because it is valued by a rational agent . . . ” (143–144, his italics).

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Kant argues, is an action valued for itself. But Plato and Aristotle, too, argue that happiness is an action valued for itself! The Kantian deontic end, socalled, thus appears to be similar, in this one respect at least, to the Greek eudaimonic end. One might wonder, then, How does Kant define an action valued for itself? Does he conceive of an action of this sort in a different manner than the Greeks do? Or does he offer essentially the same eudaimonic concept, quaintly garbed in eighteenth-century philosophical attire? Perhaps we ought to ask, What function does Kant argue that we fulfill when we act for the sake of our rationality itself? My reader, I would imagine, might find the function of satisfying desire clear enough. We now discover a rather curious philosophical fact of no small import. Kant implies that our reason ought to act for the sake of its own activity. Recall that our practical reason has the function of acting on a concept. Reason of this kind is identical with our will, after all. But practical reason, Kant also argues, acts on a concept for the sake of our practical rationality itself. We would, therefore, appear obliged to conclude that our reason acts on a concept for the sake of acting on a concept! This interpretation is not the usual, I dutifully concede. But I can explain it more fully with the three formulae of Kant’s categorical imperative. Let us start with the second formula. This formula states that we ought to regard humanity in ourselves and in others as an end in itself. But what about our humanity constitutes an end in itself? Our rationality does. The second formula requires explicitly that we act for the sake of our rationality as itself an end (Groundwork 2. 428–429). But, then, What is our rationality? This question takes us to the first formula. This formula states that we ought to act on a maxim that we could will to be a universal law. Our practical reason has the function of making universal laws, in other words. Kant argues that our moral rules must contain the universality of law because they ought not to be tainted by any condition. If they were conditioned, they would be hypothetical imperatives, he contends (420–421). But now we may ask, What do we regard as itself an end when we regard a rational being as an end? We must answer, Our function of making universal laws! We have arrived at the third formula of the categorical imperative. This final formula states that we ought to treat a rational being as a will that legislates universal law. Indeed, Kant explicitly argues that this third formula combines the first, which requires that our maxims be laws, and the second, which requires that we treat a rational being as an end (430–431).5 5

Kant also expands this argument with another. He explains that the first formula provides a unity of form for our will, the second a plurality in its matter, and the third a totality of a moral system (Groundwork 2. 436–437). But this argument does not address the question of what rational activity we ought to value for its own sake.

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What Kant is arguing, therefore, is that our will has its own activity as its end, but that its activity is essentially to be self-legislative. If so, our rational function is to be self-legislative for the sake of being self-legislative! I am not making this up! Kant himself asserts quite explicitly that a categorical imperative can command us only to act from a will that takes for its object “itself as universally legislating (sich selbst als allgemein gesetzgebend).” Only then, he concludes, can our will have no interest (kein Interesse), presumably empirical (432).6 My reader may well wonder about the sagacity of living our lives with the purpose of making moral law for the sake of making moral law. A life

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O’Neill recognizes this other argument of Kant and augments it with an argument of her own. She focuses on the distinction between an agent and a recipient of an action. The first formula provides agency with a form, which is universality, of course. The second provides recipiency with a matter, which is apparently an object of agency. The third, she argues, combines both in a community, for which we may have some hope (Constructions 7. 142–144). Her argument rests on a discussion of deliberation and evaluation of maxims (128–131). The first formula, she explains, requires that our maxims not be contradictory in conception or volition (131–134). The second formula requires that our maxims both not damage other agents and even give them support (137–140). The perspectives of agent and recipient, she implies, the third formula combines (141–142). O’Neill thus sees that self-legislation is the key to explaining how the three formulae are one and the same. But she does not quite see that self-legislation is an activity that is an end in itself for all rational beings. She views this function rather as defining an interaction between individuals who are distinct. But self-legislation as itself an end would best define this interaction, of course. Hill frankly admits that he cannot see how Kant is able to show that the first formula of his categorical imperative entails the second formula (Dignity 6. 121–122). But Kant does not derive the second formula from the first. Hill has got it backward. Kant derives the first formula from the second. The second formula, by identifying something that exists with absolute worth, something that is an end in itself, provides a substantive ground for the practical law (Groundwork 2. 428). We who philosophize in English especially tend to overlook the positive content of the categorical imperative. We usually focus on the second formula, and we read it with an emphasis on not using humanity as a means rather than on treating humanity as an end. Nagel is typical. He writes that deontology does not tell us to aim at a good, but that it tells us not to aim at an evil (View 9. 181). Hill, however, presents a worthy exception. He argues that we cannot understand the requirement not to treat humanity as a means unless we have a grasp of the requirement to treat humanity as an end. Yet he stops short of the realization that our rational nature has the function of self-legislation for its own sake. He rightly observes, nonetheless, that Kant requires us to treat persons as capable of sharing in our ends without acting irrationally (Dignity 2. 41–50). O’Neill also argues explicitly that we must recognize both the positive and the negative requirements of the second formula. Finite rational beings have an agency that we must not only not disable but that we must also support, she contends (Constructions 7. 139–140). But even she frequently focuses on the negative aspect alone. She tells us, for example, that the second formula requires us to ask, “What ought I to do, given that my action impinges on others, and may destroy or erode their capacities for action?” (142).

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devoted to this activity appears a tad vacuous, not to say vapid, does it not? Could an activity of this sort cure us of our ennui? I have my doubts. Perhaps a witty character might have a good time inventing whimsical laws. But you would agree, I hope, that our rationality ought to be somewhat less bland, and that our lives, even if moral, ought to be somewhat richer. What we must attempt to do, I think, if we are to avoid being seduced by this ascetic ideal, is to dissociate the concept of a categorical imperative from the concept of our practical rationality as Kant defines it. I shall assume that you would wish to retain a rational motive. And I would ask, Even if it is our end – or, rather, especially if it is – ought we not to inquire about the nature of our rationality? Are there other activities besides selflegislation that we might perform for their own sake? If so, what might they be? I wish, then, to accept Kant’s proclamation that our rationality is an end in itself. But I shall argue that our rationality can be an end other than what Kant thought it to be. To do so, I intend to show that all moral obligation, including any categorical necessity, is hypothetical. We can be subject to a categorical imperative, if I may stay with Kantian terminology, to fulfill a rational function other than self-legislation. But our categorical imperative, paradoxically no doubt, determines our action with a necessity that is hypothetical. That moral necessity is hypothetical is not a proposition new with me, I admit. But my argument in favor of this proposition, you will find to be original, I think, and, I hope, more than plausible. My proposal is to assimilate the hypothetical imperative to the categorical. What I shall show, in other words, is that moral necessity is hypothetical precisely because moral imperatives are categorical. The usual argument is to assimilate the categorical imperative to the hypothetical.7 One could even demonstrate in this way that a categorical imperative commands the satisfaction of desire. A categorical imperative of this sort 7

Foot, for example, used to expound a view that many contemporaries find acceptable. She recognized that a categorical imperative commands an action for the sake of itself, and that a hypothetical imperative commands an action for the sake of an end other than itself (Virtues 11. 157–158). But she found no reason for a categorical imperative to require an action as itself an end, except perhaps our moral teaching and its stringency. A hypothetical imperative, however, can require us to seek an end for its own sake. This end is not an action but an object of our desire. A moral man, she claimed, cares about truth and liberty, for example, without any ulterior motive (165–167). Anyone who takes this position would thus deny the fact that our rational activity exists as an end in itself. Or, at least, he or she would overlook it. Indeed, this fact Foot now would appear to endorse in her new theory of goodness, though she is not as explicit as one might wish. But she does state that her argument turns on “seeing goodness as setting a necessary condition of practical rationality and therefore as at least a part-determinant of the thing itself” (Goodness 4. 60–63).

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would rest, curiously enough, on a desire permeating our character and not on a mere passing desire.8 We would do well to begin by asking, What might hypothetical necessity be? This question takes us back once again to the ancient Greeks. We find in Plato what certainly is the most famous, and what may well be the first, discussion of the concept of hypothetical necessity, though not the term itself. I refer to the dialogue in which he portrays his teacher awaiting execution. Socrates, according to Plato, uses this very concept to explain to his friends why he chooses to remain on death row and not to flee. Socrates accounts for his behavior in terms of a cause. He distinguishes between that which is a cause ( ) and that without which ( ) a cause could not be a cause. A cause of him sitting in his cell is the fact that the Athenians believe to condemn him is better than not, and another cause is that he believes to accept their sentence is better than not. But he cannot sit in prison without the means of doing so. He, therefore, must have a body with its bones, sinews, muscles, and skin, all of which enable him to maintain his immobility, so to speak. These are those without which a cause cannot be (Phaedo 98b–99b). But what kind of cause is this? With his distinction Socrates recognizes what we might denominate in more scholastic terminology a final cause and a material cause. He is arguing that a final cause explains why a thing is what it is or does what it does. In his case a final cause explains why he remains seated in his cell. A material cause is what enables a thing to be what it is or to do what it does. He cannot sit without a body composed of various organic parts. Socrates is arguing, then, that a cause in the moral sciences is a concept of an end. The implication is the familiar one that a concept of an end determines why he is required to do what he does. What, then, is hypothetical necessity? Necessity of this kind is a requirement that, if we wish to attain an end, we must perform certain actions conducive to our end, and we must have the means to engage in these actions. Notice the similarity between the Platonic and the Kantian concept. Kant and Plato both agree that hypothetical necessity depends on an end. If we do not have an end, we have no obligation to perform an action. By the way, I would ask you to note that we once again encounter our human daimon. Not surprisingly, Socrates identifies a final cause with what is good ( ). But he also implies rather clearly that a final cause is something daimonic ( . . . ), and that it has power ( . . . ) 8

Actually, Williams already has. A categorical desire, he argues, is “essential to the agent” and “has to be satisfied.” Kant, he explains, thought that an obligation was “unconditional in the sense that it did not depend on desire at all.” But our obligation, he argues, need not be “independent of desire in so strong a sense.” An obligation need only be independent of “desire that the agent merely happens to have” (Ethics 10. 187–191, his emphasis).

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(Phaedo 99c). A final cause would thus appear to be a concept, most likely known hypothetically, of our goodness. We can see, too, what power a final cause has. This concept has the power to require certain actions of us. These actions are those which constitute the efficient cause of its realization. But to explain why a cause has the power that it has, Socrates uses what a contemporary reader might consider a rather odd example. His example he takes from physical science. A cause, he implies, places the earth where it is and preserves it there (99b–c). To a modern ear, more accustomed to a Newtonian physics, he might thus seem to explain the obscure with the more obscure. He is without a doubt attempting to explain final causality in ethics with final causality in physics! As if final causes in physics were somehow more plausible! What might he mean? His example suggests that our planetary system has a final cause, and that this cause maintains its parts in their positions. Its final cause would be an end, in other words. But what would this final cause do? This cause, he explains more fully, does nothing more than order ( ) that which he believed to be a geocentric system but which we now think a heliocentric system (97b–98b). The implication is that the planets in their orbs have within themselves a power to maintain themselves in their motions. This is hardly a startling concept!9 Even if you do not agree with his cosmology, you would surely agree that Socrates himself has a daimon, and that his daimon enables him to grasp his final cause. With it he can define his concept of justice. He finds himself obliged to be a gadfly to the Athenians, as we all know (Apology 28a–31c). You would also agree, no doubt, that his concept of justice is a concept of his goodness. And that his concept gives him the power he needs to stay in his cell. Because he thinks to do so is just, he must remain in prison and calmly accept his execution. Aristotle was the philosopher who had the honor of introducing the term “hypothetical necessity” ( !) into philosophical discourse (Physics 2. 9. 199b34–35). He distinguishes between that for the sake of which ( " ), or an end ( #$!), from matter (%! &$'!). He argues that an end is a cause of matter, but that matter is not the cause of an end (200a30–34). He may overstate his position slightly. He would appear to mean that an end causes matter to come to be in a thing, but that matter alone cannot cause a thing to come to be (200a34–200b4).

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Wiggins would no doubt agree. He wishes to revive the teleological interpretation of the Phaedo. The idea behind an explanation of this kind, he explains, is that a full understanding of anything is “modelled on a mind’s relation to its own choice in the light of what seems good to it” (“Teleology” 10). Contemporary physicists would call an explanation of this kind a field theory (see Einstein and Infield). Even the Newtonian concept of gravity is best understood as a field, I understand. But I anticipate Chapter 6.

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He offers an example taken from the arts. If he has the end of providing shelter, a builder can bring about the building of a house. He has a concept of an end that guides his action and enables him to arrange the building materials in their proper order and with their proper organization. His concept would be that of a dwelling, of course. And he constructs a dwelling by starting with a foundation, adding the floor and walls, and finishing with the roof, roughly speaking. The building materials by themselves cannot construct a building, though they must be on hand. To say that they could would be to say that the bricks and mortar and the lumber could build themselves into a shelter. Because they are heavier, the bricks and mortar would presumably gravitate to the bottom and arrange themselves into a foundation, and the lumber, because it is lighter, would somehow levitate itself toward the top and make the walls and roof on its way up (199b35–200a7; 200a24–29). I wish to emphasize the point that Plato and Aristotle would appear to take the term “hypothetical necessity” in a sense much broader than does Kant. Whatever is needed for the sake of any end is hypothetically necessary, they argue. This proposition is important because with it we shall be able to see that hypothetical necessity encompasses what Kant calls moral necessity as well as prudential necessity. That is, I am about to argue that hypothetical necessity in this broader sense includes both the requirements of a categorical imperative as well as those of a hypothetical imperative. To see how this proposition proves true, we need to divide our ancient concept of hypothetical necessity into two kinds. We have to distinguish what is necessary for something to be what it essentially is from what is necessary for it to be what it is accidentally. That is, we must distinguish its essential properties from its accidental properties. And so we must ask, What properties make a thing what it is? and What properties of a thing do not? To make this distinction, I appeal to Aristotle again and his definition of nature. With his definition Aristotle is able to differentiate essential causes from accidental ones. A thing, he argues, is essentially its nature, and its nature he defines as “a first principle and cause of motion and rest in that to which it belongs primarily” (()%! ! * +! , * '( - .() (/!) (Physics 2. 1. 192b21–23; also 192b12–14). An internal cause brings about its essential properties, we might say, but its accidental properties external causes bring about (192b23–32). When he makes this distinction, he, admittedly, speaks of efficient rather than final causes. He offers another example taken from the arts. The cause of a sculpture is essentially a sculptor and a white man or a musician accidentally (Physics 2. 3.195a32–195b3). But I believe that we may apply his distinction to final causes as well. After all, efficient and final causes do share an identical form in natural objects (Physics 2. 7. 198a24–27). Does not a builder build a house essentially and accidentally build a white house? That is, a house is essentially a shelter, but it is accidentally white.

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We find in Aristotle, then, a natural teleology. This discovery is no surprise, I would imagine. We might think of Aristotle’s teleology in terms of his famous four causes. A formal cause is what a thing is; an efficient cause is a thing potentially; a final cause is actually a thing; and a material cause is that in which a potential or actual thing exists (see Physics 2. 3. 194b16–195a3). We can also see, incidentally, that Plato and Aristotle may identify an efficient cause with a material cause because matter without form constitutes a potentiality for change (see Metaphysics 12. 2. 1069b3–24, for example). We can now discern within the Greek concept of hypothetical necessity what Kant calls categorical and hypothetical necessity. Kantian categorical necessity, when applied to moral matters, indicates what we must do for the sake of what we essentially are. We may, if we wish to be more precise, call necessity of this kind essential hypothetical necessity or simply essential necessity. Kantian hypothetical necessity, when applied to moral matters, is what is required for the sake of what we accidentally are. Accidental hypothetical necessity or merely accidental necessity, we may call it.10 But, then, what might we essentially be? We are, as Kant himself proclaims, rational beings. We might say, in other words, that our rationality is what we are by nature! But our nature, we may argue with Aristotle, is an internal cause of motion and rest. Our rationality, accordingly, is an internal cause of human action and non-action. Or, at least, it can be an internal cause of this kind if we choose to act rationally. What are we accidentally? What we are accidentally, external causes determine. Most obviously, these external causes are our passions and their seductive objects. How are our passions external to us? They are external to what we essentially are, and we are essentially our rationality. Of course, one might argue that these alien causes are reason and its inhibitions. But those who do so would assume that we are essentially irrational.11 10

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Williams would appear to agree that hypothetical necessity is the generic concept, though he refers to the concept as practical necessity. Practical necessity, he argues, is “in no way peculiar to ethics.” We may conclude that we must do something “for reasons of prudence, self-protection, aesthetic or artistic concern, or sheer self-assertion.” Necessity of this kind yields “the same sort of conclusion whether grounded in ethical reasons or not” about what we ought or ought not to do (Ethics 4. 187–188). He argues further, and rightly so, that morality for Kant has an objective foundation. This foundation is nothing other than the “moral demand,” which presents the moral law as if a “part of the world in which one lives” (Ethics 4. 190). But he fails to realize that we may opine an objectivity that yields a practical necessity in his sense. An objectivity of this kind can also provide us with reasons for action. He thus advocates an alternative that is merely psychological, presumably in the sense of passional (191). Williams, for example, assumes that we are essentially irrational. He argues that shame is a categorical desire that can supply us with a moral necessity. When he says that he is going where his way must go, Ajax expresses neither a Kantian categorical necessity nor a Kantian hypothetical necessity, Williams argues (Shame 4. 75–77). He expresses rather his identity

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What have I accomplished, then, with this analysis? I have shown that any necessity in our endeavors depends upon what we believe to be our end. We do determine what our end is. But what we take our end to be in turn determines our obligations, moral and prudential. We may choose to act for the sake of what we conceive to be essential properties of our nature or for the sake of what we concede to be accidental properties. Our obligation has a moral necessity if we act for essential properties. If we act for accidental properties, the obligation has a prudential necessity only.12 But we determine what our end is by hypothesis only. I am assuming that we humans are not privileged to have any divine knowledge, and that we can have only human knowledge. And that human knowledge can be nothing other than hypothetical knowledge. Our hypotheses we may verify or falsify only with our sensations and with sensations that are external rather than internal. Only in this way may we know what we are essentially and what we are obliged to do. I am thus advocating a moral teleology that is natural. We may formulate a hypothesis about a form that defines what we are. We can use this hypothesized form as a final cause to inspire our actions, and we can use this same form as an efficient cause to initiate our actions. This form constitutes a value of intrinsic worth if we decide to embody it in our action for its own sake. It also constitutes a value of inherent worth if we deign to accept it, however tentatively, as true to our nature.13 Please note that Kant would be obliged to agree that our action may be essentially or accidentally necessary. He argues that a categorical imperative rests on a motive, which is our rationality; but a hypothetical imperative relies on an incentive, which is a desired object. But our rationality, he avers, is essential to our nature; and our desires, he implies, are merely accidental.

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“as someone who can live in some social circumstances and not in others.” And his sense of shame is what mediates between himself and his world (97–102). But James and Hume, too, assume that we are irrational beings. They, however, prefer to argue in favor of sympathy as a source of moral obligation (see Morals 12. 2. 278–282; or Will 6. 208–210, e.g.). After overcoming her Humeian tendencies, Foot now recognizes that moral necessity is a hypothetical necessity of the kind I am advocating. She calls this necessity simply Aristotelian necessity, and she does not analyze the concept of moral obligation in any detail. But she does use the example of promise keeping to show that our obligations depend upon what she calls our nature and our natural circumstances (Goodness 3. 44–47). She clearly distinguishes an obligation of this kind from one of the kind concerned with resulting states of affairs (47–51). Her analogies to animal and plant necessities are also very illustrative (Goodness 1. 15–17, e.g.). Korsgaard would agree that a moral principle for both Kant and Aristotle is a formal property of our actions. She reminds us that the form of a thing is a functional arrangement of its parts. Both a maxim for Kant and a right reason for Aristotle, she argues, we may view as organizing our action and its parts (Engstrom 7. 218). But Korsgaard, again, does not connect her analysis with a teleology for either Aristotle or Kant. Nor does she consider how a formal property might pertain to our nature.

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A rational being may exist with different feelings and inclinations than we have or without any inclinations at all (Groundwork 2. 425, 412–413).14 But my analysis also accomplishes much more. My purpose, I repeat, is to rally around Kant’s proclamation. Kant declares that our rationality exists as an end in itself, and he argues that our rationality yields a categorical imperative. I have shown that we may agree with Kant about both these propositions. We may take for our end what is essential to our nature; and what is essential to our nature is our rationality itself. Our rationality thus defines for us any categorical imperative. What I now wish to show is that we may define our rationality differently than Kant does. Let us continue with Plato. The distinction between categorical and hypothetical imperatives does not appear in his dialogues, of course. But the distinction between essential and accidental imperatives is clearly present, though not explicitly in these precise terms. This distinction, if we can but see it, shows that we may engage in rational activities other than self-legislation for their own sake. Plato portrays Socrates making good use of our distinction in his dialogue with Gorgias about rhetoric. Socrates distinguishes between actions that take our nature as their end and those that take as their end mere pleasure! An art () '), you may recall, produces actions of the one kind, and a routine 14

Nagel argues that deontology yields what he calls agent-relative reasons for action. He does agree that we determine our obligations by our concept of a goal. But these obligations, he argues, are reasons for action precisely because we have made a concept into an intention (View 9. 179–180). Deontology requires, for example, that we do not intentionally do an evil even if it will bring about a good. Why? Because to do evil would be to strive against “value that is internal to one’s aim.” We would be maintaining evil instead of eliminating it (181–182). But I am arguing that deontology gives us what Nagel calls agent-neutral reasons for action. We can determine our obligations not simply because we form intentions but because our intentions have a content. In fact, our intentions are concepts that have an agent-neutral content more or less general. I would argue, then, that the general concept of our rational nature, which we all share, we all ought to take as our end. We ought to act in a manner that cultivates this end and not in a manner that contravenes it. Of course, when we act, we must make use of more specific concepts of our rationality, and these concepts entail obligations of their own. I can only agree with Nagel that these specific concepts yield agent-relative reasons for action. We do not all have an obligation to act under the same specific concept. You are hardly obliged to join me if I wish to climb Mt. Whitney. Nor are you obliged to offer me any assistance (166–169). But Nagel apparently sees agent-neutral reasons as having merely instrumental value. Agent-neutral reasons we know from an objective view of human action, but this view concerns only the outcome of our action, he argues. A death caused by murder is not “a significantly worse event” than one caused by accident, he claims (178). But does not an objective view include the intrinsic value of human actions? Are not these intrinsic values of greater significance than instrumental ones? A murder is objectively worse than an accidental death precisely because a murderer obviously denies his victim any intrinsic worth. Of course, we ought to identify our intrinsic worth with a rational end, not with “sensory experience which we strongly like or dislike” (167–168).

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((01) actions of the other. His examples of these abilities are medicine and cookery. Medicine, he explains, considers both our nature ( 2 ) and the cause ( + ) of what it does. But cookery does not even consider the nature of pleasure ( 2 . . . %! 3 %!) or its cause ( + ) (Gorgias 464b–465e, 500e–501c).15 Socrates also makes a similar distinction in another discussion about rhetoric with Phaedrus. He again distinguishes between a power that is an art () ') and one that is not. He also implies that an art knows that of which it is an art. To be a tragedian, he tells Phaedrus, one must know how to systemize long and short speeches into a whole and not merely how to make them (Phaedrus 268c–d). Or to be a musician, one must know how to harmonize high and low notes and not merely how to strike them (268d–e). He again has recourse to the art of medicine. This time he explains his example a little more fully. He implies rather clearly that an art rests on knowledge of the nature of its object. The medical art requires, he and Phaedrus agree, that a physician know for whom a therapeutic technique is necessary, when it is needed, and how much of it is needed. He is no physician who can at will, so to speak, use a therapy merely to make someone regurgitate or defecate (268a–c). This last analogy may jog the memory of some readers. Kant offers an example relying upon a similar, though implicit, concept of an art. A hypothetical imperative, if its end is merely possible, is a mere imperative of skill, he argues (Groundwork 2. 414–415). An imperative of this kind does not consider whether its end is rational and good (vern¨unftig und gut). It considers only what one must do to attain an end. A physician, for example, would use a drug in an attempt to make his patient healthy, but a poisoner would use a drug to make his victim decidedly less than healthy (415). But what, then, does Socrates take our nature to be? Our rationality, of course! With our rationality we can, if we so wish, impose a form ( 4!) on our soul, and with this form we can make the entirety of our soul ordered ( ) and organized ( ' ). This order and organization in turn constitute justice ( ') and temperance (2( ') and the other virtues (Gorgias 503d–504e; see also Republic 4. 441d–442d). Our rationality, when properly functioning, would thus enable one to be, in a word, happy ( 5 ) (Gorgias 507c). I hope that my conclusion does not prove unduly surprising. We may infer, I think, that we can with rhetoric, if we practice it as an art, attain the power to act in accordance with a categorical imperative. Or, we might better say, we are able with a rhetorical art to act in accord with an essential imperative. Socrates argues, after all, that true rhetoric takes for its aim 15

Incidentally, Plato would appear to distinguish in this way between having knowledge ( / ) and being clever ().6 ) (Gorgias 464c).

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our nature itself. But this power, he also concedes, can become a mere routine, which aims at pleasure. It would thus yield only an accidental imperative.16 I would agree, then, with Kant that our nature exists as an end in itself, and I would also agree that we are by nature rational beings. We are obliged to perform certain actions because the actions take our rationality as their end. We are thus obliged to be, in a word, ourselves. Who else, pray, should we be? Or would we be? But I would argue, against Kant, that our rationality is essentially our happiness. We are, therefore, obliged to be happy! Could we ask for more? Why should our morality not aim at our happiness? Happiness, after all is said and done, is our goodness. If it conflicts with anything, morality conflicts with errant desire.17 16

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In other words, we find a concept of duty not entirely dissimilar to the Kantian. The general concept of a rational action valued for its own sake is an end that determines what we are obliged to do. We are obliged to be happy for the sake of being happy. Contemporary philosophers, even the most astute, somehow manage to overlook this similarity. Williams, for example, thinks that the concept of autonomous moral duty not only confuses discussion about the Greeks but even distorts what we say about action (Shame 1. 41–42). Yet Williams clearly agrees that a moral imperative can require activities other than selflegislation. He argues that a Homeric hero, for example, finds himself obliged to perform the activities of his warrior code (Shame 4. 75, 84–85, e.g.). But he does not find that a moral imperative has its basis in an activity of value for its own sake. Moral obligation finds its basis rather in a feeling of shame, albeit of a kind that relies on an internalized and idealized other (81–84). This feeling governs our ethical relations and mediates between ourselves and our social world (101–102). Indeed, he appears to claim that shame yields a categorical imperative, not a hypothetical one (75–76). He could stake this claim, I think, only on the tacit assumption, which he defends elsewhere, that a desire can be categorical. If so, we would be essentially irrational beings. But anyone who is presumptuous enough to assert that we are essentially rational would find that a desire could not be categorical. A desire, consequently, can yield only a hypothetical imperative because it is an alien cause of action. Williams does rightly assert that shame does not entail a heteronomy that rests merely on the opinions of others (77–78, 97–98). But he cannot escape a heteronomy that rests on passion. Shame ultimately remains a passion, and its avoidance provides a foundation for an imperative only hypothetical in an accidental sense. We must engage in an action on this account for the sake of avoiding a moral pain. Aristotle, incidentally, would appear to agree (Ethics 4. 9.). McDowell also defends the categorical imperative. He argues that a virtuous person simply sees a situation in a “favorable light,” and a vicious person does not (Reality 4. 78–81). We thus have a desire to act in accordance with our special view of a situation. But this desire does not precede but follows from our special view (84–85). Morality thus bears a similarity to prudence. A prudent person also sees a situation in a specific way and desires to act accordingly. An imprudent person does not (80–81, 84). We might note the similarity between the moral law and this favorable light. Could not Kant argue that the moral law, because rational, provides a favorable light as well? He would, of course, disagree with the analogy to prudence. But McDowell would be sure to counter that his own light is not rational but that it comes from a moral tradition. We acquire this tradition, he argues, from those who brought us up, though we may refine it (Reality 5.

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I would also ask, Should not morality be an affair of self-affirmation? Who needs a dreary morality of self-denial? to echo David Hume (Morals 11. 1. 270 or 11. 2. 279–280). But I can concede that we may, if we so wish, become happy by making laws for the sake of making laws. This activity we may obviously value for its own sake. But would we not be more happy if we engaged in other rational activities for their sakes? We might perchance philosophize, to take an example at random, or dabble in politics or have dinner with a friend or take a friend to a dance. How varied are human activities of intrinsic value! And how much variety may these activities include! Consider dancing, for example. If we wish to dance, we face a plethora of terpsichorean options. We must needs choose between ballroom dance or country dance or square dance or swing dance or salsa, to name but a few. Even within ballroom dance, we may prefer the waltz, the foxtrot, the tango, the polka, or even the seemingly elementary two-step, not to mention many others. I think, then, that we might better make moral laws for the sake of engaging in other activities. What activity does not go better if you have some idea of the rules of the game, shall we say? But merely making rules for the sake of making rules? Perish the thought! With all due respect, of course. Why act in accordance with a concept for the sake of acting in accordance with a concept? Why not act in accordance with a concept for the sake of an action itself?18 Philosophy has a history replete with irony. No doubt, you would agree. Irony of a philosophical variety is intentional at times, but at times it is unintentional. One incredible irony of the unintentional variety is the indubitable fact that Kant himself had occasion to elaborate upon the crucial concept necessary for conceiving of human happiness as a moral motive.

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99–102; “Eudaimonism” 208–216). But, then, where did those who brought us up acquire it? I should think that we ought ultimately to seek some empirical evidence for our moral principles. Slote wishes to argue that “among the necessary requirements of being rational” is “the particular motive of self-interest for one’s own long-term well-being.” He holds that “a lack of self-concern is inherently irrational” (Morals 7. 182–183, his italics). But he candidly admits that he does not have “an argument for this conclusion,” and that “it seems fairly reasonable in itself ” (183–184, italics his). Slote thus overlooks the fact that our nature is an end in itself. I would argue, of course, that we are essentially rational, and that our rational nature is its own end. Our long-term well-being would accordingly be a rational activity. But he is free to argue that we are essentially passional, and that a passional activity is our end. He in fact argues that self-concern includes as a moral component, at least, humane caring or benevolence (184). Williams would agree that the enterprise of making rules is hardly an obligatory one, though he does not consider its intrinsic value. He asks, “Why should I think of myself as a legislator and . . . a citizen . . . governed by . . . notional laws?” To do so would be to equate what a person “should reasonably do as a rational agent” with “what he would reasonably do if he were a rational agent and no more” (Ethics 4. 62–64, his emphasis). His assumption is, again, that we are, though possessed of rationality, essentially passional creatures.

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He quite ably defines this concept when he discusses teleology and its importance. This crucial concept is the concept of an empirical end. Our happiness is an end of this kind, after all. We know empirically that we have a soul. Or, at least, we may hypothesize that we do. We know empirically that our soul is tripartite, and we know that we may act in a way to bring harmony to the parts of our soul or disharmony. When we have harmony in our soul, we are happy, and we are miserable when our soul is in disharmony. But Kant himself recognizes ends that are empirical. Indeed, he recognizes empirical ends of two kinds, artificial and natural. An end of either kind, he asserts, is of itself . . . cause and effect ( Judgement 2. 1. 64. 370–371, his emphasis). Or, in more formal terms, its efficient cause causes its final cause, but its final cause also causes its efficient cause. Kant states, in other words, that causality is both progressive and regressive. An efficient cause works forward, and a final cause backward ( Judgement 2. 1. 66. 372). He asks us to consider an artificial end, which is a human product. Building materials do cause a house to be built, but a house also causes the materials, we might say. At least, the concept of a house causes its materials to be brought together and to be assembled in a certain way. Or, to take Kant’s example, a building itself might have a further final cause. A house can be the cause of receiving rent as income, but the concept of receiving rent can be the cause of a house being built (372). A natural end is an organism, which is its own end. An organism, Kant argues, is also a cause and an effect of itself. In a word, it is a “self-organizing being” (sich selbstorganizirendes Wesen). Its parts cause its whole, and its whole causes its parts ( Judgement 2. 1. 65. 373–374, his italics again). Consider a tree, for example. A tree produces its limbs and leaves, but its leaves and limbs in turn produce it. Any plant develops itself and grows by means of assimilated matter from which it produces its parts. But its parts in turn enable the plant assimilate matter and to produce it ( Judgement 2. 1. 64. 371–372). But artificial and natural ends differ in the location of their final causes. An artificial end has a final cause that is external to it. A concept of this end does cause its parts and their arrangement, and its parts in turn cause the end ( Judgement 2. 1. 65. 373). But this concept is external because we are the cause that brings about an artificial end in accordance with our concept. We produce an end of this kind with our will, in a word ( Judgement 2. 1. 65. 373; 2. 1. 64. 369–370). A natural end has its final cause internal to it. Imagine! The concept of this end, too, has a causality reciprocal with its parts. But this concept, if we may so denominate it, is internal to the object itself! That is, its formal causality lies within it ( Judgement 2. 1. 65. 373). Kant suggests that we might think of a natural object as an analogue of an artificial. But he cautions that nature, if she be an artist, works from within (374–375)!

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Consider another example. The cause of a watch lies outside of it. A watchmaker has a concept of an instrument of this kind. With this concept he makes its parts, and its parts in turn make up the watch. But the cause of an organism – say, our watchmaker – lies within himself. An organism has a form, and this form produces its parts, and its parts in turn produce it. An organism can also replace its parts and reproduce itself (374). We find in Kant, then, empirical ends of two kinds. Artificial ends have a final cause external to the object, but natural ends have a final cause internal to their object. Ends both artificial and natural have parts and wholes that are reciprocally causes and effects. But artificial ends exist for us, of course, and natural ends exist for their own sake. But is not a moral end obviously an empirical end in the Kantian sense? Are not our actions both their own causes and their own effects when we perform them for the sake of themselves? Our moral principle is a concept of our organic being and its functions, and this concept can inform our will and its activity as an efficient cause and as a final cause. A moral end would thus resemble an artificial end because our will is its cause. But a moral end would also resemble a natural end because our will is internal to us. Kant is anxious not to postulate the existence of any natural ends. We may assume ends of the natural variety only for the sake of furthering our knowledge. He thus distinguishes two ways of regarding the concept of a natural end. We may use this concept as a regulative one for guiding our inquiry. He calls this regulative concept “a remote analogy” to our own causality ( Judgement 2. 1. 65. 375–376). But we ought not, he continues, to use this concept as a constitutive one for presuming to know what an organism itself is ( Judgement 2. 1. 65. 375; Judgement 2. 1. 68. 382–383). He even places the scientific maxim that nature does nothing in vain on an equal footing with the maxim that nothing happens by chance. Scientists who investigate their structure simply assume that plants and animals have parts that serve various ends ( Judgement 2. 1. 66.). But with a remark Kant also cautions that we here encounter an epistemic duty. We have a scientific duty, he informs us, to explain all natural products with mechanical causes, even those which are most purposive ( Judgement 2. 1. 78. 414–415). But may we not apply what Kant says about regulative and constitutive concepts to moral ends that are empirical? I believe that we already have. For purposes of knowing we may view our hypotheses about our identity as regulative concepts. We may presume them to be true for the sake of testing them, but we do not commit ourselves fully to their veracity. And yet for purposes of acting we may view our hypotheses about ourselves as constitutive concepts. We presume them true for the sake of acting on them and commit ourselves to their veracity only out of practical exigency. But we need not assume that we actually know who we might actually be. But Kant would likely object that, if we accept a final causality that is natural, we would confront a dichotomy of hylozoism or, we might say,

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panpsychism. Either matter has the properties of life or an incorporeal soul imposes itself upon matter. But hylozoism contradicts the essential nature of matter, he asserts, and panpsychism would again contradict the nature of matter or make natural ends supernatural ( Judgement 1. 2. 66. 374–375). I would respond that our will simply happens, through no fault of our own, to be an internal cause of motion and rest. We are a teleological cause, in other, more scientific, terms. But to be a teleological cause, we need not be possessed of any supernatural causality, nor need we be in contradiction with material causality. A plain, old empirical causality works quite nicely, thank you, and matter can retain its mechanical causality. Clearly, there exist many empirical entities that are teleological causes and that acquit themselves in harmony with mechanical causes. We are surrounded by plants and animals of this kind, and among the animals I would number ourselves. What is supernatural or contradictory about the empirical fact that a bald eagle can soar through the sky, that a rainbow trout can swim up a stream, or that we humans can play a fiddle or dance a jig? Our Peripatetic is more straightforward. To attempt to show that nature exists would be silly, he tells us. Obviously, entities of such sort are myriad (Physics 2. 1. 193a3–4). 3. “Goodness, badness, and obligation,” writes William James, “must be realized somewhere in order really to exist. . . . Neither moral relations nor the moral law can swing in vacuo,” he continues with a hint of metaphor. “Their only habitat can be a mind which feels them. . . .” To support his assertion, he argues that only with the arrival of a sentient being could goodness exist, and this goodness would exist only so far as this being “feels anything to be good.” A natural world could have no value if it were bereft of sentient life (Will 6. 189–191, his italics). With these assertions James takes us into a moral world far removed from any Kantian moral world. Or, perhaps, we might better say that we would have to continue further on our way before we could reach a moral realm of the Kantian kind. Kant would argue that moral goodness exists only with the advent of a rational being, not that it exists with the appearance of a sentient being. Only rational nature exists as an end in itself, after all. But he would agree with James that a natural world would have no moral value if it existed by itself. James would thus appear to go astray in overlooking the moral value of rational nature and in advocating only the value of sentient nature. Of course, many philosophers would also wonder about the value of other organic beings that need be neither rational nor sentient, such as ecosystems, geosystems, or stellar systems. He might seem reasonable to argue that inorganic nature can have no value. Yet one might also ask if nature could in fact be inorganic. Indeed, James follows a path that leads to some unfortunate consequences. Our pragmatist would have us forsake a realm of essential

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imperatives and rest content with a realm of mere accidental imperatives. Or, if you prefer Kantian terminology, we would no longer dwell in a world of categorical imperatives but in one of hypothetical imperatives only. A Jamesian imperative cannot command an action as an end in itself but merely as a means to another end. Our end would not be an action of undeniable rationality but merely a satisfaction of an unrequited passion. That James is quite explicit about the passional nature of our moral imperatives no one could possibly deny. He explains in general that a moral obligation can exist only when a concrete person makes an actual claim (Will 6. 194–195). But a claim can arise only when a creature makes a demand, and a demand in turn arises only with desire. To put the matter more plainly, we may assert that an imperative arises with an actual desire (195). Though he does not characterize it as hypothetical, James does distinguish a moral imperative from other obligations. He argues that an imperative arises from a desire of an importunate sort. An imperative he actually defines as a demand of an “urgent and tyrannical desire.” A desire of this sort we are not free to ignore, he informs us. If we do, it will return “to plague us with interminable crops of consequential damages, compunctions, and regrets.” Demands also arise from other desires. But these desires are “gentle and easily put aside” (191, 210–211).19 James could thus advocate a categorical desire. A desire of this kind would define who we are, and it might accordingly seem to define for us an essential imperative. But because it is passional, this desire would make of us essentially irrational beings. Only if we can persuade ourselves to believe that we are not essentially rational would its imperatives be essential. If we cannot foist this belief upon ourselves, we must find that an unyielding desire defines only an accidental imperative. But my reader may demur. Some desires, a Jamesian might insist, present us with an end of value for itself, though some admittedly do not. We must not forget that James recognizes desires of two kinds. Desires of one kind he characterizes as ideal. We have “an innate preference of the more ideal attitude for its own pure sake,” he declares. This attitude, without any consideration of utility, can explain our passion for such human eccentricities as abstruse philosophy, abstract justice, and even music (Will 6. 187–188). Other desires give rise to ends most decidedly utilitarian. These ends we associate with bodily pleasures and pains. Their associations with pleasures can make an object appear to our minds to have some goodness, proximate or remote. James credits Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, and Alexander Bain with showing how significant these associations can be (185–187). The ideal desires might thus seem to yield categorical imperatives, and the utilitarian desires only hypothetical imperatives. James does in fact 19

A resemblance to the Platonic tyrant and his imperious desire is apparent, though his desire is unlawful (Republic 9. 571a–573c).

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suggest that our moral obligations arise from an ideal desire. He asserts that philosophers at least concern themselves with an ideal moral system, and that this system is the source of our moral oughts (191–192). From this demand for an ideal system follows casuistry with all its complications and confusions (198–201). Despite this genteel sophistication, I am obliged to point out that any passional desire, ideal or not, can provision us with imperatives not of the essential variety but only of the accidental sort. If we seek to satisfy a desire, even a desire for an ideal moral system, we do not perform an action for its own sake but for the sake of an ulterior end. If we desire one, we find our end in the satisfaction that a moral system gives to our desire. But this end is not our rational activity itself but an effect of our activity. We act for the sake not of a motive but for an incentive, to use Kant’s terminology. I take an ideal desire of this kind to give us at best an interested disinterest in its objects. James himself acknowledges a disinterest of this interested kind. “The noble thing tastes better . . . ,” he says quite simply. He identifies this interest with a “feeling of inward dignity” that is attached to “spiritual attitudes,” such as “peace, serenity, simplicity, veracity.” These feelings he opposes to others that he denominates vulgar, such as “querulousness, anxiety, egoistic fussiness” (Will 6. 187–188, italics his).20 We might say, I think, that an ideal desire is akin to Humeian sympathy, which also occasions an interested disinterest. But sympathy, of course, finds its object not in abstract ideas but in the moral fortune of others. We feel pleasure at the joy of others and uneasiness at their sorrow. With a quote from Horace, David Hume reminds us that the “human countenance . . . borrows smiles or tears from the human countenance” (Morals 5. 2. 220).21 We find in James, then, a teleology. But we find a teleology that is not rational but passional. Our rational organic nature no longer retains any 20

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Roth would appear to overlook these ideal desires. He worries that we may encounter “some highly questionable consequences” if we allow our desires to determine our values. He argues hypothetically that, if we had a moral universe of four people, we would have to allow that any three of them might desire and therefore demand that a fourth be murdered (Freedom 4. 67–69). James would no doubt respond that our “sense for abstract justice” would cause us to abhor murder much as it causes us to view torture as hideous (Will 6. 187–188). Myers does recognize these ideal desires. But he wonders how James could consistently reject utilitarianism because it may permit dissatisfaction and yet himself fail to accommodate all desires. James even argues, he laments, that we must butcher some part of our moral ideal (James 13. 400). Myers would thus appear to overlook James’s criterion of least dissatisfaction (Will 6. 205–206). What our world makes possible, James observes, is “vastly narrower” than what our desires demand (202–203). Contemporary philosophers not infrequently hold a similar view, sometimes explicitly eschewing moral theory. Slote does, for example. He goes so far as to argue that “a morality of benevolence sees both attention to moral principles/theories and intrinsic concern for the moral character of one’s actions as by their very nature getting in the way of one’s concern for others” (Morals 2. 46, emphasis his).

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intrinsic value, and it is reduced to instrumental value only. Nor does our sentient organic nature appear to present any intrinsic value. What might this intrinsic value be? I would ask. A value of this kind could be only a passional desire for the sake of its own desiring. Any satisfaction would be an afterthought, though a pleasant one to be sure. But could desiring be its own end? I have my doubts. Why is James so keen on a passional teleology for his ethics? He prefers a teleology of this kind because he spurns any moral ontology of absolute forms (Will 6. 194–195). But with an absolute ontology he also forsakes implicitly not only a categorical imperative of a Kantian sort but also a moral good present in our rational activity itself. His assumption would appear to be that an eternal ontology is the only rational moral ontology. This assumption is unfortunate precisely because it leaves him with only a Kantian hypothetical imperative and its insistent ontology of passion. My response to James is by now obvious. I can agree with James against Kant that there are no absolute values. He is quite clear about their impossibility. To hold absolute values would be to hold a dogmatic ethical philosophy. But any ethical philosophy worthy of the name can be hypothetical only. James is famous for his assertion that there can be no final truth in ethics any more than in physics until “the last man has had his experience and said his say” (184). I can also agree with James when he argues that we cannot allow ourselves to be moral skeptics. He is most intolerant of such an attitude. To be a moral skeptic is to abandon moral philosophy and its very goal, he rightly asserts. Skepticism is not a possible result of any philosophy but only a “residual alternative to all philosophy” that some might embrace in discouragement or despair (184–185). But, then, how do we determine our values if they are not absolute? We must now part company with James. He overlooks the possibility of a doxastic rationality when he attempts to walk a straight and narrow path between dogmatism and skepticism. He does not even consider that we may entertain moral hypotheses about ourselves by gathering and garnering empirical evidence through our senses. He appeals not to external sensation for our moral guidance but to internal sensation only. He considers not what our eyes and ears tell us but only what our pleasures and pains do. James would even go so far as to argue that we may recognize a system of abstract values in a fashion that is not dogmatic but passional. A divine ideal order we may justify only by appeal to “the ‘everlasting ruby vaults’ of our own human hearts.” Its claim can bind us only if we can feel it, in other words. It can have no hold on us if our hearts do not respond (Will 6. 195–197). Values less abstract require the assent of our desire as well. A comparison between values must, he argues, rest with the perception of someone. “Its esse is percipi,” he avers. But the esse of this percipi, again, is not one of

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external sentiment, such as sight or sound, but one of internal sentiment. To determine which is better and which worse, we must feel the one ideal to be right and we must feel the other ideal to be wrong (192–193, his italics). Despite this difference, we may, nonetheless, glean significant insights from our pragmatist. James does recognize an important distinction between moral hypotheses that we have formulated. This distinction concerns not so much the nature of our hypotheses as our employment of them. We may make use of hypotheses for different purposes, he argues. Though he does not use the terms, we might say that he recognizes hypotheses employed with a cognitive purpose and with a conative purpose. James would distinguish these purposes by our attitudes toward our hypotheses. An agnostic positivism underlies our use of hypotheses with a cognitive purpose. He argues that an attitude of this kind many philosophers allege to underlie modern science. A scientist, they hold, ought to withhold judgment until conclusive evidence makes its appearance. Nor ought he to accept any hypothesis if no evidence is accessible (Will 2. 54–55). One might argue that a positive gnosticism underlies our use of hypotheses with a conative purpose. James argues rightly that, when vital interests are at stake, we cannot maintain an attitude of neutrality. Belief and doubt are “living attitudes and involve conduct on our part.” To doubt a hypothesis is to act as if it were not true. For example, if we doubt that the room is cold, we would keep the windows open as if it were still warm (54–55). The term “gnosticism” would make James nervous, to be sure, and he himself would not very likely use it. He tends to reserve the term for referring to our alleged concepts of unseen, changeless entities. But I am using this term merely for our ordinary concepts and percepts of seen, changing entities. Ought we not to believe in them, especially at times when our vital interests are at stake? One would think so. James rejects the attitude of agnostic positivism. He counters this attitude by arguing that what I would call a gnostic attitude must in fact underlie even science itself and its advances. This argument is a reoccurring theme in his work. He appeals to our desire for logical and mathematical ideals. We should never have established these ideals if we had not first believed in them and sought to discern them. But the ideal desire arises we know not how, he tells us (55–56). He wants most of all to demonstrate that a believing attitude is essential for practical action. We may do nothing, he in effect asserts, without belief in our hypotheses. Our belief may be the decisive factor in making its object into a fact. To show that it may, he offers the famous example of a leap of faith in a very literal sense. Imagine that you are mountaineering and have climbed yourself into a craggy corner. Your only escape is to leap across a chasm. Surely, James argues, your chance of making the leap is much greater if you can well up inside with the confidence that you can do it (58–59).

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I find James’s distinction between our uses of hypotheses to be a valuable one. But I cannot accept James’s rejection of an agnostic attitude. Our attempts at self-knowledge, I would argue, arise best from an agnostic positivism, to use his term. When we are at our leisure, free from practical obligations, we may allow ourselves to dally and to reflect on our impressions of ourselves. We may even find no little pleasure in entertaining various hypotheses, serious or silly, about what we might perhaps be or perhaps be about. To confirm or to disconfirm these hypotheses, whatever they may be, we cannot have and never can have any conclusive evidence. We must remain forever isolated behind the vexed veil of human experience with its meager concepts and percepts. We would indeed have to wait until the very knell of doomsday, if we are in fact destined to awake from the delusions of our dear cogitations with their residual opacity. When action calls, however, we would best adopt an attitude of positive gnosticism. But, I would argue, our gnosticism must rest on a choice and on a well-informed choice. Given the evidence that we have, we must act on the best-supported hypothesis we have. Or, rather, we must act on a hypothesis that we have yet to refute. In speculation and action both, may not a hypothesis not yet undone by evidence best enable us to face up to our problems and predicaments? We may, then, distinguish between cognitive and conative hypotheses. A cognitive hypothesis we enjoy in speculation to define our action and ourselves. We do in fact entertain various concepts and use these concepts tentatively to further inquiry. And we entertain our concepts for their own sake both as ideas related merely to other ideas and as ideas related to particular percepts that we presume to be impressions of actual objects. At least, we may do so if we wish. But a conative hypothesis we employ to perform an action. Those impressions which we take to be matters of fact can have a bearing on our practical endeavors. Ready or not, we are at times obliged to act. We can find ourselves in situations that simply demand action of us. But a conative hypothesis, let us hope, is not a yarn spun within our brain. We must act on a hypothesis that appears to rest on pertinent perceptual information. No mere belief, however strongly we believe it, can enable us to fly across a chasm, for example. I would urge, then, action on a hypothesis supported by empirical evidence, but James would allow action on a hypothesis supported by mere emotion. Why, I would ask, can we not use the pragmatic method to define rational essential imperatives as well as passional accidental ones? Our pragmatic hypotheses, I would aver, we may choose with empirical evidence and not with felt emotions. Our imperatives may rest on a nature recognized rationally, not on an object merely desired.

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James argues insightfully that our tedium vitae comes in large measure from our oversophisticated scientific agnosticism (Will 2. 38–39). I can only concur with his diagnosis. To overcome our ennui and to become happy, we must commit ourselves to a moral hypothesis. But do we not have a better prognosis if we put our trust in perceptible entities known empirically? Or is our prognosis better if we put faith in perceptible entities sought impulsively? Kant offers a similar distinction between these attitudes toward our hypotheses, if clothed in a different terminology. He distinguishes between what he calls regulative (regulativ) and constitutive (constitutiv) ideas (Prolegomena 3. 348–350). The concept of our soul theoretical reason can use as a regulative idea for guiding inquiry in an attempt to advance our empirical knowledge (355). Reason of this kind, he argues, may also use this concept as a regulative idea to refute any materialistic explanations of our soul, which is an ultimate subject. And to this concept as an unknown entity we may refer our inner sensations (334). But theoretical reason cannot use the concept of our soul as a constitutive idea for advancing inquiry beyond our empirical knowledge. An idea that is constitutive takes our concept of a soul to adhere in its object (350). But knowledge of a theoretical kind we can attain only through experience, and experience we may have only while we are alive and awake. We can infer, he agrees, that our soul persists for the sake of experience, but we can empirically prove its persistence in our present life only (335). Yet Kant allows that practical reason may use the concept of our soul as a constitutive idea. Reason of the practical kind may do so because this concept provides a ground for our ability to act in accordance with the moral law. An immortal soul is for us a necessity if we are to attain perfect conformity of our actions to the moral law. But the use of this idea, he states, is immanent within practical reason only. Kant adds that theoretical reason must concede the existence of our soul but that reason of this kind cannot conceive the nature of our soul. That is, theoretical reason accepts from practical reason the fact that our soul exists, though it has no experience of what our soul is. After all, a soul underlies our internal sensations, which we would need for any experience (Practical 1. 2. 7. 134–136). I would suggest that we might best view this distinction between regulative and constitutive ideas as one between a regulative and a constitutive hypothesis about our identity. I can only agree that theoretical reason cannot prove the postulate of an immortal soul. Nor could our theoretical reason prove the postulate of a mortal soul. Our poor intellect can prove nothing at all. We can only hypothesize about entities apparently existent, whether they be ourselves or anything else. With our reason in its theoretical use we may hypothesize about what our soul is, and we may use our hypothesis regulatively for inquiry about its

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nature. Though we cannot form an absolute concept of it, we may attempt to form a concept of our soul relative to our experienced percepts. We may formulate hypotheses and examine their consequences. In light of their consequences, we eventually refute our hypotheses, of course, and then reformulate them. And so on our merry way. Nor in its practical use can our reason conclusively prove that we possess either an immortal or a mortal soul. But we must inevitably hypothesize about what our soul might be with our practical reason, and our hypothesized concept we may in our action use constitutively. We must postulate a concept of our soul when we act, though our concept has no absolute claim on us. We find ourselves obliged to take on an assumed identity, you might say. Under our assumed identity we are also obliged to play our part on an assumed stage. Our distinction between regulative and constitutive hypotheses applies to our circumstances as well. How could we take a single step without a postulated foot and a postulated foothold in an arena of some postulated sort? We are surrounded by our postulates and their postulated objects, however preposterous our postulates may in a somber metaphysical mood appear! Our theoretical reason with its hesitant, theoretical hypotheses can only wink at our practical reason and its impetuous but practical hypotheses. If we wish, we might view Kant’s postulate of immortality as a metaphor. We may not postulate a conceptual immortality that endures for all eternity and is outside of time. But we may postulate a perceptual immortality that is inside of time and endures for an indefinite temporal period, surviving various hypotheses about what we might be.22 You see, then, that we are not immortal spirits who must through selflegislation confirm our actions to any absolute legality. We are not rational beings as such who follow universal and necessary imperatives. We are rather mortal sprites, one might say, who are most moral when we perform actions that we presume to be felicitous. We are merely rational animals whose imperatives, which are general and contingent, need not be entirely inharmonious with our nature, which is equally contingent and particular. Are not four score years enough? Nevertheless, I cannot deny the possibility of our immortality. How could anyone deny it? With our theoretical hypotheses we can have no conclusive knowledge, I remind you. But quite possibly an immortal soul could clothe 22

Nagel would seem to agree. He hypothesizes that he is “whatever persisting individual in the objective order underlies the subjective continuities of the mental life that I call mine.” He also points out that this concept of himself contains “the blank space for such an objective completion, but does not fill it in.” This persistent object is, he suggests, “as a matter of fact the intact brain” (View 3. 37–40). But I wonder why Nagel might identify himself with his brain, if only hypothetically. Are we not rather a persistent teleological entity? And is not our brain a mere substrate required by hypothetical necessity?

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herself with mortal flesh and blood. By so doing she might well bring to life the otherwise inert constituents of our mortal existence. But I ask, What empirical confirmation could we have of a soul of this sort? If you find any intimations of immortality, please be kind enough to let me know. James, too, admits that immortality of the usual sort is not impossible. He distinguishes between productive and transmissive functions for our brains. Human biochemistry need not be the cause of our consciousness. Our physiology could easily be the mere occasion of our thoughts. Human minds might reflect immortal life prismatically, so to speak, as the stained-glass windows in our churches reflect the sunlight. This hypothesis is a distinctly logical possibility, he tells us (Immortality, 10–19). And so one can agree with James when he argues that human action is what it appears to be and nothing more. We can know our activities, whatever they may really be, only through our experience of them. Their esse, as is the esse of anything else, is their percipi. Or, as he asserts metaphorically, “the curtain is the picture” (Empiricism 6. 167–168). But that we may be mistaken about them he cannot deny. Our experience may so easily be in error (182–184). But we ought not to follow him when he attempts to determine what the character of these experienced activities might be. May we not have some knowledge of what these appearances are, even though we have no experience of what underlies them? We can form a concept of them, can we not? True, we cannot have an eternal concept of our activities, but a temporal concept we can indeed have. Our concept can be true only at a given time and place. And even if it is true, our concept is fated to be false. Things do change. James argues that our action is only what we feel it to be and nothing more. What we experience, he asserts, is “something sustaining a felt purpose against felt obstacles and overcoming or being overcome” (Empiricism 6. 167–168). Causal activity is “just what we feel it to be,” he claims. He thus recurs to the felt “conjunction which our own activity-series reveal” (Empiricism 6. 185–186, his italics). This conjunction, you might recall, is the feeling that makes anything what it is in our experience (Empiricism 2. 49–52). But he does, despite this difference, rightly recognize that we find activity where we find change (Empiricism 6. 161). And so I must concede that his general description of activity is apt enough. Activity may be either mental or physical, and it may be directed or not. Further, our activities, if directed, exhibit a tendency that may meet with resistance, and with effort a tendency may overpower resistance eventually or perhaps be itself overpowered (165– 166). A Jamesian might now protest. Quoting Bradley, James explicitly observes that our activity is “the expansion of an idea with which our Self is identified, against an obstacle.” He even states that an elaboration of this concept through multiple cases would present a mere exercise in synonymy

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(Empiricism 6. 163–165). Does he not thus suggest that we can know what we are about? And, further, that we embody an idea in an activity, perhaps even in an activity of value for its own sake? I am afraid not. We must not forget that James is unable to advocate a moral teleology resting on a rational causality that is final. He cannot do so because he thinks that all final causality that is rational must rest on an eternal idea. He overlooks any final causality resting on empirical ideas or opinions. As a consequence, he proffers an idea of a self that is a passional teleology only. This idea, even if expanded in action, must service our passion and give it satisfaction. He could, of course, argue that we unfold an idea in our action, and that our idea can control our feeling. He would thus recognize that we have a self that is a rational teleology. But he would have to accept moral concepts as less than absolute. He might also recognize that other organisms besides human beings exhibit a natural teleology. They may not be conscious of their teleology, but they do embody a natural form in their activities. Even on his own account our passional teleology is a nature that perpetuates itself. Other animals appear to exhibit a teleology of this kind. But rational and passional beings are not the only denizens of existence as we know it. Plants and even planets appear to have teleologies that perpetuate their natures. Plants clearly do so through nutrition, growth, and reproduction. But planetary systems maintain their organization through what I understand to be physical fields. Witness the order of our solar system. A final word from James about the practical import of a teleology that is immanent. I would agree that our teleology is without any transcendental sublimity (Empiricism 6. 186–187). It has a sublimity of a different order, as we shall see ere long.23 Even though our teleology can give us no peep beyond the illusions of our concepts and percepts. We can never hope to lift the veil of human experience and to witness a world of certain truth. We shall never know if behind our apparent reality and its shifting scenes lies a reality more real. At least, not in this life. But I would also agree that the purpose of solving our ontological problem is to point us in the direction of solving more urgent problems in our practical lives. Our philosophical problems are really superficial, James rightly reminds us. The deeper problems are those of the significance and meaning of our lives. These problems are concrete ones of our strivings and of our successes and failures (187–188). We do, despite our self-imposed philosophizing, wish to live better lives. At least, I hope that we do! But these concrete problems are, I am obliged to argue, daimonic problems. We must ask ourselves, What might constitute happiness for us in this uncalled-for time and place? How may we express our own rationality as 23

In Chapter 6.

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itself an end in circumstances that for us mortals can be at bottom only absurdities of a metaphysical variety? After all, the teleologies that we may perchance grasp in ourselves and in our surroundings remain for us no more than momentary mysteries embedded in shifting sensations. 4. The ghost of David Hume, barely discernible in the half-light of my computer monitor, has been peeping over my shoulder with some interest. It now leans forward and whispers into my ear, “Absurd, indeed! Why didn’t I think of putting it that way? You mean of course that the principle of contradiction applies only to relations of ideas and not to matters of fact. Or, if you do not mind, only to mathematical and not to moral matters. And so if they can easily be other than they are, matters of fact, including matters of human morality, are quite – maybe absurd is too strong – let us rather say arbitrary. No, not arbitrary, either – merely contingent, shall we say? “But, my dear fellow, have you forgotten what the basis for our reasoning concerning matters of fact might be? I grant you that human actions, even though absurd, I mean contingent, can be necessary. But the source of this necessity is not to be found in our actions. No, its source lies within the human breast. In fact, the necessity which we see in physical things also lies within our breast. The basis is the same in both instances and is merely psychological. In a word, it is nothing other than mental habit” (see Understanding 7. 2.)! After its kindly admonition my ghostly guest took its leave. I can only report that I felt as confounded as I was astounded by its utterance. But the apparition was somehow aware of my confusion. “The necessity of human action,” I heard it continue unseen, “as of external things, is that between experienced causes and effects. But the causal relationship rests merely on our associations of antecedents with their consequents. We may observe a constant conjunction between one phenomenon and another, and after repeated observations, when we see the one, we expect the other. That is why we expect the farmer to farm, the cobbler to cobble, and the builder to build. “You could not possibly have meant that human nature and action have so little connection with one another that the one does not precede the other with any regularity, and that we may not infer from the one to the other with any confidence, could you? If you had, you would be forced to conclude that there is neither necessity nor causal connection between our characters and our occupations. There would indeed be no necessity between phenomena of any kind, natural or moral” (see Understanding 8. 1. 82–94). “Thank you, kind spirit!” I blurted out aloud, as I recollected my Aristotle. I now realized that I had been considering a necessity of a kind other than that of which Hume speaks. Hume speaks of a necessity uniting human characters with their conduct. After having become acquainted with them,

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we may know other individuals well enough to be quite confident about what they must do in this or that situation. That is to say, we can frequently infer from our knowledge of their character what actions they will perform. Why? Because they have always, or almost always, done so. The necessity of this kind, Aristotle would argue, resembles a necessity that is absolute (7$8!) or mathematical (9 ! 1). Mathematical necessity is found in deductive reasoning, especially in the mathematical sciences but in the moral and natural sciences, too. It is found between premisses and their conclusions. If certain definitions are granted, then certain conclusions necessarily follow. If, for example, a line is straight, then a triangle has internal angles equal to two right angles (Physics 2. 9. 199b34–35, 200a15–18). But the contrary is not true, of course (200a18). That is, certain definitions need not be necessary, even if certain conclusions are drawn. Different assumptions can lead to the same conclusions. One may use different premisses to construct different proofs of the same geometrical theorem, for example. Indeed, there are many proofs of the Pythagorean theorem. Anyone who has worked it out surely remembers how unusual and intriguing is the proof in the Meno. I have been speaking of what Aristotle calls hypothetical necessity. Necessity of this sort is one uniting our means to our end. We find necessity of this kind in our deliberations about what we ought or ought not to do. If we wish to attain a certain end, we must of necessity take certain measures that can bring about our end. For example, if we wish to build a house, we must purchase bricks and mortar, say (Physics 2. 9. 200a19–26, 28–30). But, again, not the contrary. If the means are present, the end does not follow of necessity. If bricks and mortar are present, we need not construct our house (199b35–200a15, 200a26–27). We might decide instead to use these same materials to build a tavern. Or we may decide not to build. Hume attempts to apply mathematical necessity to matters of fact. He does not find the basis for this necessity in the principle of contradiction, however. This principle applies, he rightly argues, only to relations of ideas. But he does attempt to find a psychological basis for necessity in matters of fact. Necessity of this factual kind arises simply from a felt propensity to anticipate the future. That this propensity can become a habit and thus a psychological necessity is his claim (again Understanding 7. 2.). This Humeian necessity Aristotle would call probability or what happens for the most part (:! * $;) (Physics 2. 8. 199b24–26, for example). The question for Aristotle is one of direction. A present antecedent has only a probable connection with a future consequent because it may encounter an impediment. If certain materials are present, and even if we try our very best, we may still fail in our endeavor to build a house. Our bricklayer may quit, our bank may withdraw financing, or an earthquake might bring all efforts to naught.

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But a past antecedent has a necessary connection with a present consequent. The building materials must obviously have been present if we have built our house. Indeed, if the house is still standing, the materials must still be there. Hume in effect concedes that what he calls necessity is in principle only probability. Necessity he defines as a sequence of antecedents and consequents that admits of no exception known to us (see Understanding 7. 2. 74– 77). And probability is a sequence that admits of known exceptions (Understanding 6. 57–59). But he allows that what we think a necessary sequence may turn out to be probable only. Someone with whom we are acquainted may act in an unaccustomed manner, for example. A person of mild disposition may become peevish because of a toothache (Understanding 7. 1. 88). Even physical events may take an unexpected turn. For example, an earthquake might destroy a house (91). I would point out, however, that necessity of the kind Aristotle recognizes complements Humeian necessity. When we deliberate, we must reason about our character and our actions as causes of whatever end we wish to achieve. We begin, of course, with our end, and we ask what means are necessary for us to attain the end for which we wish. But in our deliberations we do include deductions about our abilities and activities and their possible effects. If we do not have confidence in ourselves and our resources, we give up the end under consideration (see Ethics 3. 3. 1112b11–31). I would also note that the basis for necessity of either the Aristotelian or the Humeian variety rests solely on our mental associations and habits, as our kindly spirit urged. How do we know what means are required for what ends? From observation, of course. We observe that we attained these ends, but those ends we did not attain. We see that our successes relied more often than not on these means, and that these means were not present for our failures. We thus become accustomed to believing in hypothetical necessity. If we are to attain these ends, we are obliged to employ these means. Efficient and final causality, to use more scholarly language, both rest on mental habit. The question remains one of direction. If we constantly see the one precede the other, we do subsequently infer that an efficient cause is a harbinger of a final cause. This inference, however, would not be necessary but only probable. Similarly, if we constantly see the other conditioned by the one, we may subsequently infer that a final cause is conditioned by its usual efficient cause. And this inference is necessary – hypothetically necessary. Our observations thus accustom us to look both forward and backward with our inferences. We do, of course, agree with Hume that we can never know whether our sensations resemble the objects that are their causes. And that we can never know whether our sensations actually refer to any objects that might be their causes. I would add to these skeptical reflections a third borrowed from the Greeks. Our sensations, if they refer to any, refer to objects that can be other

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than they are. These objects appear to constantly change, even if they be natural ends. At a minimum they surely come to be and cease to be. Actually, Hume himself recognizes in principle the instability of moral objects, including ourselves. The principle of contradiction does not apply to them, he argues, because their contraries can come to be without contradiction (Understanding 4. 1. 25–26, once again). But he apparently fails to explore fully the skeptical import of their instability. We can never have certain knowledge of them, not even knowledge that is psychologically certain! The difference between Hume and Aristotle on the concept of necessity is thus at bottom verbal. What Hume calls necessity, Aristotle calls probability. They would thus appear to agree on the facts of the matter. Yet, perhaps because of this verbal difference, Hume does neglect to offer an analysis of hypothetical necessity. This omission entails a consequence of some significance for his moral theory. His analysis of moral obligation is not as explicit and extensive as it might be. I am arguing that all moral necessity is hypothetical, but that all hypothetical necessity need not be moral. Hypothetical necessity may be of an essential kind or of an accidental kind. The difference turns on what we take to be our end. Do we take our end to be what we most reasonably hypothesize are substantial qualities of our being? If so, we engage in conduct that is moral, I argue. Or do we take for an end what are most likely adventitious qualities of our being? If so, we are less than moral in our conduct. Whatever qualities we take to be our end determine what actions are incumbent upon us. We may, if we wish, pursue our rational activity as itself an end, or we may utilize our rational activity as a mere means to another end. If we wish ourselves to be happy, we must perform actions that are ends in themselves. But if we wish to indulge in pleasure, we need only perform actions that procure satisfaction of one sort or another for our passions. We can see, then, that our passions can impose upon us a hypothetical necessity. Indeed, one might take this obligation, though inessential, for a moral one. Suppose that we have a moral sentiment of some kind, and that we can satisfy this sentiment with a perception of the happiness of others. A feeling of this moral kind, Hume argues, is sympathy. Must we not, on occasion at least, take certain measures to secure the happiness of others, be they family or friends or fellow citizens? May we not even go so far as to devise general rules for the furtherance of their happiness, especially in society and its wider circle (see Treatise 3. 2. 477–501; or Morals 3. 1. 183– 192)? Our passion may thus incline us toward an end; but our end, even if passional, determines by hypothetical necessity our obligations. If we are to satisfy our sympathy, we then find ourselves obliged to perform certain actions as means toward this end. Our end thus need not be rational, but our means toward it must yet be necessary. I would remind you, however,

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that a passional end cannot be moral, unless we can persuade ourselves that we are essentially irrational.24 A moral feeling of the Humeian variety, one might say, imposes a disinterested interest upon us. In fact, Hume argues that it does. Sympathy has two aspects, he tell us. The one aspect is social, and the other selfish. Sympathy takes for its object the happiness of others. This passion makes us generous and causes us to do our part in society. But sympathy remains a passion of ours, and we can take pleasure in satisfying it. In this regard it bears a resemblance to any other passion (Morals 9. 2. 281–282).25 But we can now espy some curious similarities between a rational moral end and a passional end thought to be moral. The social aspect of moral sentiment especially distinguishes this feeling from the other, merely selfish feelings. Sympathy, Hume explains, is not only common to all, but it also is comprehensive of all (Morals 9. 1. 271–272). Sympathy comprehends for its object all humanity. We find agreeable all those persons beneficial to society, he argues, no matter how removed their actions might be from our own interests. We feel displeasure toward those who are harmful to society, even when we ourselves are not affected (273). Sympathy also has a commonality. As long as the human heart remains what it is, we can all agree in our approval of those who advance human happiness and in our disapproval of those who hinder it. We all have a common affection in sympathy (Morals 9. 1. 272–273). Indeed, Hume can hardly imagine a human being without some tincture of this social sentiment. Disinterested malice has no place in the human breast, he asserts (Morals 5. 2. 226–227).26 24

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Hume is, of course, famous for his observation that one may not derive an ought from an is (Treatise 3. 1. 469–470). But what he would appear to be saying from my perspective is that one may not derive a passional ought from a rational is. Surely, we may derive a rational obligation from a rational fact. We find incumbent upon us certain actions if we wish to attain an end that we perceive to be good. Our presumption, which Hume does not share, is that we are possessed of a free will, which can of itself be a cause of our action. But, of course, we may also derive a passional obligation from a passional fact. We again are committed to certain actions if we wish to attain an end that we feel to be good. We must now persuade ourselves that we can rely only on passion to be a source of our action. The contemporary progeny of Hume are, of course, the sociobiologists. They offer much empirical evidence in support of the fact that we do have passions with a social object. Dennett subscribes to a position of this sort, which he calls, provocatively no doubt, secular humanism. He also presents a good critical review of recent literature on the topic. He rightly criticizes some sociobiologists for attempting to reduce social instincts to simple selfish functions, usually associated with our gene pool (Idea 16. 3.). The similarity between Hume’s and Kant’s theories in these two respects is quite remarkable. Wiggins in fact asserts that “what makes the difference between Kant and Hume has the width of a knife edge.” Kant and Hume both view the foundation of morality as resting on solidarity, he argues. Kant advocates “the solidarity of rational beings qua rational,” and Hume “the solidarity of human beings qua human” (“Requirements” 101). But Wiggins does not distinguish between essential and accidental imperatives. If he did, he would

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But a rational moral end is also common and comprehensive. An end of this kind is clearly comprehensive of all persons. If we all are rational teleologies, would we not be equally objects of moral concern to one another? Much as we may act for the sake of our own rational activity, so may we not act for the sake of the rational activity of another? My assumption is the modest one that we are by nature each and every one of us an animal that is rational. The assumption that we are all by nature rational shows that our moral imperatives are also common to us one and all. We each and every one of us have the intellectual power to recognize the rational teleology in ourselves and in others. We also possess the will power to act in a manner consistent with our rational nature and the rational nature of others. We may, if we so choose, act from our human rationality itself for the sake of our rationality as an end in itself. The similarity in the comprehensiveness of our moral end draws attention to a dissimilarity not unworthy of mention. If we are not transcendentally rational, and if we are not sympathetically irrational, could we not possibly extend a moral end beyond rational, if mortal, beings? Might not an end of this kind include other teleological entities? We might, then, have some obligations to nonhuman entities or even to non-animate entities. Though we may wonder, Would they, if not rational or animate, have any obligations toward us? Immanuel Kant, of course, cannot so extend his concept of an end of moral worth. An end in itself can for him be only an entity with a rationality of a transcendental sort. But Hume can extend the object of sympathy beyond human beings. We can sympathize with the plight of other animals, and they can also sympathize with us. Pets do, especially. Indeed, Hume himself recognizes that animals are “susceptible of kindness, both to their own species and to ours” (Morals app. 2. 300).27

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surely agree that, as a Kantian solidarity of rational beings rests on an essential imperative of rationality, so a Humeian solidarity of human beings rests on an accidental imperative of sympathy. Wiggins rightly argues that our feelings of benevolence or sympathy define for Hume a “shared standard or ‘abstract rule’” that may serve “for the evaluation of characters” and “derivatively” their actions (84–87). He also suggests, again rightly I think, that this standard has “the full normative force of categorical requirements.” The standard applies to someone who “does not feel such affection.” To be kind to children, for example, is “a natural human response,” and not to be kind is “cruel and inhuman” (87–89, 91–93). Foot, unfortunately, does not agree that we might extend any moral status to animals. She recognizes that other species possess a form of goodness common to all living beings. But she restricts moral philosophy to “the conceptual form of certain judgements about human beings”; and the treatment of animals, she argues, falls “within the usual distinctions of virtues and vices.” Hence, she can assert that there is “something wrong” with an Englishman who allegedly had the birds in his aviary killed and stuffed (Goodness post. 116, her italics).

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But methinks that I hear a voice. “How can you pretend to have in your moral theory any causality worthy of the name without having necessity included in its definition?” the voice cries out in a crisp British accent. “If it is not a habit or a passion, your will can be only an empty concept. The will as you conceive it can have no causal content. There simply can be no causality where there is no necessity. Any cause has a necessary connection with its effect” (Understanding 8. 1. 95–96). You have me there, I thought. But only in part do you have me! I might say, with a grand air of paradox, that the human will does work its effects without any cause. But I would not be entirely true to the facts of the matter. One cannot say that our will is without any cause whatsoever. Human freedom is, rather, self-caused. That is, our will has an internal cause of its own activity precisely because it is a teleological entity. Our will works its effects without external causes only. These external causes, usually denominated alien, are most proximately our passions. Our will, then, does have a content with a causal necessity, but its causal necessity lies within its very self. Its content is our concept of the end we wish to attain and of the means we must use to attain our end. If we wish to build a house, we find ourselves obliged to perform certain actions. If we wish to bake some bread, we also find ourselves obliged to perform certain actions. The actions necessitated for building and those necessitated for baking are not the same. But the necessity is the same. By hypothetical necessity the content of our end does determine the content of our obligations, be they for building or baking. But we also find within our will a necessity in Hume’s sense. Though this necessity we had best denominate probability. We obviously find probable connections between internal causes and their effects within any teleology, rational or not. These causal connections are perhaps most obvious in gestation and maturation, but they can become conspicuous by their absence in disease and decrepitude. But these connections are also apparent in actions of value for themselves. In our happiness, in a word! Hume challenges us to find for our idea of freedom an origin, presumably in our impressions (Morals 8. 1. 95–96). I concede to him that we cannot find an impression of any cause without a necessary connection with its effect, though, again, we would better call the connection probable. But I would also draw his attention to the fact that we can find an impression of a cause with an internal rather than an external connection with its effect. An impression of this sort is that which arises from our observation of natural teleologies. A teleology, human or not, is a cause of its own activity. Its formal cause is both an efficient and a final cause. Our will, then, has a content, but its content is neither a transcendental rationality nor a passional irrationality. Our will has rather a rational, immanent content. Its content is of this sort because human reason of a practical kind can grasp concepts of our means and of our ends. Our practical

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reason does so empirically, I have argued, with the aid of examples, usually remembered or imagined. Or, if you prefer, with the aid of the pragmatic method. But Hume might likely object that what we take to be a rational cause is merely a certain looseness in our thinking and in fact an illusion. Because of certain faint images, or velleties, we may fancy that we could have done other than we did. But we could not, he argues. Our passions determine our actions by necessity, he would no doubt continue. Anyone familiar with our character would know very well what we are about to do, despite any frettings and fumings on our part (Understanding 8. 1. 94. n. 1; Treatise 2. 3. 408– 409). But the looseness in our thinking is real! Hume admits as much in his very objection. We can now see the reason for its looseness. How can we ever be sure that our best efforts will attain their ends? We cannot. Our actions lead to their effects not by necessity but by probability, even actions that take themselves as their end. Only if we had never failed could we say that our actions attain their ends by necessity. But we would hardly be contingent beings if we met with success of such an unexceptional sort. In our deliberations, then, we do experience a certain looseness. We cannot be sure of attaining our goal, whatever it may be. We know that on occasion, perhaps more often than we might care to admit, we may be mistaken about our goal. And we may easily mistake our means as well. Hume would surely agree about these errors. We may attempt to embark on our endeavors with false suppositions about our means or our ends, he reminds us (Treatise 2. 3. 415–416). But I would remind you that our will is self-caused and, therefore, in a sense uncaused. With our empirical knowledge and its loose inferences our will can function autonomously, free from alien causes. My position is, again, similar to that which William James takes. James argues, contrary to Hume, that our will is a chance cause because it is not only something with a positive content but also something unconditioned. Yet he argues not that our will is rational, but that it is passional. I would not deny, however, that our character appears to possess a certain psychological necessity of the Humeian variety. Our choices leave their mark upon us in our moral habits, and we do well to develop these habits in accord with our natural abilities in their splendid varieties. These moral habits, if malformed, can also restrict our reason and its causality. Not only habit but even passion, if wayward, can curtail our rationality. Nor would I deny that we may naturally make inferences, seemingly mathematical, about the character and conduct of others. But these inferences we ought to subordinate to a consideration of their ends. We ought to ask, Is another person acting for an essential or accidental end? We ought then to employ hypothetical necessity in our reasoning: If he intends to do this, he must, therefore, do that. We may then employ a Humeian necessity

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so-called: If he has a character of this sort, he will probably, therefore, be able or unable to perform an action of that sort. 5. A temperance of an epistemological and ontological variety we have now discovered! We ought to strike a mean between an asceticism of absolute concepts and a hedonism of internal percepts. I am advocating instead a daimonism of empirical concepts, which we may glean from external percepts. We are, after all, neither gods nor angels nor mere animals but rather rational animals. To seek our practical goodness in a motive of pure rationality is simply a goal a tad too rarefied for rational animals, such as ourselves. We need no transcendental imperatives. Immanuel Kant recognizes our rational nature, but he asks far too much of it. Even he must bring down to earth his ideal of self-legislation for its own sake. He must admit as matter for his formal law a sensuous content taken from our internal impressions. At least, for us humans he must.28 But to seek our goodness in an incentive of sensuous impulse is perhaps a tad too uninspired for a rational animal. Kant is right to argue that we abandon our rationality if we seek our goodness in mere pleasure. Surely, rationality is essential to our nature, and a rational pleasure is most appropriate for us. But even a rational pleasure we cannot allow to become our moral incentive. A purely physical incentive is beyond the pale. What we ought to seek as our goodness is an essential end rather than an accidental end. But we ought to recognize a motive not of pure concepts but of empirical concepts derived from external percepts. Our goal ought to be to be ourselves, ought it not? What else could or would we be? But we are mere matters of fact, are we not? We must, then, know ourselves by our percepts. External percepts, though they are on occasion deceptive, are preferable over internal, which can be out-and-out devious. Daimonic temperance, then, lies on a metaphysical mean of empirical concepts. Within this metaphysical mean we must, of course, discover more specific moral means, as we shall soon see.29 These more specific means we must find and refine through our particular percepts of ourselves and our surroundings. I would now beg to observe, gentle reader, that our morality is a mystery! Indeed, a mortal morality is an absurd mystery! But it is an absurd mystery that we are privileged to enjoy. Why are we obliged to act for the sake of an end? one may ask. If we act for an essential end, we admittedly act in accord with our nature as we know it. But how are we able to create actions that are consonant with a rational motive? If we live for an accidental end, we fail 28

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to live up to our nature. But, even so, how can we create actions consistent with a mere incentive? Even our dear Socrates cannot explain how he manages to stay in his prison cell when he might easily flee and save his skin. He tells us, true enough, that he deems staying better than fleeing. To accept his execution is to act justly. But he cannot further explain to his dearest friends how he can possibly act in accordance with this concept of justice. “I would be most delighted,” he states, referring to a final cause, “to become the pupil of anyone who is able in any way to explain a cause of this sort” (Phaedo 99c). Immanuel Kant, too, encounters a metaphysical mystery both in our nature and in nature herself. How reason might itself be practical, how it might produce a moral interest, is beyond the power of reason to explain (Groundwork 3. 461). Human reason, he reiterates, cannot solve the problem of how a law can determine our will. This problem is the very problem of how our will is free (Practical 1. 1. 72). We simply cannot determine how an obligation can determine our reason and be a cause of our action (Prolegomena 3. 344–345). Even in a blade of grass Kant finds this very same mystery. We cannot conceive of the origin of a blade of grass without a final cause, he observes. But with a final cause we still cannot grasp how physical causes can bring about a single blade ( Judgement 2. 2. 409–410).30 Our pragmatist also feels obliged to remind us of the mystery of human action. William James recognizes this mystery in terms of the longstanding debate between the teleologists and the materialists (Empiricism 6. 175– 179). As a pragmatist, he admits frankly that the debate can end only with a dilemma. Are our ideals able to direct and to control mechanical processes? he asks. Or do mechanical processes sum themselves up into our ideals (179)? But he is, as a practitioner, inclined to give the riband to teleology. He would like to believe navely that activities are of greater and lesser span, and that those of greater span direct and control those of lesser. But how the greater activities manage to steer the lesser remains for him an insolvable problem. With no little understatement he tells us that “metaphysical thinkers will have to ruminate for many years to come” on the modus operandi of these causes (179–180). Our belief in causality of this sort, James notes with an echo of Hume, is tantamount to a belief in creation ex nihilo. We tend to forget that our activities can obviously make things come to be! Consider his example of speaking. He strives, he says, to express an idea, only partially perceived, 30

Kant himself suggests in this passage that we are ignorant of how a final cause works because its explanation could be only supersensible. I would think that a cause of this kind, even if not supersensible, would yet remain unfathomable to us. But if my reader can explain it, I am all ears.

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and thus to make it clear. If he succeeds, his eager striving would appear somehow to draw his words into existence. Yet how can he perform his feat? he must ask (181–182). Unfortunately, I am obliged to remind you that these activities of greater span can be for James not those of our mind but those of our emotions. He puts himself on record as advocating not a rational teleology but an irrational one. Our mind does not direct and control our desires, but our desires control and direct our mind. Remember the poor fellow we left in front of his television set? He is still there, I suspect. His buddies may have joined him. But we are now able to diagnose, I think, his moral malady. He remains seated in the eerie glow of his cathode ray tube because he fails to see the mystery of human morality. He cannot find a rational motive to save his soul. And without a motive he can have no final cause to inspire him to worthy action. He is left alone to run after his incentives with their incessant ups and downs. Actually, he is not entirely alone. He and his pals are at the tender mercies of those who are aware of his incentives and who can practice a rhetoric of an unsavory sort. These media magnates know all too well how many of his ilk they hold enthralled with their mass marketing, and they ply their trade skillfully on the electromagnetic broadcast waves. If the stick does not, the carrot will soon shackle him to our consumer society with its multifarious fashions and fads of the day.

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6 A Question of Cosmology

1. The electric bulb suspended over my head has the power to obliterate the divine sublimity of the starry heavens above! Who would ever have imagined it! But the denizens of our cities can bear witness to this unfortunate fact. Our technology in a form seemingly so insignificant can blind our eyes and even dull our minds to the magnificence of nature and perhaps to nature herself. When combined with myriad others, this puny appliance can pretend to vie with the celestial bodies and their powers, almost as the Titans of old strove against the ancient gods and their authority. Nevertheless, I do not believe that we face an environmental crisis. We do have environmental problems aplenty, I admit. But our crisis is a crisis of the human spirit. We fail to grasp what I would call the mysterious divinity of life and of existence itself. If we do get an occasional glimpse of it, we neglect to incorporate this divinity of nature into our daily thoughts and lives. As a consequence, we live lives empty and lonely in isolation not only from nature herself but also from one another and from our own selves. I concede that we admire nature, particularly when we view her as pristine and untrammelled. We have enshrined national parks and wilderness areas in her name. We take sojourns into these natural sanctuaries on holidays, weekends, and vacations. We enjoy her arbors and vistas for their own solaces and solitudes as well as for the refuge they provide from our society. Her beauties and sublimities are indeed nourishment for our soul, as John Muir so aptly said. But you must concede that we also exploit nature and exploit her ruthlessly. Indeed, we exploit her as ruthlessly and as shamelessly as we exploit one another and even our very selves. We are prepared to sacrifice her beauties and bounties for ends of our own design. Too often we view nature merely as a mother lode of raw material inertly awaiting, for countless eons apparently, our arrival upon the scene. We rapaciously seize what we want, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral. And damn the consequences! 192

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My argument shall be that we can solve our spiritual crisis only if we are willing to acknowledge and to accept the divinity of life and of existence. But this divinity we can in turn accept and appreciate only if we admit to ourselves that we humans do not have and cannot have any moral principles. At least, we cannot have any principles of an absolute sort. The only moral principles allotted to us are of an absurd sort, however divine they may prove to be. What I propose to argue, then, is that the universe is itself a mysterious divinity, albeit an absurd one. If our universe were not an absurdity, we would have principles that are quite intelligible, universal, and necessary. But we do not. We are permitted principles that for us are ultimately unintelligible, merely general, and always contingent. Because our universe is absurd in its existence, our principles must be absurd as well. Or, rather, they appear to be such because it appears such. We live in a universe that is a teleological system, shall be my contention, then. This universe of ours must accordingly be a first, unmoved, self-moved mover. Actually, for all we know, it may well be several movers and shakers of this variety. Yet, I shall also argue, our universe is not and cannot be either necessary or eternal. Why, I would ask, may not a teleological system be as contingent and temporal as a mechanical one? And who is to say that an unmoved mover cannot be ephemeral and accidental as well? 2. Is the universe alive? This question is of no little import for any eudaimonic ethics or even for a daimonic ethics. Other contemporary philosophers, especially environmental ethicists, have also raised the question.1 In so doing, they have, unfortunately, occasioned no little controversy. But I am not so sure that these philosophers or their antagonists give the question its best formulation. Nor does either party appear to discern its philosophical apogee. Our question and its controversy have ancient roots. But the question remains important for us because who we are and what we are obliged to do depend ultimately on where and when we happen to be. We can say some things about our nature and about our obligations without taking into account our circumstances. But we are not alone. We find ourselves situated in environments that are ultimately natural; and what we may, or may not, do is in some way, directly or indirectly, an outgrowth of these environments. My intention is to argue both that we ought to give credence to a teleological view of the universe and that we ought to accept the contingency of the universe. That is to say, the ancient teleologists were right to assert that this universe of ours is an organized being, but the ancient atomists were also right to insist that our universe is an accident. The mystery of our 1

Most notably Lovelock with his Gaia hypothesis.

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existence and our life is simply this organized accident that we call a universe, or, perhaps we might better say, this accidental organization that is our universe. The universe need not exist, and yet it does! It is a happening, if you will allow a quaint expression from an earlier era. We shall eventually see that our happiness, or any reasonable facsimile thereof, depends on our acknowledgment of this ultimate final cause. Yes, our own nature does constitute a final cause for us, if only a general one. But our nature is also an integral part of a larger whole. We are not entirely an end unto ourselves. We are rather privileged to live and to have our being within a grander entity that is more truly an end unto itself. We tend nowadays to answer our question about the vitality of our universe by asking what the general properties of the universe might be. We assume that we know what life is, and we attempt to determine what the universe is and whether it is alive. I wonder if this approach might be a bit precipitous. Ought we not to raise the prior question of what life is? After obtaining an answer to this question, we might be better prepared to turn to the nature of our universe and to decide whether it lives. If we return to them, we shall find the ancient Greeks helpful once more. Plato in particular will be of great assistance. He defines life in a sense much broader than we do. Whatever is a teleological system is for him alive! I do realize that this concept of teleology might be disconcerting. Even those who view life as teleological in our narrow, modern sense might protest that Plato’s definition is simply too broad. So I am willing to make a concession. You may, if you wish, choose not to call every teleological system alive, provided only that you grant systems of such sort to have qualities not unlike those which we customarily ascribe to objects usually denominated as living. In short, a resemblance will suffice. If, then, a teleological system is alive, and if the universe is a system of said sort, could we not say, Yes, our universe is alive? Or lifelike, if you prefer. I hope that ascribing teleological qualities to the universe will not prove unduly problematic. But let us begin with our prior question and recall what Plato has to say about life. We can then turn to what he tells us about the universe. We may discover not only that what he says bears some influence on our thought today but also that it presents a vantage point from which to behold the mystery of it all. Plato presents a concept of life that we ought to find agreeable enough if we can set aside for the moment any qualms we might have about metaphysical missteps. Only that which moves itself ( ) is alive, Socrates suggests to Phaedrus in the dialogue that bears the name of this knavish interlocutor. That which moves another and is moved by another ( . . . ’ ), he continues, reaches the end of its life when it reaches the end of its motion (Phaedrus 245c). But what is that which moves itself, and what is that which moves and is moved? That which is moved and moves, as we would be more apt to say

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today, is a body. Obviously, a body can have motion transferred to it and can in turn transfer its motion on to another body. But what might that be which moves itself? That which moves itself, Socrates asserts, is a soul (). Self-motion is the very essence of a soul, he explains. A body that is moved from within has a soul, and a body that does not have a soul is moved from without (245e–246a). Plato holds, then, that a soul is a cause that brings a body to life, or, rather, that brings life to a body. He holds, strictly speaking, that only a soul is alive. Only a soul can move herself, and only a soul can move a body. Though it might seem to do so, no body is able to move itself. We ourselves would appear to be souls in this sense. At least, we appear to have the ability to move our bodies. And, obviously, our bodies, when moved by us, can move other bodies external to them. But one might wonder, How does a soul move herself? Or, we might better ask, What kind of cause is that which moves itself? This question Socrates explicitly answers. That which moves itself, he explains, is both the spring and the first principle of motion( )(245c). This explanation ought to sound tolerably familiar to a modern ear. Socrates appears to state half-metaphorically what we would state more literally. A soul, I would venture to hypothesize, is the efficient and final cause of life!2 I am suggesting, in other words, that for Plato a soul is a cause of the kind that we would deem teleological. After all, a teleological entity does cause its own motion.3 Let us explore this hypothesis a little further. All motion arises, Socrates explains to Phaedrus, because a soul somehow fastens herself to a body, and a soul and a body in this combination can move. Every soul, he continues, is in charge of ( ) a body. This body can be either the universe itself or its parts. But only the better souls govern the whole universe and the celestial bodies. The lesser ones govern earthly bodies only (Phaedrus 246b–c). The better souls, he asserts, are the traditional Greek gods. He paints a stately allegory for us to show how these ancient gods array themselves throughout the universe and govern it. Briefly, they marshal themselves into twelve ranks, beginning with Zeus, who is their great leader in the heavens, and ending with Hestia, who remains at home to rule in their household (246e–247a). The lesser souls would appear to govern the conduct of single bodies. These bodies include our own and those of beasts (248c–e, 249b). 2 3

My reader may recall Aristotle’s concept of nature (Physics 2. 1. 192b21–23). Griswold does not see a teleological concept implicit in this passage. He thinks rather that Plato is infusing myth into nature. Socrates fails to present a sufficient proof that a selfmoving soul exists, and he offers instead an appeal to moral intuition. The claim is that moral intuition “tells us something true about things.” To deny the proposition that the soul moves itself would be shameful, Griswold explains. Its denial, he points out rightly enough, “would reduce the soul to something that is moved by something else and so would reduce it to the level of a body” (Self-Knowledge 3. 83).

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What, then, might Socrates mean? I am not entirely sure about the twelve ranks.4 But he would appear to mean that our universe has life within it. Because it contains these souls, the universe itself apparently consists of several living systems. But you may, if you wish, think of these various systems as merely lifelike. Though not entirely explicit about the gods, he clearly does assert that animal souls at least, when united with their bodies, are able to give them life (246c). Now bear in mind our hypothesis that a soul is an efficient and a final cause of motion. If a soul is a cause of such sort, we might, I am suggesting, view Plato’s allegory less as a metaphysical statement and more as a metaphorical one. If we do, we might say that a soul governs a teleological, natural system and makes a system of this kind alive or, at least, lifelike. Put more simply, a soul is a teleological cause and nothing more, and a soul can accordingly assimilate matter and put it in motion. We ourselves present an obvious example, but so do other animals and even plants. Is this idea so farfetched? Contemporary philosophers, even those who study the philosophy of science, ought not to have much difficulty understanding, at least, this concept of a soul and its charge. Plato would appear to make biology rather than what we today call physics the paradigm science. He is in fact constructing biological models for natural phenomena, including the universe itself. His ultimate assumption is that without a teleological cause the natural universe would be bereft of motion.5 Or you may, if you 4

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Most commentators think these ranks in all likelihood to be an allusion to the constellations of the Zodiac (see Timaeus 36b–c). Nagel is on the right track when he argues that we ought to include within our theory of objective reality a concept of mind without a psychophysical reduction. He argues further that this concept of mind need not be an anthropocentric one. The concept ought in fact to be a general one of subjective consciousness (View 2. 18–19, 20–21). He speculates that conscious life at least may exhibit other forms in the universe, and that we may be unaware of them because we are unable to identify their behavior (24). Nagel thus seems to agree with Plato. His concept of a mind appears uncannily similar to a concept of a soul! But we might want to speculate even further. We might include a concept of teleological entities that can or cannot be conscious. That is, we would include a concept of entities that can consciously or unconsciously produce and reproduce themselves. McDowell would no doubt refer to this view of nature as an “enchanted” one. A delightful term, indeed! Unfortunately, this view he decidedly rejects. He argues that the view is “a prescientific superstition,” which is “crazily nostalgic,” and that “we had better not aspire to put lost enchantment back into the merely natural world” (World 4. 72). Yet McDowell does feel that we ourselves are enchanted beings. We inhabit, he informs us, “the space of reasons,” and we accordingly possess a spontaneity of our own. But “mere animals” other than ourselves are subject to “the realm of law,” by which he means the law of mechanical causation (71–72). But can one truly say that we alone are so privileged as to be the sole teleological entity in existence? Other animals may not inhabit a space of reasons, but surely they do inhabit a teleological space, do they not? The difference I would take to be that between a self-conscious teleology and a conscious one. But, of course, I would admit to unconscious teleologies as well.

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prefer, view these entelechies as denoting fields that are living or lifelike. A field, I am given to understand, can have on matter an effect that one cannot explain with mechanical causality.6 We ought now to consider another, grander metaphor that Plato employs to elaborate his cosmology. Plato invokes a personification and appeals to it to explain the origin of the universe itself. With this personification he indicates a little more clearly that what has a soul is a teleologically organized system. He also indicates, more clearly and more importantly, that one system organized in this way is our very own universe. That our universe is so organized, we shall eventually see, is of some consequence for us mortals and our morality. An artisan or demiurge (! ") created our universe, Timaeus informs Socrates in a dialogue named in honor of this otherwise unknown theological genius. This artisan takes upon himself the task of giving motion to our universe and of keeping it in motion. He appears to fulfill his task by implanting his own form within it. His wish, at least, was to make all things resemble himself ( #%). $ He would thus give the appearance of acting out of love. Clearly, no envy (&'" ) lies within him (Timaeus 29d–29e).7 But the artisan obviously does make our universe in his image. He himself is good ('"), and he wishes, to the best of his ability, to make all things good, Timaeus explains. Because he wishes it to be good, he has to bring the universe out of disorder into order (( )* . . . + *,). And because it is to be ordered, the universe has to have understanding ( ). But because understanding exists only in a soul, the universe has to have a soul. And so the artisan placed understanding in a soul, and soul in a body, and, voil`a, he regaled us with a universe (30a–c). We can see, I think, that this artisan himself is most likely a teleology. Indeed, he must have a soul if he is to bestow one upon a universe that resembles him. Timaeus himself informs us that the artisan is good. One can see, too, that the artisan must have understanding and order. How could he be good if he did not? But understanding can exist only in a soul. More important, the artisan appears to have a soul that is an efficient and final cause of motion. He obviously is the primary source of motion for the universe, but he is also the end of its motion. He makes the universe in his image! But what of the universe? If it has a soul, then our universe is a creature that also is alive or, at least, lifelike. If it has understanding, the universe is 6

7

One may consult Einstein and Infeld for an introduction to field theory. Maxwell wrote the locus classicus, of course. But I would recommend Durrell for those with a more literary bent. Lovelock himself uses cybernetics to explain similar phenomena (Gaia, Chap. 4, e.g.). Diotima would no doubt say in her paradoxical fashion that this fellow was great with child (Symposium 206c).

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then rational. But what has a soul is a cause that is teleological. And so might not our universe be a teleological system that is rational? As if a teleological system could not be rational! The universe is in fact the teleological system that embraces all other teleological systems. This creature, Timaeus informs us, contains as its parts all other creatures (30c–31a). We see, then, that the artisan creates a universe with a teleology of its very own. He gives the universe a soul that is rational and organized. This teleology with its rationality and organization I would take to be none other than a conformity to natural law. This conformity is perhaps most apparent in our solar system and in our geosystems, not to mention ecosystems, both global and local. But it is also present in ourselves and in other animals and plants.8 But have you not forgotten something? a scholarly reader might now inquire. Have you not left out some antiquated metaphysics that might prove a tad awkward, if not embarrassing? All these souls, you neglected to mention their, shall we say, metaphysical status. Yes, I do admit to having left a little something out, and I am now obliged to acknowledge it. I concede that Plato in his cosmology takes a step that we may not be too eager to take. But need we ourselves take this step? We may, I wish to argue, accept his teleological model for the universe, at least in its general outlines, and yet we may also reject its metaphysical unworldliness. My response turns on the fact that the gods are of more than one ancestry. One could not possibly deny that Plato presents a concept of a god who is eternal and rather traditional, even by contemporary standards. But no one could deny, either, that he presents a concept of a god who is not so traditional nor so eternal. Timaeus explicitly recognizes that gods are of two pedigrees that differ in their ontological heritage. He speaks of an ever-existing god (- . . . ' ) who takes upon himself the task 8

This metaphysical metaphor can be a tough nut to crack. Vlastos, for example, argues that Plato converts “preconceptions of value into allegations of fact” (Universe 2. 29–30). He finds Plato’s inferences, “which decide what is, or is not, the case, by deduction from what would be good and beautiful” to be “preposterous” and his notion “that the world has a soul” to be “fantastic.” Plato, he tells us, advances “a metaphysical fairy tale” (61–65). Yet he candidly concedes in the same breath “almost incredulously” that Plato’s “metaphysical scheme” was able to suggest “a scientifically valuable systemization of scientifically established data” (63–65). He especially credits Plato with discovering that “postulated regular circular motions may account for irregular phenomenal motions.” This discovery, he observes, was “the grand heuristic canon of Greek astronomical theory for half a millennium.” With it Plato himself could explain especially the apparent motion of the sun as a spiral (54–57). But other commentators cannot penetrate the metaphor, either. They do recognize that Plato presents a teleology, but they see his teleology only as a moral one. Cornford, for example, asserts that “the mythical imagery is not a ‘veil of allegory’ that we can tear aside and be sure of discovering behind it a literal meaning which Plato himself would endorse.” He even suggests that the demiurge is not really a cause distinct from the universe (38).

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of making a god one day existing ( . " ' . . . ) (Timaeus 34a–b). The demiurge is the ever-existing god, to be sure, and we can easily see why he is ever existing. For our universe this artisan had to use a paradigm ()!) that is always the same as itself ( / 0/ 1 2 ) and eternal ( 3! ), Timaeus argues. Only a paradigm of this kind can serve for the creation of something beautiful, he assumes. But our universe is the most beautiful of all things that have come to be (27d–28b, 28c–29b).9 But if he knows what is eternally the same, the artisan has to have a soul that is eternally the same, does he not? If he has understanding enough to possess absolute wisdom, he most likely has not only omniscience but also omnipotence and omnipresence and all other omninesses. From absolute knowledge would not every divine superlative follow in its turn?10 Some theologians might take exception to the assertion that the demiurge possesses these superlatives. They might not think that this Platonic god possesses the divine attributes in their full panoply. Hence, I had best say that he possesses these properties not quite absolutely but only relatively. This god, though the grandest soul, admittedly encounters a constraint, however minimal, in the material he uses for his creation. He does not create this material out of nothing, nor does he effortlessly create with it. He meets in it a residual resistance (see Timaeus 47e–48a).11 The less traditional god is our universe itself. This god is merely a temporal god. After all, the artisan created it. But if it can come to be, cannot the universe also cease to be? In fact, the universe would appear to use lesser paradigms than the artisan in fulfilling its own work. Its knowledge includes not only some knowledge proper but also mere opinion. With paradigms of these sorts it announces its wishes and, apparently, accomplishes its will (Timaeus 37a–c). The artisan himself discovers, if we may so speak, that he can make from that which rests for eons in its unity (4 (% # . . . ) only an image moving for eons according to number (’ ' ( (5 ("). This image we know as time (37d–e; also 38b–38c). In fact, the universe is 9

10

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Notice, by the way, that this universe of ours would not appear to be the most perfect of all possible worlds, as some modern philosophers have imagined. We are habitu´es only of the most perfect of all actual worlds. Perl agrees that the artisan has knowledge that is identical to the paradigm for the universe (esp. 81–86). He also appears to hold that this knowledge is both the efficient and the formal cause of the universe (81–82). At least, he clearly argues that the artisan is not an efficient cause, separate from the formal cause, of the universe (83–86). The artisan accordingly is, I would think, an unmoved mover whose intellectual activity is creation itself. He can thus lend the universe “its rational, teleological structure” (81–82). As Warrington says, the cosmos always contains some chaos (51, n. 1). Also see Cornford on this point (35–37).

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visible and tangible and, hence, came to be (28b). With apparently all the precision of a mathematical physicist, the artisan does make a soul for the universe (34b–36d). But he also places its soul in a body (36d–e), which he makes for it as well (31b–34a). Other gods besides our universe have souls that are immortal in this secondary sense, too. The artisan god makes not only the heavenly bodies, such as the stars and planets (39e–40d). He also makes the more traditional gods whom we know in legend (40d–41a). The artisan requests that they assist him with the creation of souls for animals, including ourselves. He has the other gods make us and other animals so that we will not be immortal, either, in a strict sense (41b–d; also 41d–42d).12 In fact, the artisan informs these other gods that they are mortal, strictly speaking. Because they come to be, they can cease to be, he explains to them. Not entirely ( )) are they immortal (') ) or indissoluble ( ). But he promises them that they will not decline or die. Why? Because his wish, presumably eternal, is a stronger bond than that by which they came to be (41a–b). We see, then, that Plato is not terribly profligate with his immortals. Strictly speaking, only one god has a truly immortal soul. I would note, by the way, that Timaeus is in agreement with Diotima about immortality and its bloodlines. Diotima would appear to distinguish the demiurge and his immortality from us and our immortality. She explains to Socrates that a divine being is immortal because it is unchanging, but that a human being is immortal because it is changing. A divine being is destined to be the same always ( 0 6), but human destiny is always to become a thing different (7 ) from but similar to ourselves ( 6 0 8) (Symposium 208a–b; also 207c–208a).13 A Platonic scholar might, nonetheless, interject, Plato explicitly argues that every soul is immortal (') ), does he not? Indeed, he does, must be our reply, and he would appear to mean immortality through immutability. Socrates explains to Phaedrus that each soul is immortal precisely because she is forever moving (, ). That is, a soul can never cease to move herself and to be moved by herself (Phaedrus 245c). Self-motion, you will recall, is her very essence (245e). 12

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Plato here leaves a door open for evolutionary theory! These gods, one might argue, present personifications, albeit imprecise, of environmental factors that determine the course of natural selection. Even Dawkins with his computer simulations is himself obliged to play god and to select visually for traits in his virtual biomorphs. He laments his inability to design a software program to model natural selection in a meaningful way, but he consoles himself with the fact that we humans play a similar role in artificial selection (Watchmaker 3. 60–62). He has, nonetheless, a plan to place a computer in his garden and to allow insects to select flower morphs by bumping up against the computer screen (63). Whether Plato is a monotheist or a polytheist would thus turn on how strictly one defines what a god is. Cornford, for example, takes issue with Taylor on this very point (34–35).

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But why is self-motion eternal? we must ask. Recall, too, that a soul is a spring and first principle of motion (245c). All that which comes to be, Socrates explains, must come to be from a first principle ( again). But a first principle cannot itself come to be. If it did, he argues, it would require a first principle in its turn. Hence, a soul cannot come to be. But neither can a soul cease to be. If she did, the heavens and all within would come to ruin (245d–e)! This argument ought to be familiar. I take it to be none other than the cosmological argument for the existence of god, though in an abbreviated form. With it Plato assumes a metaphysical stance that is not as unfamiliar as his archaic language might suggest. If a soul is a teleological cause, to state that a soul is immortal would be merely to assert that a teleological cause follows laws that are eternal. Though not all do, many scientists even today do hold that natural laws are eternal, if only we could discover what they might be.14 But I would point out that a qualification is in order. We already know that a god of only one ancestry has a soul that is immortal in her immutability. A god of this kind has a soul that does not leave herself behind ( 0 #"), as Socrates observes (Phaedrus 245c). The god so privileged is the demiurge. Indeed, the cosmological argument requires only one god of this incomparable quality. But the universe, as are we ourselves, is immortal in a lesser sense. It has a soul, as do we, that is continually changing in time. Its soul ever leaves a new self behind ( , 7 4 ) in place of its old self ( ) (see Symposium 207c–d). But why even one immutable god? my reader may wonder. Why, indeed? I myself must wonder. Need we hypothesize that any self-mover must be an eternal being? What evidence might we have for even one being of this exalted status? None known to me. Except, perhaps, our own ability to view our relations of ideas as such, to borrow phraseology from David Hume. When we relate our ideas to one another, we do find a necessity and an eternity in them. This necessity we may exploit in our analyses with the principle of contradiction (see Understanding 4. 1. 25–26). But this evidence, I submit, is a very slender reed upon which to rest the immensity of it all. Relations of ideas are but febrile agitations in our puny 14

Dawkins would suggest that even a theory of evolution can rest on eternal laws. He does so when he draws our attention to what he calls genetic space. Space of this variety contains the genetic material of all animals, whether actual, possible, or impossible (Watchmaker 3. 73–74). Evolution merely discovers through mutation creatures quietly sitting on their haunches out in genetic space. Natural or artificial selection, he continues, is only “an efficient searching procedure,” though “its consequences look very like creative intelligence” (65–66). But I would point out that a teleological process could search through genetic space of this sort for creatures congenial to its ends. A process of this kind could do so even if it might happen to encounter limitations in the material through which it searched (see, of course, Timaeus 47e–48a).

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brains, as Hume so rightly asserts. We presume to have an absolute necessity ideas that have a necessity relative only to our own rather insignificant experience. Or, at the very least, we have to presume a deity with absolute and necessary ideas, which would constitute an eternal paradigm. But our relations of ideas can tell us nothing about any existent matters of fact, not even about an alleged deity. After all, matters of fact can and do change unchangingly (compare Dialogues 9.). An unchanging paradigm may perhaps be suitable for an immortal and immutable artisan. But a changing paradigm is surely more suitable for us mutating mortals. Any paradigmatic god, I would argue, can for us be at best not an eternal god but only an ephemeral god. We are permitted only matters of fact as evidence of a divine teleology or of any other teleology. But, alas, matters of fact are only temporal. Our knowledge of god would thus be at best opinion only (see Timaeus 27d–28a). The cosmological argument still holds. But this argument is not a basis for sure knowledge of the universe, comforting though it would be, but only for opinion at best unsure about the universe. Indeed, that physics must be merely myth ( ' ), Timaeus intimates to Socrates (Timaeus 29b–d). Despite his genius, he himself is unable to portray the artisan and his artful activity outside of time. He must present the creator and his creativity as matters of fact (37e–38b). The cosmological argument, then, I do not take to be a proof of a necessary, unmoved mover but only of a contingent, unmoved mover. We may accept the concept of a universal soul and its first principle of self-motion. Only a first principle can explain the motion as well as the rationality and order that we find in our universe. But I would argue that a universal soul and its first principle both we would best view as contingent causes, and as causes of a contingent universe. Yes, we must concede that the universe need not have come to be, and that it could indeed cease to be. No doubt, it will come to wrack and ruin. But may we not assume the universe to be sufficiently stable for present purposes? Fifteen billion years, give or take a billion or two, is ample enough time, I should think. The universe is obviously more stable than other teleological entities because of its grander scale. Our global systems, though also in change, are more stable than more local ones, though less stable, perhaps, than we had imagined. What are in imminent danger are our local ecosystems. One can witness their decline and, at times, their demise within a single lifetime.15 Who might we mortals be to say that the heavens might or might not come to ruin? Why may not the universe itself, within which we dwell, decline and decay on a scale terribly grand if all other life within our acquaintance 15

But Plato would add that teleological entities, though more ordered, are less stable than mere matter with its atomic structure (see Timaeus 53c–55c).

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perishes and putrefies on a petty scale? Instead of being necessary, we must accept, I think, that our first mover, though self-moved, could well be contingent. More to the point, no soul appears to be immortal without change but only through change.16 I conclude, then, that a little metaphysical finaglement is not entirely out of order. We have to agree that a self-moved mover is necessary for our universe. But we have to argue that a self-moved mover is merely a contingent necessity, so speak. We may accept the concept of a universal soul and its first principle of self-motion. We may agree that only a first principle could explain the rationality and order that we find in our universe. But I would urge that a universal soul with its first principle is at best only a contingent cause of a contingent universe only.17 Plato surely agrees that our universe is contingent. He informs us that the artisan created it. I ask only, If he created it, could not the artisan also destroy it? He does not wish to do so, Timaeus informs us. But perhaps he might one fine day accidentally destroy the universe through inattention or neglect or even through tedium or senility, if I may allude to Hume yet again.18 16

17

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Astrophysicists would hardly find this thought shocking. Hawking informs us that the universe on the theory of general relatively “began at the big bang singularity” and will end “at the big crunch singularity” (Time 8. 119). Hawking himself, however, with his new theory of a universe without a boundary condition wishes to argue that the universe consists of expansions and contractions without singularities to mark a beginning or an ending. But he does admit that to an observer these singularities would be all too real (142–144). Smart also criticizes the cosmological argument with the same Humeian distinction. He takes the argument to be an invalid proof of the existence of god. A necessarily existent being would be a self-contradictory entity, he argues. Yet he grants god to be a necessary being, religiously speaking, because of our religious attitude (“Existence” 264–272). Griswold thinks that this cosmological argument has for Plato a force that “is not . . . logical, but moral.” “The prospect of the universe being irreversibly destroyed and bereft of all life,” he argues, “is morally unacceptable” (Self-Knowledge 3. 82–83). Griswold is also concerned that Socrates does not appear to allow for a world soul to govern the universe but only the several gods (83–84). He is right that in the Phaedrus Socrates does not explicitly discuss a soul of this kind. But he surely does in the Timaeus. The demiurge himself is a soul, and he obviously makes other souls for the whole universe and for the heavenly bodies and the several gods (see Timaeus 34a–41a). Hawking would appear to accept the view that our universe is a necessary cause of itself. He does not breathe a word about teleology, of course. But he does advance the proposal that the universe has no boundary. This proposition entails that the universe has no creator. “The universe would be completely self-contained and not affected by anything outside itself. It would neither be created nor destroyed. It would just BE” (Time 8. 141, his emphasis; also 145–146). He advocates a quantum theory of gravity to explain how the universe could arise. A theory of this kind, he hopes, will be able to explain the order of the universe without attributing to it a beginning or an ending (138–141). But he definitely rejects the possibility that the universe occurred by “lucky chance.” This prospect he views as “a counsel of despair, a negation of all our hopes of understanding the underlying order of the universe” (Time 8. 137). He would thus appear to view science as

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Let us assume, then, that the universe is alive. Or, at least, lifelike. Assume, too, that our universe is mortal. What, you may wonder, do its vitality and mortality have to do with our morality? My contention is that this cosmic contingency entails important practical consequences. Plato suggests that we may employ divine first principles to cultivate our character and to pursue our happiness, and that these principles so embodied constitute our moral

knowledge in a strict sense and to overlook the possibility that it might be myth. Indeed, he explicitly identifies cosmology with divine knowledge (Time 12. 190–191). A deity would be needed only to choose laws for the universe, he tells us, but not to select its initial conditions (189–190)! I wonder, too, why he might despair at good fortune. I am rarely, if ever, not delighted. The concept of cosmology these days philosophers also discuss in conjunction with a theory of evolution. One can, of course, maintain a concept of a necessary god and still account for evolutionary processes. Rolston does, for example. The earth, he argues, is a “value generating system” (Genes 6. 5. 360–361). He accordingly advocates what he calls “soft creation,” which is “one which puts genuine, though not ultimate, integrity and autonomy in the creatures.” The ultimate integrity and autonomy lies with god, who orchestrates the evolutionary possibilities. He underlies the causal forces and gives meaning to evolutionary events by “slipping information into the world.” He plays with loaded dice, in other words (367–368). I agree with the concept of soft creation. The whole universe in fact is a value generating system, and yet there is autonomy in its creatures. After all, teleologies do contain within them other teleologies. Notice, too, that Rolston allows for teleologies that arise contingently through evolutionary processes. But I would ask, Do we need to assume another god to explain this fecund system? Why may not the universe itself have autonomy and be the explanation? Besides, any crapshooter can tell you that dice produce value without being loaded. Indeed, loaded dice would spoil the game. But to explain evolution, one more commonly attempts to ostracize a necessary god in favor of causes merely mechanical. A philosopher of this persuasion dispenses with not only a necessary teleology but any teleologies even if contingent. At least, verbally he does. Dennett presents a conspicuous example. As does Dawkins, so does Dennett argue for a concept of cumulative natural selection, which he calls “the Principle of Accumulation of Design” (Idea 3. 3. 68). To explicate this principle, he distinguishes metaphorically between a skyhook and a crane. A skyhook is an intelligent cause that intervenes in the evolutionary process and is an exception to mechanical causation, but a crane is a special feature of the evolutionary process that speeds up evolution and is, presumably, a product of mechanical causes (76). Cranes, Dennett informs us, allow for design accumulation because they are “self-replicating entities.” At first they are rather simple, but they gradually become more and more diverse and complex (75). But I beg to ask, Is not a self-replicating entity an entelechy?! Aristotle in fact points out that natural things, such as our teeth, come to be either always or for the most part. Chance things do not arise with any regularity (Physics 2. 8. 198b34–199a3). A crane, to borrow the metaphor, I would take to be, therefore, a teleological cause that happens to arise by chance. And I thank Dennett for his erudite analysis of the concept and the controversies surrounding it, even though he unfortunately eschews the term. Gould with his evolutionary theory of punctuated equilibrium suggests that natural teleologies, such as ourselves, are contingent in the extreme (Life 5., e.g.). Whatever you may think of his theory, which many regard as controversial, you surely must agree that the paleontological record does suggest that evolution is rife with contingency.

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values. What he is saying, in other words, is that divine contingencies can provide a moral inspiration for us less than divine contingencies. Plato illustrates this inspiration with his famous account of love (2) and beauty () ). Those in love with another, Socrates explains to Phaedrus, see a divine form (' !. . . . ) in the countenance of another. This form imitates beauty () ) so well that they are overcome with fears (% !)) and inspired with reverence (49) (Phaedrus 251a). These lovers accordingly honor the god reflected in another and imitate this god in their own actions and character (252c–d). Those who follow Zeus, for example, aspire to a philosophical character (252e–253b). Similarly, those who follow Hera seek a kingly character (253b). Socrates explains further that love for the beautiful can be a source of happiness. This desire ( ',) and its consummation ( ) for these Platonic lovers, who follow their god, may be not only beautiful ( ) but also happy (0! ) (253c). These lovers may, indeed, find themselves leading a life both blissfully happy () ) and harmonious (: "). If their better intentions prevail, and their souls prove restrained () and organized (" ), they may lead a life at once orderly (4) and philosophical (& &,) even (256a–b)!19 Socrates suggests, then, that we mortals may accept and apply a divine first principle in our lives. A principle of this kind, though we can know it only hypothetically, we can use as an efficient and final cause of our activities and habits. With it we may use our rational faculty to make of ourselves a moral teleology that bears some resemblance, at least, to a divine teleology. Of course, we must take into account our particular lot in life as well.20 Indeed, we now encounter our human daimon yet again! Timaeus agrees with Socrates about these erotic matters. He explicitly states that the soul 19

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But to cultivate a character of this sort is no mean feat (Phaedrus 253c–255a). Griswold sees this erotic behavior as rather convoluted. His claim is that “the lover makes the beloved into his god.” That is to say, “the lover unconsciously transfers his own characterideal to the beloved . . . and then sees himself in the beloved.” The result, he tells us, is “a route to self-knowledge.” This route goes through the imagination, he explains further. The lover “in effect fantasizes about the beloved and imposes the fantasy on the beloved, so externalizing his own self.” His conclusion? By means of this projected fantasy our soul is self-moved (Self-Knowledge 3. 125–126). Love of this variety strikes me as less erotic than autoerotic. A lover on this account would be in love with and moved by his own fantasy. But Socrates explicitly asserts that the lover and his beloved are enamored of and followers of the same god. The followers of Zeus, for example, seek another who is of a philosophical nature (Phaedrus 252e). Because they follow the same god, they are inspired by one another and help one another realize their ideal (252e–254b). They revere another only “as if a god” (1 ' . . .) (252d–e), Socrates states. Their souls do move themselves by means of a first principle (245c). But a first principle, I presume, both lover and beloved find in their god. The reader may well recall another dialogue between Socrates and Plato’s brothers. They, too, discover happiness to be a rational teleology within our soul (see Republic 4. 441c–445b).

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god has given us is a daimon (!, ) (Timaeus 90a)! Our daimon must take for its inspiration, he argues, the harmonies and revolutions of the universe! Only with an understanding of them may we hope to resemble these divinities. We are thus able to participate in immortality as far as possible for mere mortals and to develop our own internal harmony and our own happiness (90b–d).21 We have yet to complete our registry of the gods, however. Let us enter another name or two into the list to see better their divine role. There is the demiurge who creates the universe. He is the one who would provide us with universal, absolute, moral laws. There are, too, the traditional Greek gods. These gods are intermediaries between the demiurge and us. They provide us with general moral laws relative to their several domains. Plato himself invokes them to explain human love and happiness. But we must not neglect other traditional gods who are not so well known. These gods are those who create all other living creatures, including the birds in the air, the fishes in the sea, and the land animals, among whom we are to be numbered. Plato names them as Ge and Uranus, Oceanus and Tethys, Cronos and Rhea. They are the ancestors of Zeus and Hera and the other ancient gods more familiar to us (Timaeus 40d–41a, 41b–d; see 39e–40a). Need I say more? Surely, the invocation of Ge, whom we know by her more poetic name of Gaia, is by itself sufficient to make my case. These primordial gods whom the artisan creates and who complete his work may themselves provide inspiration for our souls and their purposes. Is there not natural beauty in our ecosystems and their principles? In them do we not find final causes with which to harmonize our own activities? I believe that we do.22 21

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Actually, Timaeus asserts that the tripartite soul has a separate soul within each of its parts (Timaeus 89e). This assertion might strike us as bizarre until we recollect our hypothesis that a soul is a teleological entity. Obviously, not only our rational faculty but our combative and appetitive faculties have ends of their own as well. Lovelock introduced this deity into contemporary philosophy with his Gaia hypothesis (see Gaia, esp.). Environmental ethicists have also developed similar theories of natural values. Rolston is the most prominent exponent of this view, which is called the land ethic. We human beings can defend values as moral agents, he argues, though other animal beings cannot. And we can recognize and make our concern natural values other than our selves (Genes 5. 4. 280–281). With our mind we can form “an intelligible view of the whole,” and we can defend “the varieties of life in all their forms” (287–288). But Aldo Leopold, who was a forester, wrote the seminal essay on the land ethic. The land ethic, he wrote, changes our role “from conqueror of the land community to plain member and citizen of it” (Almanac 3. 204). Williams divines that this concept of a god lies outside our usual concept of nature. He contrasts a concept of this kind as supernatural to a concept that is natural. He also alleges that we cannot use a supernatural concept to explain events in the natural world (Shame 6. 130–131). But I think that a better contrast would be between a teleological concept and a mechanical concept of nature. Most likely a teleological cause would seem supernatural to someone who thinks of natural causes as mechanical only. But we clearly do, especially

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Our awareness of these contingent divinities entails further consequences for our moral imperatives. We are part and parcel of one grand universe. But, I submit, its first principle would be too exalted for our humble preoccupations. We are more obviously, I would assert, part and parcel of more local universes. These universes, if we may so denominate them, we more commonly call ecosystems. The local deities who care for these systems operate under principles that yield proximate imperatives for our daily lives. Each ecosystem, I assume, has a first principle that creates and sustains it.23 A proximate first principle for us, then, is a teleological principle that is not a necessary but rather a contingent form. One could say that a first principle of this kind is not an ideal form but a form apparently physical. But any god who is a physical being can be only contingent. Hence, a first mover, though unmoved and self-moved, may have come to be and may cease to be. He might also change and change drastically. Gods of this lineage we are privileged to know and to follow, should we so wish. Other consequences for human morality arise from the metaphysical fact that their first principles are not necessary. This fact can provision us against religious dogmatism and embolden us with new reverence. We are obliged to maintain an open mind if we wish to discover what these contingent principles are and how they might change over time. We must remain ever accessible to new theological inquiries and always amenable to new teleological principles. We also encounter a religious pluralism that is objective. Contingent first principles do include a universal principle for an ultimate whole. But there are also particular principles of greater variety for more local systems. These lesser proximate wholes within which we live are of obviously greater import for our action. We are obliged to take less interest in the macrocosm of it all and more in the microcosms of which the all is made. Though our global environment, however reluctantly we now admit the fact, is not without

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the biologists among us, use teleological concepts to explain some natural events. What we are not accustomed to do, I concede, is to use a teleological cause to explain the universe itself or the larger systems within it. Foot, unfortunately, would appear to overlook goodness of the kind that occurs within an ecosystem. She rightly argues that natural goodness resides in a species nature, and that a species nature is teleological (Goodness 2. 29–33). She is also correct to distinguish the goodness of a species, which she calls intrinsic, from a goodness predicated in relation to other species. She calls this relational goodness secondary, and she recognizes it as merely instrumental (26–27). But she mentions only in passing, I am sorry to say, the environments in which we reside (Goodness 2. 34, e.g.; also 32, n. 10). And she contends that the goodness of inanimate things is merely derivative. These entities do not have goodness for themselves but only for living things, such as ourselves (Goodness 2. 26–27). By inanimate she means not possessing life in the modern narrow sense that we, other animals, and plants share. But these inanimate things, so-called, are alive in a larger sense, I would suggest, and they include grander entities that are teleologies, such as solar systems, geosystems, and ecosystems.

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its moral significance, the more immediate environments within which we share our lives have the most practical relevance. Nor may we fail to notice, either, that our deities can, if we but recognize them, provision us with a moral holism. Because they are teleological causes, their first principles constitute a welcome antidote to the exuberant individualism of our day. They proffer finalities that can provide a shady glen of quiet repose from the harsh clashes and glares of unfettered efficiencies, so-called. The fact, then, that the gods are merely contingent brings us face-to-face with the mystery of our own existence and of our moral principles. Our moral principles can be only arbitrary and absurd, and yet these principles must also be objective! Our principles are both absurd and objective because our universe is objective and arbitrary. The universe obviously exists. Who could deny this fact? But the universe need not exist. Who could deny this fact, either? But someone may object, Aren’t you advocating polytheism? My answer is, How many gods there are depends on how skeptical you are. You may be a monotheist and hold to one god who is either necessary or contingent. But if you are, I would ask that you concede your singular god to have created many helper gods, who are contingent, and that these helper gods also provide us with moral principles. Or you may indeed be a polytheist if you are skeptical about any one god, necessary or contingent. The universe and the other gods would then be not merely contingent but also accidental deities, and these accidental deities would alone provision us with moral principles.24 I would conclude, then, that we may define a god as an entity who constitutes a teleological cause of the all or of a portion thereof grander than ourselves. But a god of this strain is not a hypostatized but rather a hypothesized entity. We may also conclude, I believe, that we may lead a good life without the presumption of a necessary deity, that the assumption of accidental deities may actually make our lives more reflective and reverent, and that with their postulation we might actually cherish existence itself all the more!25 24

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Hume takes a polytheist position to be tantamount to atheism (History 4). He would appear to view as a denial of a supreme god any admission of other gods. But could not the universe possibly be large enough for divine beings of more than one order? Nagel frets and fumes considerably over the obvious facts of our own birth and our death. Our birth, he feels, is contingent and unimportant. We are here by sheer luck, and there is no reason why we should be here (View 11. 211–213). Death he finds a nothingness that would itself be a misfortune even if it did not deprive us of more future goods than evils (223–225). The prospect of this nothingness is particularly painful, he argues, because we unconsciously conceive of our subjective awareness as independent of any contingent existence. We think of ourselves as “a set of ungrounded possibilities as opposed to a set of possibilities grounded in a contingent actuality” (225–228). I can only agree that our birth and our death do evince rather clearly the contingency and temporality of human existence. As a consequence, we ought best to view our

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3. A pluralistic universe, to borrow a phrase from William James, is a distinct possibility – nay, a necessary consequence – of the account that I am advancing. We may invoke a teleology – or, rather, many teleologies – innumerable myriads, in fact – and yet we may advocate a pragmatic philosophy. What I am doing is pruning the teleological hypothesis off from its ancient rational roots, as James would say, and grafting it onto modern empirical roots. Hence arise the absolute absurdities of my teleologies and their uncomfortable contingencies. With James I can also argue that we live within a multiverse. This term I would take to mean that we live within a multitude of first movers in what we are accustomed to call a universe. These unmoved, self-moved movers are, again, not necessary but merely contingent beings. They have connections with one another that are not rational, either, but empirical. These beings may actually come to be and cease to be! We ourselves would appear to be numbered among unmoved, self-moved movers of this variety. But a Jamesian would likely interject, Do you mean to imply that James is a teleologist? No, not exactly, I must answer. I cannot go quite so far as to argue that James advocates an objective teleology, but he obviously does accept a subjective one. I would suggest, however, that he might have accepted a teleological hypothesis of the objective kind if only he had given the possibility serious consideration. What I shall show is that the objective teleologies I advocate are very much in harmony with the fundamental metaphysical tenets of the pragmatism James sets forth. Any Jamesian would surely allow that our paradigmatic pragmatist takes great pains to argue against a changeless paradigm for the universe. James is rejecting, in other words, the very model that, Plato argues, the artisan uses to create the wondrous all. He thus agrees with us that an eternal model is less preferable for our universe than a temporal one. He consequently agrees, too, that we find in the universe not one unity that is absolute and unchanging but many unities that are changing and relative to one another. James’s reasons for rejecting an absolute paradigm are rather curious, I must say. A paradigm of this sort he refers to as rational or logical or even, disparagingly, as verbal. A rational model, he argues, relies on reductions self-consciousness as a contingent awareness of an object no less contingent. Whether our literal death be nothingness, which appears likely, or whether it leads to another life, I cannot say for certain. But I can say that between our birth and our death occur many other events, also contingent, of greater and lesser value. We may even find that our existence has an intrinsic value, though we are not the most valuable entities extant. Indeed, we live and breathe within a veritable plenum of intrinsic values. As if we were guests, we find ourselves honored for a time to be able to participate in the life of communities more divine than our selves. But we also ought as guests to acquiesce in the fact that we must eventually take our leave and depart, as we arrived, alone. We may take some consolation in the thought that we enjoyed these values with others, and that these communities will continue for a time after our departure.

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to the absurd in order to refute an empirical model. The one reduction is favorable to an eternal model, but the other is unfavorable to any model, empirical or not. The favorable reduction is that the universe, if its parts are interdependent in any way, will be seen to have more and more interconnection and ultimately prove to be an absolute unity. The unfavorable is that the universe, if its parts are in any way independent, will prove to have more and more disconnection and ultimately be seen to be complete chaos (Universe 2. 54–55; also 55–57). What makes these reductions seem to succeed, he explains, is a vicious intellectualism. Intellectualism of this unsavory sort is to treat a name as excluding from a fact those properties that the name fails to include (60). If we call them independent, things by definition cannot interact, but things by definition can interact if we call them interdependent. The reductions assume, that is, that the things under consideration have exclusively the properties that make them interdependent or independent and no other properties (57–58). James rightly points out, however, that things do not have names that exhaust their properties. He even denies that abstract things exist and avers that only concrete things exist. But concrete things are not exclusively either connected or disconnected. Existent things can have many relations, and they can lack many relations. Only if we consider them concretely are we able to discover how they might be the same or different with regard to their origin, place, or kind, for example (58–60). What James finds especially troublesome about the conceptual paradigm is, in other words, that it makes an illusion out of change. It does so by attempting to give univocal essences to perceptual objects. But perceptual objects happen to have essences, if we may so speak, that are not unequivocal. These objects change, and they have connections with one another that, presumably, change as well. They and their connections, too, come to be and cease to be (Universe 5. 216–221). A reader familiar with Plato might find this conclusion rather congenial and, perhaps, mildly amusing. James, apparently unawares, makes use of the ancient distinction between knowledge and opinion. He fills many pages with cautious arguments only to conclude, not without some diffidence, that he is forced to renounce a rational ontology and to embrace an irrational or, at least, a nonrational reality. Logic may have its use, he brings himself to declare, but its use is not to acquaint us with a reality that we can experience (Universe 5. 211–214).26 26

Myers balks at the idea of an irrational universe. He does see that a concept has a unity that excludes other concepts, and that without this unity we would lose the logic of identity. And yet he concludes that, “if he had preserved this rationality,” James “might have retained his conviction that what is intuitive defies adequate conceptualization . . . because this conviction does not require an irrational metaphysics” (James 11. 337–338). James, he conjectures, was

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But he might have said more simply and precisely that knowledge and its object are distinct from opinion and its object. He would not have had to reject abstract entities in favor of concrete ones. But he could have pointed out merely that we ought not to confuse the two with each other.27 In other words, James accuses his rationalistic antagonists of philodoxy in the pejorative sense. They take for objects of knowledge what are really objects of opinion, and they consequently attempt to drain the life blood from these objects (see Republic 5. 475e–480a). What does James do, then, with his new-found insight? After rejecting any absolute paradigm, James finds himself faced with the onerous prospect of proposing a new paradigm for the universe. God we can no longer identify with an absolute whole of things, he explains. An absolute god appears to him to be less than humane. A divine being who is “eternally complete . . . and sufficient unto himself” leaves human beings “outside the deepest reality in the universe.” With his exalted attributes god must remain distinct and distant from us with our mundane attributes (Universe 1. 25–27). God is rather “an ideal tendency in things,” he argues. We might think of god “as a superhuman person” with whom we may cooperate, and who may cooperate with us if we prove worthy (Universe 3. 124–125). The empirical evidence, he finds, supports “the belief in some form of superhuman life with which we may . . . be co-conscious.” But this superhuman life must for us remain “vague.” Indeed, we may conceive it to be either monotheistic or polytheistic (Universe 8. 309–311). He suggests, in other words, that we ought to transform our paradigm for the universe from an absolute model into a pluralistic one. This transformation is the only way to escape from the rational model with its vicious reductions and its other paradoxes and perplexities, he argues. But a superhuman consciousness that is pluralistic can be only finite and exist in an external environment, he rightly argues (Universe 3. 124–125; Universe 8. 309–311). A god of this pedigree, though superhuman, can no longer be either omniscient or omnipotent, James continues. He can at best have only finite

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carried away by undue “exhilaration” with his “renunciation of the logic of identity.” He was overly excited at the thought that “there is something inscrutable about the being of pure experience” (338–339). But Myers misses the point. If a concept is not adequate to its object, then its object cannot be a logical entity but only a perceptual one. But a perceptual entity is not bound by the logical principles of identity or of contradiction. It is subject only to the psychological principles of association. Nor does it always conform to our rather limited associations. It has, indeed, inscrutable ways of its own. This metaphysical recalcitrance, I dare say, does lend a certain zest to what would otherwise be a bland, if logical, life. As do the Platonists so-called, James would appear to attribute to Plato the notion that knowledge can be only of eternal truths (Universe 5. 218, e.g.). He does, however, hint that conception and perception are complementary (Universe 6. 250–252).

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knowledge and power (Universe 3. 124–125; Universe 8. 311–312). Because he “works in an external environment,” this god has not only his limits but even his enemies, he explains (Universe 3. 124–125 yet again). And because of his external environment, he must also, as do we, live in time and have a history (Universe 8. 318). You would agree, I hope, that James’s new paradigm is far from unreasonable. God as far as we can know him humanly is a finite being with finite powers of knowing and doing, though his powers greatly exceed our own. And god is mutable. Why? Because god is the soul of the universe, and the universe as we know it would appear to be enmattered! Neither the all nor its parts exhaust themselves in any one property or in any one activity, then. Both it and they do change, and they and it change their activities as well. The empirical evolutions of organisms and environments present matters of fact too obvious to merit even a mention. But now things get curiouser and curiouser. James, again unawares as far as I can tell, has brought us back to the ancient gods whom Plato reveres! He does not return us to the artisan who creates the universe, of course. But a Jamesian deity does bear a significant resemblance to this deity. The demiurge, you will recall, is obliged to work with matter, and the matter with which he works resists him. This aspect of creation Timaeus calls the work of necessity (Timaeus 47e–48a). He takes us back, rather, to a god who bears a most striking resemblance to the gods created by the artisan. The Jamesian god especially resembles the very god who is the soul of our universe. Recall that this god must also contend with matter. His charge would appear to be the care of all bodies (Timaeus 36d–e). He, too, obviously changes with time. He is, indeed, the very measure of time (37d–e, 38b–c). But the Jamesian deity does not appear entirely similar to the god who is the soul of our universe. The universal soul, Timaeus argues, has some knowledge, limited no doubt, and opinion with which to govern. Though he might have given him both, James grants his god no knowledge but only opinion. After all, he is not allotted a rational model but only an empirical model with which to guide his work.28 How, then, might James conceive of our relationship with god? He argues that we cannot have an intellectual identification. His assumption is that an intellectual identification we could have only with an absolute god. He asks, How would we exist in an eternal consciousness? We cannot be identical with a perfect intelligence. An intelligence of this sort would possess “eternally the solution of every problem.” But we must admit ourselves to 28

James does speak of his god as similar to the god of ordinary men, and he might thus seem to refer obliquely to a traditional Greek god of legend (Universe 3. 124–125; Universe 8. 311– 312). But he explicitly identifies this common god with the god of popular Christianity and the god of David and Isaiah (Universe 3. 110–111).

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be ignorant and imperfect. We surely experience curiosities and doubts, for example (Universe 5. 192–193). But I would ask, If god has an empirical consciousness, why may we not identify to some degree with a consciousness of this less-than-perfect kind? We, too, have an empirical consciousness, and we and he can be conscious of the same objects. If you will grant me the hypothesis that external objects exist. Ultimately, the objects that we both endeavor to know are only him. He is, after all, embodied in the whole of the universe. We are embodied but in a part of him. We are not a logical part, of course, but a physical part. Amazingly, James would disagree. He argues that the universe cannot be a whole with parts. The universe for him is not an organic whole, in a word. He suggests with his wonted argument that an organic whole could occur only if its parts were internally related to one another. A whole is identical with its parts, he implies, because its parts logically implicate one another (Universe 8. 322, 324–325). A whole has a “through-and-through unity of all things at once” (325–326). He argues instead that the universe can be a whole in name only. It has a unity that is “the strung-along type” or “the type of continuity, contiguity, or concatenation” (325–326). Why? Because the universe can have parts that are only externally related to one another. That is, its parts exist in an environment of some sort (321–322). Any part thus has relations to other parts in some way, and in some way it does not. They work together sometimes, and sometimes they do not (322–324). James thus rests his argument on his usual distinction between rationalism and empiricism. A rationalist, you may recall, uses wholes to explain parts, and an empiricist uses parts to explain wholes (Universe 1. 7–9). But from a whole a rationalist can never reach any parts because the parts are internally related and conceptual. From the parts, apparently, an empiricist can never reach a whole because the parts are material and externally related. But the dichotomy is false. One may work from an organic whole to its parts and still be an empiricist as easily as, if not more easily than, a rationalist, to retain James’s terminology. A whole need not be a conceptual entity in any pejorative metaphysical sense. A whole can also be as much a perceptual entity as its parts can. Indeed, we ourselves are wholes of said sort. And so are other organisms. How is this organicism possible? Simply put, the parts of a whole need not be related to one another in any logical sense. They can be – indeed, they are – related to one another in an ordinary physical sense. Consider an animal. Your brain is not internal logically to you, nor is your heart logically internal to you. Or consider an ecosystem. A bird is not logically internal to a tree in which it nests, nor is the tree internal in this sense to a forest. But physically internal a bird and its nest are to a tree and so are your heart and brain to you.

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I would thus substitute for the vicious intellectualism that James rightly derides an intellectualism of a virtuous sort. We may replace a theoretical intellectualism with an intellectualism of a practical variety. We agree with James that a name need not exhaust the properties of a material thing (Universe 2. 60; Universe 5. 216–221). But a name can refer to the holistic properties of a material thing without denying it other properties. These holistic properties, when materially conceived, are not insignificant. I am obliged, therefore, to draw your attention to a rather significant disagreement between James and me. We are warranted in hypothesizing that teleological beings, contingent though they are, exist within greater organic wholes that in their turn constitute teleologies as well. These grander teleologies appear to bear striking similarities to the teleologies that compose it and that we encounter in everyday experience. At least, on the more familiar scale of our global system or our solar system, we have entities of this type, and we apparently do on the rather vast scale of our galaxy as well. These teleological entities, hypothesized to be less proximate, allow us to see how a universe, even though an organic one, need not be conceptually monistic but can be perceptually pluralistic. Any ultimate teleology can surely have an internal order of parts that is not rational but empirical. We may thus agree with James that our universe need not be ultimately a logical entity that is without change but that the universe can be an entity that does change over time. Unfortunately, James is unable to agree that our universe has a unity that is objective. He would surely respond that god is a projection on our part. Recall his reflex theory of the human mind. Our mind, he argues, is a teleological entity – the only one the world has ever known, apparently. Our intellect functions for the sake of ends that we do not perceive with our senses but that we feel with our passions. In other words, our passions determine the conceptual relations that we only seem to discover in the world of our experience (Will 4. 117–120). Our concept of god is no exception to this reflex activity. As a natural scientist or an artist attempts to impose a conceptual form on their sense impressions, so, too, does a theologian. Even if all efforts fail, James explains, the theological endeavor to discover a god and to formulate a theology at least obeys our passional interests. We cannot but feel that “the desiderated form” must give some order to our impressions (120). And yet this god, though only projected by our passions, does appear to resemble, at least, our own teleological nature. James, in fact, defines his god in moral terms. God has a personality. He is “the deepest power in the universe,” he “makes for righteousness,” and he “recognizes us.” His personality and ours, despite other alleged differences, resemble each other in two respects. Both “have purposes for which they care, and each can hear the other’s call” (121–122). In sum, recall that I am hypothesizing a soul to be nothing more mysterious than a teleological cause. As if a teleological cause were not mysterious

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enough! A cause of this kind constitutes a form that is both a spring of motion and its first principle, to recur to Plato’s definition (Phaedrus 245c). That is to say, a soul is a formal cause that functions both as an efficient cause and a final cause. A soul can assimilate matter and put it in motion. But a god for James cannot be a teleological cause. Why not? Precisely because he cannot be a soul. Indeed, James explicitly argues that there are no souls to be had. He entertained the concept of a soul for some time, he confides (Universe 5. 205–208). But he eventually rejected it because he viewed it as merely a nominal entity. To explain why something does what it does by saying that it has a soul, he argues, would be tantamount to asserting that we have five fingers because we are pentadactyls (208–210). He would apparently assume that a soul is a mere concept. And if so, that we can know her only rationally, and that she cannot be subject to change. But can we not view a soul as a perceptual entity? If so, we can know her through experience, and she can very obviously change. I am agreeing with James that a soul cannot be a changeless entity. At least, not as far as we can know. But I am also agreeing with Plato that a soul, though not changeless, can herself be a cause of change. James does concede that we might possibly revive the concept of a soul if only we could find for it a pragmatic significance not yet observed (210– 211). But he himself, I believe, overlooks the significance of this concept. Its pragmatic significance lies in distinguishing entities of a variety that have teleological properties from those which do not. These properties constitute a unity that maintains itself through change over time. Its form is not conceptual, again, but apperceptual, or, more commonly, perceptual. Entities of this kind embody their form in their nature and in their activities. The fact that they do provides a clue for empirical investigations of a specific kind. The concepts of efficient and final causes can guide us in uncovering the mechanical causes that are the components of organic systems and in discovering the effects of these causes, which account for the order and organization present in said systems.29 But even if souls did not exist, even if souls were mere projections, would not James have to agree that the concept itself of a soul can help us to organize the universe to our purpose? If we were to take a concept of an internal relation as empirical, and if we were to accept the Jamesian teleology of reflex action, would we not still be able to use the concept of a soul to serve our ends? Would not the concept of an organic whole have its pragmatic value and help us find our way in this curious world of ours? We can now see how a religious experience can include sympathy and intimacy, at least in a modicum, with a universe that is an organic whole. We are sympathetic creatures, James reminds us. He recognizes that an absolute 29

Kant, you may recall, staunchly defends the heuristic qualities of a cause of this kind ( Judgement 2. 1. 66.).

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universe would surely give us peace of mind. Despite surface disturbances, a rational being would tell us that “at bottom all is well with the cosmos.” He admits, too, that a rational universe would have its beauties of aesthetic, intellectual, and moral kinds (Universe 3. 113–116). But James worries that a universe of this sort would lose its hold on our sympathy. He argues that our rationality cannot give us the unity of vision proper for guiding sympathy. A rational universe could have no history, and a being of this sort would feel no passions. It would have “no needs, desires, or aspirations, no failures or successes, friends or enemies, victories or defeats.” Because it would be without a history, an absolute universe would in fact only repel our sympathy. A universe of this sort would be static and eternal. We could neither help nor hinder it, nor could it help or hinder us, he argues. We may sympathize only with beings that have a history. With these beings we can interact, and our histories can intertwine with theirs (Universe 2. 47–50). We can sympathize with the universe, James avers, only if we can in some way be on intimate terms with it. Both a rational universe and an empirical universe identify their divinity with our humanity, he concedes (Universe 1. 33–35). But only a god whom we project with our passion can be an appropriate object of sympathy. Our passion transforms “the dead blank it” into “a living thou,” and only with this thou may we have dealings, he tells us (Will 4. 127, his italics). But can we not find peace in our apperception of the universe? And may we not sympathize with an apperceived universe? I would ask. We know that the universe can be rational and yet change. Strictly speaking, it is an object not of knowledge but of opinion. But an object of opinion can not only change but even change before our very eyes. We are aware that our sun is slowly dying out and that the earth is slowing in her rotations. These changes are not visible to us even with the aid of the most sophisticated instruments. But with instruments no more sophisticated than our naked eyes, we can see the motions of our moon and of the planets. Not to mention objects closer to hand. We thus experience an all that is not only a source of peace because we know it to be stable. The all is also an object of sympathy because we know it to be alive. It is as much alive as any teleological being is. Or, at least, very lifelike, if you prefer. A universe that is not knowable but opinable does obviously have a history. Our universe is less ephemeral than the objects in our immediate ken, to be sure. It does not change nearly as rapidly as they or we do. But change it does. Our sympathy, however, can be only one of an intellectual variety and not of an emotional sort. We sympathize with an object that we opine to have a unity, and we recognize that its unity bears a strong resemblance to our own unity. We and it are teleological entities, which have a soul, or, at least,

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soul-like properties. This sympathy is not at all an emotion felt for an object dimly cognized and projected onto an endless and dead chaos. Despite this difference, James, nonetheless, presents a theological position that entails an important consequence for us. He reminds us that an entirely empirical universe can open up new experiences for us. Religious experience for James is the experience “of an unexpected life succeeding upon death.” He explains that this new life is not one of immortality nor does it succeed a physical death. But rather it is a “deathlike termination of certain mental processes” within the experience of an individual. This discovery is one “of a life that supervenes upon despair” (Universe 8. 303). He explains this religious experience with a contrast between pride and humility. An experience of this kind is a recent invention of modern theology, he claims. He feels the experience to be novel because, he argues, the ancients could not have understood it. He in effect accuses the Greeks and the Romans, too, of hubris in the worst sense. They were so proud that they thought their naturalistic system of values to be self-sufficing, and that they knew good to be good, and bad to be bad. In short, they thought that they could be virtuous in their own right (303–305). True religious experience requires humility, he rightly argues. Reason must give up her literal and legal virtues. Because it works only with natural experience, reason is not amenable to a religious experience. The religious experience is one of “letting something higher work for us” – something wider than physics or ethics (305–306). What this something is, is apparently a “superhuman life with which we may, unknown to ourselves, be co-conscious.” We may well be like the dogs and cats in our libraries, he observes, resorting to a favorite metaphor. They can see the books and hear the conversation, but they cannot grasp “the meaning of it all” (307–311). This concept of religious experience is one that I am quite happy to embrace. I am aware, of course, that many contemporary philosophers, even admirers of James, find themselves somewhat embarrassed by this concept. James himself was not unaware of the eccentricity of his hypothesis (Universe 7. 298–300, for example). But I think that the concept might be acceptable enough if we allow ourselves a minor modification. We may agree with James that there is a rational order greater than that contained in our philosophy. Who could be so arrogant as to presume to understand it all? But need we argue that this greater rational order is a conscious one? No, not if we accept the fact that a natural teleology can be rational without a rational awareness. At least, not as far as we are able to know. That is, this rationality we may view as an objective one without any subjectivity. I hope that I do not have to argue further for entities of this kind. The cats and dogs in our libraries, though they have a subjectivity, obviously have a rational awareness different than ours. But our ecosystems, both natural and artificial, would appear not to have any subjective awareness.

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With this modification we may entertain a religious hypothesis without venturing even into the purlieus of a “spook-haunted” region (Universe 7. 298–300). And we can account for religious experience as a deathlike termination of a mental activity. James would surely concede that we can have an experience of this type without forsaking rationality entirely. We do so whenever we see our hypotheses falter and fail. These hypotheses can be grand ones, too. But they concern nothing spookier than the teleology of the natural universe or of other natural teleological systems. Our reason, however, unless we give up the ghost, never fails to be undeterred. I take this to be a plain psychological fact. No sooner does one hypothesis die than another springs to life. Indeed, we are not infrequently in a quandary about which of many hypotheses to adopt. This process remains a mystery to me, but I understand that the cognitive scientists hope to explain it soon. I anxiously await their determinations.30 This religious experience is hardly a modern one, however. The Greeks would surely arch their brows at any claim of so recent an origin for it. Socrates, after all, avers on the very day of his execution that philosophy is nothing more than the practice of dying (Phaedo 64a). That is why he can go so cheerfully to his death, even though it is an unjust one. Indeed, he expects that his death will take him into the company of wise and good gods and of men better than his jury (63b–c). He even suggests that this concept of death was well established in ancient thought. He credits, as you may recall, an ancient sage with the idea that we are all dead already and entombed in our body (Gorgias 493a). If so, our present life could be only a life after death. And, of course, Diotima relates to Socrates that we are continually dying and being reborn in both soul and body (Symposium 207c–208a). We mortals can be immortal not by remaining forever the same but only by ever leaving behind an old self and taking on a new one (208a–b)! 30

Suckiel argues that these “regenerative spiritual experiences,” which she also characterizes as experiences of communion between a subject and a divinity, are significant consequences of religion (Champion 7. 128–130). She observes that these spiritual experiences are the only empirical consequences about which James expresses any confidence (125–127). But the truth of a religious belief, Suckiel also points out, can for James rest on its congeniality with our emotional interests (Champion 5. 79–86). We may especially rely on emotion when we lack sufficient evidence to decide a question (91–92). I think that Suckiel is quite right about our experience of renewal and about James’s view of it. But need we allow the truth of a religious hypothesis to turn on our feelings about it? You surely agree by now, I hope, that we ought to rest our religious concepts on evidence that we can perceive. We may, then, feel a communion with a god both when we renew ourselves by formulating a new hypothesis and when we simply remain ourselves by acting on an old hypothesis in concert with divine ends. But we might also discover other empirical evidence of divine teleologies besides our own actions and emotions. The universe in fact abounds with evidence of this kind.

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The knowledge that we have yet to entertain a hypothesis that has not eventually failed, I would thus take to be a sign of human humility. Socrates, perhaps more than anyone else, demonstrates the folly of presuming to understand it all and of clinging to a hypothesis as if it were an absolute truth. Is he so ironic when he claims that he does not know anything, least of all, anything divine (Apology 20d–21e)? Or when he aspires to be a Bacchant (Phaedo 69c–d)? James is hesitant about accepting polytheism, but I feel obliged to embrace it. The universe is besouled with deities and daimons. Our universe is pure pandaimonium, one might say. Or, perhaps we would better say, impure pandaimonium. Plato was quite right to think that we are in the company of so many other teleological beings. The lesser deities are the harbingers of the greater, which, for all we know, might possibly include a necessary singularity orchestrating it all. But these wondrous divinities we daimons are not privileged to approach directly. They require of us humble sacrifices and entreaties if we are to become near and dear to them. But in their turn they provision us with divine requitals and injunctions if only we deign to hearken to their call (Symposium 202e–203a). 4. We may take solace not only in the teleological, yet finite, gods with whom we have become acquainted. We may also take solace in our immortal Prussian. In Immanuel Kant we find an ally of sorts, though, to be sure, an unwitting one. But he would, I hope, not be an unwilling ally, could he but hear our arguments. We shall see especially that he presents a cosmological argument with striking similarities to the argument we are exploring. Actually, Kant presents the cosmological argument in two variations. He refers to both arguments as teleologies, and he distinguishes them as a moral and a natural teleology. These arguments, he explains, differ because we know their teleologies in different ways. A moral teleology infers a divine being from an end known a priori, but a natural teleology does so from ends known a posteriori ( Judgement 2. app.85. 436). Kant has a decided philosophical preference for his moral cosmology. A cosmology of this kind begins with moral action, not with physical motion. We are first and foremost rational beings, who are independent of nature, and yet we are subject to moral law, he argues. Indeed, moral law commands our rationality without any condition and defines for us a final end that is a priori. Our rational nature thus exists as an unconditioned end. This end is the highest good possible through freedom (das h¨ochste durch Freiheit m¨ogliche Gut) ( Judgement 2. app. 87. 448–450). But we are also natural beings, who are dependent on nature. When we act in accordance with moral law, we act of our own free will but are also subject to natural conditions. We must thus set for ourselves a final

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end that is a posteriori. This end is the highest possible physical good (das h¨ochste . . . m¨ogliche . . . physische Gut). Kant, of course, calls this end our happiness. But he cautions us that our happiness remains subject to moral law. This moral condition he calls our worthiness to be happy ( Judgement 2. app. 87. 450).31 We, therefore, cannot but act under a postulate that moral law is consistent with natural law. At least, a moral agent cannot but so act. But this postulate assumes as its object a god who has the function of being a guarantor of the congruence of moral and natural law. Kant thus explains how we can be independent of nature and yet attain what he calls simply the highest good (das h¨ochste Gut), which is our moral and physical good taken together. He assumes that god is the moral cause of a harmony between our morality and our felicity ( Judgement 2. app. 87. 450; also Practical 1. 2. 2. 124–125). The Kantian concept of god, despite some contemporary condescension, is quite innocuous really. This god is merely a nomothetic being, nothing more and nothing less. God is, Kant plainly asserts, a “moral lawgiver” (moralischer Gesetzgeber) ( Judgement 2. app. 88. 455). The divine function is merely to grant the possibility that moral law can harmonize with natural law. But moral law rests on lawfulness itself or, more simply, universality and necessity. Though Kant does not in so many words say so, his god merely assures us, then, that moral law with its own universality and necessity is consistent with natural law and its universality and necessity. A natural teleology, however, has its limits. We cannot, Kant argues, use a teleology of this kind to show what a god might be or even that he might be. A divine cause, Kant explains, lies outside of nature and explains why nature herself exists. A final cause of this supreme sort cannot, accordingly, be subject to any natural conditions or be discovered within them. But our theoretical reason can grasp a final cause only empirically, and a final cause of this sort is subject to natural conditions. We can, however, use an empirical concept of a final cause to explain natural ends. Indeed, we ought to do so, he asserts ( Judgement 2. app. 85. 437–438). Nor could any natural cause guarantee a harmony between morality and happiness, he observes ( Judgement 2. app. 87. 450). He does not elaborate on his observation. But a brief reflection tells us that, if we appealed to any natural cause, we would thereby deprive ourselves of our freedom. A natural cause would condition our moral end as causes of this kind do our natural end. One might say that Kant is rather dogmatic about his moral cosmology. In fact, he himself declares that our moral end is dogmatically certain (dogmatisch gewiß) ( Judgement 2. app.88. 453–454)! He rests his postulate of god on moral law, which is an indubitable a priori truth. But he is skeptical about 31

Kantian happiness, I would remind you, does not resemble so much the Hellenic variety as the Humeian.

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any physical cosmology. Its divine postulate could rest only on an argument that is true a posteriori. With it we may think that a deity has superlative attributes sufficient to establish nature and her final end. But if we do, we merely adorn the divine concept with attributes not warranted by empirical evidence ( Judgement 2. app. 85. 438–439). We could not, for example, discern whether a deity of this kind was an agent acting with intention for the sake of a final cause or a mere animal acting with an intelligence determined by instinct (441–442).32 Kant, then, accepts a cosmological argument of a moral kind but not of a natural kind. The one argument rests on moral law and our ability to set an unconditioned end for ourselves. The other rests on natural law, which we can use to set only conditioned ends for ourselves. The one argument requires that we postulate a god, he argues, but the other does not allow that we can. We can, however, accept a cosmological argument of either variety. But we must do a little metaphysical tweaking. My proposal for a cosmology has a structure that bears significant similarities to the moral cosmology of Kant. We, too, must postulate a god who guarantees a harmony similar to that between moral law and natural law. Our argument starts from the fact that we have, if not a moral law, a moral hypothesis, which we can employ to set unconditioned ends for ourselves. We are, after all, unmoved, self-moved movers. At least, as far as we are able to ascertain, we most likely are. But no matter how free we think ourselves to be, we can hardly deny that we remain subject to natural law. Or so it appears. When we act, even when we act morally, we give every appearance of acting within nature. Our moral precepts must accordingly be harmonious with our natural percepts of the supposed conditions to which we appear to be subject. At least, in some modicum, they must. If they were not, we could not take even a single step in pursuit of a happiness at once moral and mortal. But my cosmological argument does bear some distinct dissimilarities to the Kantian moral cosmology. We cannot, I believe, postulate a god who is outside of nature. Our postulated god is surely a final end inside of nature. How could one know any divinity to be outside of nature? How could one know anything at all to be outside of nature? We are not allotted divine knowledge of any kind, not even of a divine being. All our knowledge can be only of a human kind; and its objects, one and all, are empirical. We with our freedom cannot be outside of nature, either. Not even as moral agents can we withdraw from nature. We might be tempted to think that an unmoved, self-moved mover must be apart from nature. But we are hardly the only movers of this variety. Other animals and plants, too, are teleological entities that embody unconditioned, internal causes of their

32

Do you hear echoes of David Hume? But I anticipate.

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motion and rest. Are they outside of nature? If so, then are their ecosystems? Or planetary systems? I think not. If we felt so inclined, we might argue that Kant advances a necessary cosmology of a sort that is pejorative. The pragmatic arguments that James espouses imply that he does. With them one might charge Kant with a vicious intellectualism. He uses a transcendental concept of moral law to define exhaustively what our moral good is. Morality thus becomes changeless, and moral change a mere illusion. Except, of course, for change of a sort that would allow us to approach the changeless. What a curious notion! But we ought not to permit ourselves to become dogmatic. Our thoughts, especially about our own goodness, must retain a skeptical tint. Our moral knowledge cannot be transcendental but merely immanent. We might think our knowledge divine when we view it as relations of ideas. But, alas, human knowledge can be neither necessary nor universal. Our knowledge, even of our ideas as such, is only general and contingent. We are most severely limited by our meager experience. Even our moral knowledge, precious though it be, concerns matters of fact. We glean our precepts from our percepts. Nor need I remind you that our percepts are mere impressions, and that our impressions may or may not resemble their objects, and that their objects may or may not exist even. What is more, our impressions give every appearance of resembling objects subject to unchanging change, among which we may number our dear old selves. We may not, then, assert that any god is a transcendental idea. A god whom we postulate with our practical cogitations and agitations is only a matter of empirical fact. Why? Because our moral injunctions, such as they are, concern only matters of fact. That we find our end in an action of value for itself is also a mundane matter of fact. But we do presume that our action will come to fruition, when we act. And so we assume a harmony between our actions and their conditions. Nor may we assert that our freedom is a transcendental fact. Kant claims that our freedom is transcendental, of course, and this claim he uses as if a springboard to propel himself up into the precincts of his transcendental god. One could say that he rests his transcendental cosmology on a matter of fact that he takes to be transcendental. That is to say, on his first principle of morality (Grundsatz der Moralit¨at) (Practical 1. 2. 2. 132–134). With it Kant even claims objective reality (objectiv Realit¨at), albeit practical, for the ideas of theoretical reason (134–136). But we do not know our will to be transcendental. When we are aware of our mind and its operations, we are aware only of our mental functions and their ideas and impressions. But these functions and their objects are immanent matters of fact. Indeed, they appear to be only effects of external objects – our selves and our environment. We are destined to remain, as if entombed, within human experience. We can make no claim for any objective reality, least of all for a transcendental reality!

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What am I arguing, then? I am arguing that a divine, yet natural, teleology, or teleologies, is a necessary supposition of the moral teleology that I claim to have discovered. This divine teleology includes within its end our own teleology with its rational and irrational functions. But, of course, a divine teleology of this kind also includes within its end other ends and natures. A teleology of an architectonic sort guarantees that the final causes constituting our goodness and the goodness of other entelechies are consistent with any mechanical causes existent in nature. We might say that a divine teleology represents the ultimate end of the universe. Or, at the very least, it represents for us the ultimate end of our parochial corner of the universe. Indeed, because this grand teleological being includes our own petite teleology within it, one might well say that it and we are one, or that it is our ultimate self and our ultimate end. Our final cause is and can only be one with its. Nor is this moral argument a privileged cosmological argument. My argument is on a par with other cosmological arguments. We can see that a moral and a natural teleology are quite similar. We may assume no ends outside of nature, and so we find a natural teleology quite serviceable. Indeed, any final end within nature, whether it be an animate or a seemingly inanimate entelechy, can function only under material conditions with which it harmonizes to a greater rather than a lesser degree. In other words, our argument need not rest on human action. Natural motion, if teleological, will do quite nicely. I would also note that, if we view our freedom merely as a matter of empirical fact, we need not presuppose a deity who is a moral agent similar to ourselves (see Judgement 2. app. 455). We need suppose only a god good enough to operate in a rational manner. We do not have to postulate a conscious final end for our universe, either. We need only an empirical entity whose activities prove to be consistent with its conditions and with our empirical activities and their conditions. We might consider a noteworthy consequence or two of our analysis. Kant declares that our humanity is the only final end in the universe! Or, more specifically, that our practical rationality is. Why? Because our practical rationality is a law unto itself. We are self-legislative, and we recognize in ourselves a causality and an object of our very own. We are free, in a word. Our rationality rests on no empirical conditions, and with it we set for ourselves an end that is necessary in itself ( Judgement 2. app. 84. 435). Because we are self-legislative, we are, indeed, the final end of all creation! he informs us. With the proviso that there are no other rational beings extant in the world. Our final end, he argues, is so preeminent that we may subject all of nature to it or, at least, not permit any of nature to subject it ( Judgement 2. app. 84. 435–436). He claims, more precisely and proudly, that our goodwill is that which alone has an absolute worth, and that in which

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alone all existence can have its final end ( Judgement 2. app. 86. 442–443; 2. app. 87. 448–450). We are hardly so privileged on my account. Kant assumes, once again, that we have a noumenal nature that is transcendental ( Judgement 2. app. 84. 435). But why make this assumption? We are a final end, I do agree. But we are but a final end empirically known. With our good will we are not at all alone in our intrinsic worth, either. Many other creatures are final ends as well. These creatures also are a law unto themselves, though not necessarily a moral law. They may not be conscious, either. But their ends do appear to follow a formal law that is rational. The solar system is surely an example of an entelechy of this sort. But so is the global system, with the meteorological, hydrological, and geological systems within it, and the ecosystems within them. So are the varied flora and fauna, such as the javelina and the cholla.33 What is more, the universe is itself its own end, and we ultimately find ourselves subject morally and naturally to its final causality. We are obviously subject to many natural ends greater than ourselves. The annual and diurnal cycles of our planet set a measure for our daily activities. We are fast learning the effects and affects of other cycles within various ecosystems within which we and our fellow sojourners dwell. But we do subject to our own ends some entities with lesser ends. Hence, our domestication of plants and animals and our production of food, clothing, and shelter.34 Kant thinks his moral teleology a supplement to his natural teleology and a basis for a theology. God and we provide a moral teleology within which rests a natural one. These intelligent causes and their ends explain the existence and nature of natural causes and ends ( Judgement 2. app. 86. 443– 444). But we are not in need of a moral teleology to supplement a natural one, I would argue. We rest, rather, within natural teleologies operating 33

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Hawking surely counters any claim to our absolute worth when he observes that “the earth is a medium-sized planet orbiting around an average star in the outer suburbs of an ordinary spiral galaxy, which is itself only one of about a million million galaxies in the observable universe” (Time 8. 130)! I am arguing, simply put, that we are part of a grander being, and not that a grander being is part of us. I would thus agree with contemporary environmentalists who hold that our ecosystems present objective values of their own. Rolston, for example, argues that we humans have natural values that are intrinsic, but that we are components of ecosystems that also have natural, intrinsic values. These conclusions he rests on biological science. We ought, he continues, to respect these ecosystemic values (see Wild 1. 17–20, e.g.; or 6. 95–104, 110–115). But some environmentalists do take the alternative view. Callicott puts his trust in the science of quantum physics. He argues that we are part of a web of relations in the world, but that we are thus merely integrated with our own body. We ourselves have natural, intrinsic values, and we can actualize these values in nature. When we act in our own interest, we act in the best interest of nature, he concludes (see Defense 9. 170–174). Nature herself possesses only virtual value (165–170).

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with or without consciousness in the furtherance of other teleologies with and without consciousness. A natural teleology thus has within it a moral teleology as a whole has within it a part. But are you not advocating pantheism? a Kantian might interject. Surely, the pantheists misinterpret the concept of a thing. What they do, Kant charges, is reduce the final cause of an intelligent being to the final cause of a being without intellect. This reduction they perform by transforming a causal dependence on a substance to a causal unity within a substance ( Judgement 2. app. 85. 439–440). In other, more ordinary words, they reduce a moral agency to a mere nature. I can only respond, Precisely! A pantheist may indeed reduce a concept employed by a divine agent to a concept embodied in a divine object. One may, indeed, transform a concept conceived as cloistered within ethereal relations of ideas to one embedded in murky matters of fact! No more and no less, as far as we are able to discern, is our humble habitat. What need might the all have of a supplementary divinity? I would ask. The all is a cause of its very own. Yet a Kantian might also suspect that we advance what Kant would call a theosophy or, even worse, a daemonology (D¨amonologie)! He might fear that we make god into a transcendent entity that seems to be anthropomorphic ( Judgement 2. app. 89. 459). His concern would be especially that our theoretical knowledge of god would presume to take the lead over practical knowledge. We would seem to allow our theology to dictate morality, and to espouse a divine rule of an arbitrary sort (459–460). I would reply again that our theology is neither transcendental nor transcendent. It is merely empirical and immanent because it is subject to verification and revision. And continuously so. But I would argue that we must allow theology to take the lead, and that we must allow theology to rule in an arbitrary manner! No god can rule in any other than an arbitrary manner! After all, god is an accidental teleological being, and an accidental being can be nothing other than an absurdity. And theology must rule morality. Our universe, however absurd, is its own end, and we are part and parcel of it. We are hardly the end of the universe. I would concede, however, that we do advance a daemonology, though my preference is for the contemporary transliteration “daimonology.” But our daimonology, again, is not at all anthropomorphic. Quite the contrary! We are hypothesizing that god is a soul who is in charge of our majestic universe in its entirety. But we are by hypothesis souls in charge of rather meager entities within our universe. One final point we ought to consider, if you will. I must agree with our dear Prussian that any theology worthy of the name ought not to rest on passion. Kant argues that with our practical reason we are able to formulate a theology without falling into theurgy. That is to say, we may postulate a divine being without pretending to rely on any feeling with which he and

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we might supposedly communicate with one another ( Judgement 2. app. 89. 459).35 Kant, in sum, reminds us that his moral teleology is merely a new form of an old argument. When they first began to reflect, human beings must have imagined, he relates, that right conduct could lead them only to rewards and wrong conduct to punishments. And that a supreme being, however crudely conceived, must rule the universe according to moral law. To have a human nature with a final end and to have a natural universe without any end, he explains, would involve a contradiction ( Judgement 2. app. 88. 458–459). We can agree that final ends do exist in nature, both in our environments and in ourselves. By understanding these ends as best we can, we are best able to discover principles for our action. Our concepts of these ends, I would also argue, ought to serve us as moral principles. When we conceive these principles as best we can and act on them as best we can, we find our reward in our actions themselves as well as in their effects. But we may find retribution awaiting us when we fail to cognize these principles or fail to act on them. The natural beings under whose aegis we move and have our being might thus appear to us in the guise of moral beings.36 The debonair David Hume, I am delighted to report, proves an additional source of solace for us. He, too, advances a position that appears to bear rather striking similarities to the position that I propose. He clearly agrees that a first mover is not, as far as we may ever hope to know, a necessary being. In his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion he has his interlocutors consider the cosmological argument in its customary formulation. Demea argues that we must retreat to causes from effects until we come to a necessary first cause

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We thus side with Kant against James, who does rely on passion for his proof of a deity. Williams rightly recognizes that what he calls the supernatural involves “an idea that the structure of things is purposive” (Shame 6. 141). Citing the examples of Agamemnon and Eteocles, he argues that we may in our deliberations have to accept this supernatural purpose as a necessity that “presents itself to the agent as having produced the circumstances in which he must act” (132–139). I could hardly put the matter better myself. Williams, however, appears to see a supernatural purpose as a cause of evil, perhaps because his examples are taken from tragedy (133–134, 136–137, 141). But a god surely ought not to act for the worse. One would suspect, rather, that divine acts would seem evil to those who do evil. After all, both Agamemnon and Eteocles come from families cursed by wrongdoing. Incidentally, Williams quotes Heracleitus to the effect that our character shapes our fate, and our fate our character. The term for fate in the passage quoted is !, (135–136). Williams also worries about the inescapability of these supernatural purposes (Shame 6. 139–142). I would attribute their ineluctability to the simple fact of their existence. We are simply born into a set of natural circumstances, and nothing we can ever do will free us from their confines. Not even the keenest inventions of modern science. That social institutions may well exhibit a similar ineluctability, albeit through different causes, has not escaped my notice. Williams, however, may see our social and political confinement as a question of being in the power of another person (151–166).

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of all else. That is, to a necessary, unmoved, self-moved mover (Dialogues 9. 90–91).37 But this argument for a necessary god Hume presents only to demolish and with relish. Cleanthes immediately rejoins that the argument relies on a confusion between relations of ideas and matters of fact! Relations of ideas are demonstrable because they have contraries that imply a contradiction. But no matter of fact has a contrary that implies a contradiction (Understanding 4. 1. 25–26). Consequently, no matter of fact has an existence that could be demonstrable. And so a matter of fact could not have a necessary existence. Indeed, the phrase necessary existence has no meaning, he asserts (Dialogues 9. 91–92). Cleanthes adds, with a second by Philo, that a cosmological argument similar to the common one could also be made for a material entity. Matter could possibility possess a quality or qualities that might cause its existence to be necessary. But the fact remains that both form and matter are contingent in the universe as we know it. As if an authority were needed, he cites Samuel Clarke in support of these obvious empirical facts. We can easily conceive, Clarke reminds us, form to be altered and matter to be annihilated (Dialogues 9. 92, 93). We thus see yet again how absurd existence is! Hume explicitly touches on this fact, though he does not develop it. To support his cosmological argument, Demea declares that, without a necessary being, we would find no more absurdity in the existence of nothing from eternity than in the existence of something (90–91). Cleanthes is silent about this point, but his earlier refutation did carry this obvious implication. Without a necessary cause, existence is indeed absurd. Perhaps Hume is discreet not to linger over the point. But a few have the indelicacy to embrace it openly. From our own perspective, we can see that Hume abandons a more traditional Platonic model of the universe in favor of a more empirical model. He thus prefers not an a priori but an a posteriori argument, or, in other words, he prefers not conceptual but perceptual evidence. Only with arguments from experience can we reason about a deity, or about anything else, and we reason best only with analogies, preferably as close as possible, between observed events and events unobserved (Dialogues 2. 46 or 49–52, for example).38 Hume is also able to draw the corollary that a god can be only a contingent being. If matter can be annihilated and form can be altered, a form for our universe can surely be altered and a universe of matter can surely be annihilated. We may thus as easily imagine a god not to exist as to exist. 37

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The references are to the Gaskin edition. These dialogues are truly delightful. They are by far more elegant and gallant, so to speak, than the Platonic dialogues in their English translations, and they may even rival Plato’s own artistry in the Greek. These analogies, incidentally, one could easily argue are rhetorical examples.

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A divinity might possibly possess a quality that could make his annihilation impossible or attributes unalterable. But a quality of this kind must remain unknown and inconceivable to us, he argues (Dialogues 9. 92). Lest anyone attempt to advance the interpretation, not unknown among contemporary philosophers, that Hume is an atheist, I would observe that all the interlocutors in his dialogues agree without argument that a god does exist. Demea leads the chorus. He explains that the question for them is “not the being but the nature of God.” Philo immediately agrees with the assertion that without a cause nothing exists, and that “the original cause of this universe . . . we call God.” Cleanthes concurs, though implicitly, by at once setting out on an attempt to explain what god is (Dialogues 2. 43–44, 45, Hume’s italics).39 Indeed, Philo’s well-known skeptical argument about god explicitly concerns not divine existence but divine nature. “Our ideas reach no farther than our experience: We have no experience of divine attributes and operations,” he argues. Leaving his argument unfinished, he continues, “I need not conclude my syllogism: You can draw the inference yourself” (44–45). The obvious inference is not that we can have no idea of divine existence, but that we can have no ideas of divine attributes and operations. We might, then, wonder, What kind of contingent being is this Humeian god? Hume presents arguments that are quite favorable to our hypothesis that the universe is alive. The primary argument supporting this proposition is, according to Philo, a familiar ancient one. The universe, he argues, would appear to have a soul! Indeed, the universe appears to have a soul because it is alive. It is, he explains, an organized body that greatly resembles an animal body. It contains parts that function to preserve themselves as well as the whole. And it exhibits a circulation of matter through which any wasting away is continually restored (Dialogues 6. 72–73). Hume does consider the hypothesis that god might be an artisan rather than an animal. Cleanthes argues that the universe is a great machine composed of infinity many lesser machines. These lesser machines are so intricate as to elude human explanation, he observes. With its intricate adaptation of means to ends, this complex machinery “resembles exactly, though it much exceeds” a product of human art. We may, therefore, infer by analogy to a cause that is most probably similar from effects that are so similar. God is an intelligent artisan, in a word (Dialogues 2. 45). But Philo rejects this hypothesis. He responds that an analogy between an artificial and a natural product is not as close as an analogy between two natural or two artificial products. We may infer that a stone will fall or a fire will burn because observed instances are so very similar to any new instance. 39

Gaskin reports that Hume “expressed surprise that anyone should be an atheist” (intro. ix). He also quotes a letter in which Hume writes that he does not object to “the Assent of the Understanding to the Proposition that God exists” (xxiv, his italics).

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Or we may infer that a builder has built a house because this cause is specific to this effect. But the universe does not bear a very great resemblance to a house. Any inference about a similar cause in this instance, he argues, can be little more than a guess because of the dissimilarity between the effects (46). Only by proceeding with “extreme caution” with any analogy can we hope to arrive at true inferences, he continues. Our analogies ought to be exactly similar if we are to have any great confidence in them. Human thought, Philo explains, is only one of many causes operating in the universe, and our thought is a cause operating in only a very small portion of the universe. We would consequently lack “phlegm and philosophy” to take so large a step as to infer that “this little agitation of the brain,” called thought, is the cause of the very universe itself (49–52).40 Hume thus offers plausible arguments, resting on his empirical epistemology, for an animal universe. Only by arguing from experience to causes from effects, and only by analogies as exact as possible between causes and effects, can we hope to answer any theological question (see, too, Dialogues 7. 78–81). But he also has another epistemological argument that favors our position. Besides being a closer analogy, the animal hypothesis has the advantage of being a proximate cause. Why need we go further? Philo asks. If we seek an artisan, do we not in turn need to seek a cause of our artisan? Ought we not rather to take as a proximate cause the fact that the material universe is itself a god (Dialogues 4. 62–64; also Dialogues 7. 81–82)? The Humeian god, then, is an entity remarkably similar to the temporal Platonic gods whom we have discovered. Indeed, Hume attributes this concept of a deity to “the theists of antiquity” (Dialogues 6. 73). He even mentions Plato by name, referring us explicitly to the Timaeus (Dialogues 7. 82). That forms might order and organize the universe in its whole and parts, Hume readily admits (Dialogues 8. 85–87). And that matter might move itself gives Hume no pause (84–85). Wait a moment! a perspicacious reader might interject. Doesn’t Hume offer his arguments with a subtle yet unmistakable twist of irony? At the end of the dialogues, he would appear to reject rather explicitly the position that Philo presents. Pamphilus sums up the discussion, to the consternation of many a reader, by giving the laurel to Cleanthes. Philo has principles that are “more probable” than Demea’s, he declares, but Cleanthes has principles that “approach still nearer to the truth” than Philo’s (Dialogue 12. 130). How can I respond? I must humbly accept the objection. With his summation, Hume obviously rejects any a priori cosmological argument and endorses only a posteriori arguments. Demea clearly comes in third. Who could contest this fact? The implication is that an a priori cosmological

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Philo all but accuses Cleanthes of the fallacy of composition!

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argument is not as formidable as an a posteriori one. With this proposition we can heartily concur. But why is Cleanthes ranked first and Philo second? Philo, I must confess, exhibits a dialectical gallantry that had escaped my initial readings of the dialogue. Perhaps because I found them so congenial, I took his arguments concerning the divine nature to be in earnest. But he himself explains that his intention is to demonstrate that any attempt, even by a posteriori arguments, such as his own or Cleanthes’s, to understand a deity is no better than any other (Dialogues 8. 88–89). The divine nature he takes to be “admirably mysterious and incomprehensible” and to have an “absolute incomprehensibility” for human reason (Dialogues 2. 44–45 again; Dialogues 6. 73–74). Why is he so skeptical? He asserts that he is acting in support of revealed religion. We “will fly to revealed truth” once we gather “a just sense of the imperfections of natural reason,” he declares (Dialogues 12. 128–130). But does he really intend to advance the cause of revelation in this manner? This must be irony on Hume’s part, one might think. But I am not so sure. Philo clearly declares himself an enemy not of religion but of superstition (121). More irony, perhaps? I wonder. Hume does portray him as speaking candidly to a dear friend, who gives no sign that he is insincere. Cleanthes’s only reservation would appear to concern a possible danger to true religion. Philo takes this reservation seriously and addresses it with numerous arguments (121–128).41 But, then, why does Hume appear to prefer the arguments advanced by Cleanthes over those of Philo? Perhaps Hume prefers Cleanthes because Philo is an unmitigated skeptic, who would deny us any knowledge of god. Cleanthes in fact teases him with an accusation of this kind (Dialogues 1. 34– 35). But a complete Pyrrhonian Philo is not. Philo and Cleanthes are both mitigated skeptics of a distinctly Humeian variety. Hume, recall, finds two grounds for his mitigated skepticism. They are the frailty of our faculties and the limits of our experience. Philo accepts both grounds and denies only that we may have knowledge of recondite matters far removed from common experience. Among these recondite matters is, of course, the divine nature (33–34, 35–38). Philo even confesses to Cleanthes, who is his close friend, his “profound adoration to the Divine Being.” He heartily accepts the cosmological argument, when it rests on a posteriori evidence. However, he argues that this argument is a sure proof of divine existence only. He even sums up the argument with the maxims of natural science that nature does nothing in vain, and that nature acts by the most efficient means. In support of these two maxims, he mentions Copernicus by name and discusses Galen at some length (Dialogues 12. 116–118; also see Dialogues 2. 44).

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Popkin observes that Philo’s view was not an uncommon one at the time (intro. xiv–xv).

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I take Hume, then, to be asserting with Pamphilus’s summation that probable a posteriori arguments about the nature of god are stronger than skeptical a posteriori arguments about his nature. In other words, we have experiential evidence for a divine nature, but our evidence is weak. His explanation would be the usual. Reason may make us skeptical, but we have a natural propensity to believe (see Dialogues 12. 118 or 121, n. 1). If I am right, Hume would thus agree ultimately with the more mitigated skepticism of Cleanthes and not with the less mitigated, almost but not quite Pyrrhonian skepticism of Philo. We may make conjectures about a divine nature, but we must do so with diffidence about our faculties.42 But now I espy a pearly gate left ajar! May we not make our own conjectures about god from a posteriori arguments, recognizing that they are weak? We may in fact argue that Philo offers conjectures that are stronger than those of Cleanthes, though he offers them in a spirit of skepticism. But why may we not take his arguments in earnest? Need we be as unmitigated a skeptic as our Philo? By a preponderance of evidence we thus give our assent to the opinion that a god is a teleological system – a living universe. Or, as we would say more proximately, an ecosystem, global or local – a whole that can maintain itself. Here is irony aplenty for those who are aficionados! Hume would appear to turn his irony on the narrowness of the unspoken presupposition of his interlocutors – that god is an artisan. Cleanthes accepts but Philo rejects this view. The view, perhaps, reflects an attitude prevalent in their age. With the raise of mercantilism, their era for the most part overlooked the intrinsic values of nature in its desire to exploit her instrumental values. But we can now better see natural finalities if only in their decline and degradation, no doubt in large measure because of the ravages of an overly optimistic view of natural instrumentalities. This attitude of mercantilism is hardly unknown even in our own time. Remnants clearly remain. Need I mention the alleged “cash value” that contemporary philosophers in some quarters vaunt so highly? Or the distinctly utilitarian strain of a philosophy that presents a view of the universe as totally valueless with the sole exception of values that our desires project upon it? Or the emotive purposes to which the experimental method is so frequently enslaved? But we must, I would remind you, remain skeptical about the ultimate nature of these living entelechies that compose our universe and its parts. There do appear to be causes of our percepts, I admit. But we ought to confess that we can never know with any certainty that there is any cause of our percepts, nor can we assume that any alleged cause resembles our 42

Popkin agrees. He concludes with external evidence that Hume believed the religious view based on science to be acceptable as long as its limitations were acknowledged (intro. xv– xvii).

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percepts. But not only because of the fallibility of our faculties, but also because of the fragility of their objects, which unceasingly change. We cannot but attribute some nature to the cause of our universe, if there is in fact one ultimate cause. I am arguing that the basis for this attribution is our choice to believe, and that our choice rests on our employment of an empirical methodology. Hume, of course, would argue that its basis lies in a mere instinct to believe. But I cannot deny that our emotion may influence, unduly even, our weighing of evidence and our drawing of inferences concerning the nature of our world. I wonder whether anyone who reads Kant and Hume together could fail to give pause to the astonishing similarities in their cosmologies, despite their obviously different epistemologies. Indeed, Kant would make a very interesting interlocutor in Hume’s dialogues. He would contribute to the discussion a novel variation of the cosmological argument concerning divine nature. He is in part Demea, who favors an a priori argument to explain the nature of god. And yet he also exhibits traits both of Cleanthes, who accepts an a posteriori argument for the nature of god, and of Philo, who remains skeptical about any a posteriori argument. How can Kant combine into one philosophy positions that Hume takes great care to distinguish? He can do so because he distinguishes cosmological arguments of two kinds. His moral cosmology rests on a final cause for rational action, but his natural cosmology rests on final causes for natural processes ( Judgement 2. app. 85. 436). His moral argument is that a god is evinced by a harmony between a moral and transcendental cause that is final and efficient causes that are empirical and natural. We may postulate a transcendental god who is a moral lawgiver because our moral law is a transcendental fact that we are obliged to embody in our action ( Judgement 2. app. 87. 450). His natural argument rests on a harmony between final and efficient causes that are empirical and natural. But we may not postulate a god based on a harmony of this sort. Why not? Because we cannot know empirically any thing as a cause outside of nature. Empirically we can know only a thing within nature. Theoretical reason does present us with a theological idea that we can use to guide our understanding of nature. But we cannot postulate a god as a physical lawgiver. We can attribute rational causality to him but without attributing it to him as a property ( Judgement 2. app. 85. 437–438; also Prolegomena 3. 358–360).43 43

I wonder why Kant does not argue that god is also postulate of theoretical reason. Its rational ideas are a priori facts of reason, too, are they not? Kant would answer, I suppose, that we know only one thing in itself, which would be our free will, and that we know our will to be free only through the moral law. But, then, I would still ask, Do we not use our free will and our theoretical ideas to reason about things much as we use our will and the moral law to

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Ultimately Kant must thus disagree with Hume about the nature of a divine entity. Kant uses an a priori cosmological argument to postulate a moral lawgiver for our universe. But Hume eschews an a priori argument of any kind. Kant would thus agree with Demea about the appropriateness of an argument of this sort. Yet he would differ with Demea regarding what constitutes evidence for an a priori argument. Kant discovers a transcendental fact in our moral end, and he takes this fact to be a priori dogmatic and certain ( Judgement 2. app. 88. 353–354). But Demea must rely on immanent facts that he takes to be no less certain and dogmatic (Dialogues 9. 90–91). We now see how Kant would agree with Cleanthes in part and in part disagree. He argues that god is an external cause of the universe and that god would resemble an artisan outside of nature. He in fact draws an analogy between god and an artist ( Judgement 2. app. 85. 437–438). But he argues that we can postulate a god through practical reason only as a transcendental lawgiver and nothing more ( Judgement 2. app. 88. 455). He thus could not agree that we can know empirically what god is, and especially that god has any properties that might resemble our own. His transcendental argument, he takes care to point out, enables him to avoid anthropomorphism (456–458). Kant would thus side against Cleanthes with Philo. We cannot empirically know who god is, Philo argues, but we can accept empirically that he is. A position of this sort Kant calls deism (Prolegomena 3. 358–360). Kant accordingly accepts Philo’s charge of anthropomorphism against Cleanthes. He argues that his own moral theism can escape anthropomorphism, but he implies that an empirical theism, such as Cleanthes’, is inexorably enmeshed in it (Prolegomena 3. 356). Kant, then, rests his moral cosmology on a final cause that is transcendental. But Hume recognizes final causes that are empirical only. Kant in fact accuses Hume of transcendentism (Prolegomena 3. 351). He does so, I would imagine, because he believes Hume to accept Cleanthes’s position that god resembles an artisan, though he recognizes that Hume is aware of the weaknesses of a posteriori arguments. He would thus take without do things? Do we not, then, postulate a god who guarantees a harmony of our reason and our intuition? We might thus think of our theoretical ideas as constitutive of our knowledge though they could not be constitutive of its object. An epistemological immortality might also be postulated, I would think. A referee for my publisher pointed out to me that we do postulate a god for theoretical reason, but that we do so “in our practice.” I take this remark to be a reminder that for Kant practical reason subsumes theoretical reason (Practical 1. 2. 3.). This insight entails many consequences, I think. Wick, for example, argues that “the theoretic use of intelligence has its categorical imperatives just as ethics does” (537). Science, he explains, has canons that define it as a “norm-regulated activity” (528). But he does not consider questions concerned with postulates of a divinity or of our immortality.

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irony the decision that Pamphilus advances in favor of Cleanthes over Philo at the end of the dialogues. I suspect that he most likely shares with Hume a mercantile attitude toward nature (see, for example, Judgement 2. app. 87. 448–450). But we ought, I think, to accept the a posteriori arguments that Philo puts forth regarding the nature of god. Philo advances arguments in favor of the ancient hypothesis that god is the soul of our universe, and he bolsters them with a modern empirical epistemology. True, he does accompany his arguments with a skeptical disclaimer that, he claims, bolsters the cause of revealed religion. But this disclaimer, I would like to think, might well be irony on Hume’s part. I would take this courtesy toward revealed religion to be an effort to soften the blow of his theology. If we can but accept it, we may find this gesture a fair price to pay for Philo’s arguments. 5. We live our lives cloaked in myth, we may, I believe, conclude. Our practical principles are ultimately myth, albeit myth both marvelous and sublime. We shall never fathom the entelechies of existence itself, neither of our own existence, nor of divine existence, nor of any other existence. With our hypotheses we can only enchant ourselves into believing that entities such as these have souls that are benevolent enough to be worthy of our admiration and devotion. What is more, our enchantments are nothing less than absurdities. Why? Because the entelechies in which and by which we live need not live, and yet they do! The entelechies in which and by which we exist need not exist, and yet they do! Please be aware that I cannot deny the possibility of an unmoved, selfmoved mover who is eternal, necessary, omniscient, omnipotent, etc. I can deny only that we could ever know a divinity of this incomparable caliber. What I do affirm is that we are acquainted with unmoved, self-moved movers who appear to be contingent, temporal, and less than omniscient or omnipotent. And that we ought to act in accordance with the promises and predilections of these deities. One might wonder whether an immortal god could ask more of us mortals than to honor the wishes of these lesser gods, who, presumably, would be his creatures. I would ask, Need our universe have an order that is absolutely necessary? What matters most is that the universe have an order of a teleological kind or, rather, orders of this kind. What other philosophers see in their necessary god is that the universe has an order that is more permanent than any order of our own making. But to be more permanent is not necessarily to be necessary and unchanging. That teleologies might be contingent and change ever so slowly would provide sufficient stability for our lives, which are ever so brief. I would argue, then, that we may still accept the cosmological argument. But I would propose that we accept it in a new variation that I shall dub

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the mythological argument. We cannot but have self-knowledge in some inaccurate and inadequate modicum. We may be as skeptical as we wish about who we might be and about where or when we might be. Skeptical, indeed, we must be. But willy-nilly we must act! And to act we must form a concept of ourselves, more or less articulately, and follow our concept, more or less successfully, in our conduct. Consider, now, our predicament. We must be skeptics, yet we must be pragmatic. We know nothing, yet we must do something. If we act, we must further imagine, implicitly or explicitly, that our action, if not initially, then perhaps eventually, will meet with some success. Who could act without a hope of success? Or with a hope of failure? And when we imagine our concepts of ourselves in concert with our concepts of our surroundings, we are in effect postulating a god who harmonizes it all. But when we act on knowledge that we know to be not literally true, we are acting out a myth. And when we postulate beings whom we know we cannot literally know, we are postulating more myth. We and our god are thus creatures postulated in our myth. But our god does appear, nonetheless, to be a benevolent entelechy who holds us in his bosom. We do, after all, dream our lives away without being too rudely awakened. At least, for the most part we do.44 I am obliged, then, to say a word about justice. Justice, too, is a myth! What else could it be? But justice is a sublime myth worthy of our humble respect. The universe would appear to be somehow one with us. It and we together constitute a grand whole, though we have but a small part to play with its whole. Some philosophers would even venture to assert that the universe constitutes our larger self. I think rather that we are but a part of it. But, again, our universe is not a whole that is a conceptual entity or, as William James would say, a logical entity. The whole that constitutes our universe is rather a perceptual and, quite possibly, a physical entity. I would argue, accordingly, that we must strive to be not philosopherkings but rather philodoxer-kings! Or queens, as the case my be. But I speak of philodoxy in an approbative sense. Philosophy, strictly speaking, includes philodoxy in this sense. After all, a philosopher loves knowledge in its entirety. He thus loves knowledge in a specific sense as well as opinion. Knowledge in its specific sense concerns the eternal essences of philosophical fame, but opinion, of course, concerns the ephemeral existences of everyday experience (see Republic 5. 474c–480a). 44

Stevens reminds us that some philosophical concepts are inherently poetic (“Collect” 267– 268). “A sense of the infinity of the world” is one such concept. This concept, he explains, is “cosmic poetry” because it makes us realize that “we are creatures, not of a part, which is our every day limitation, but of a whole for which, for the most part, we have as yet no language” (270–272).

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But a philosopher is too often accustomed to give precedence to knowledge over opinion. He most frequently employs dialectic for an analysis of concepts in an attempt to come to grips with a reality that he perceives. But dialectic properly concerns relations of ideas, whatever we may take to be the origin of ideas. And mere relations of ideas can tell us nothing about existent matters of fact, as our dear David Hume so long ago made so perspicacious. We must rather set aside any predilection for certain knowledge in favor of opinion, which can only be less than certain. Rhetoric we would better employ to establish opinion as true as humanly possible. After all, this art concerns matters of fact, which are existent. These matters of fact we can organize into examples and enthymemes, and examples and enthymemes we can construct with an analysis of our percepts and their probabilities and signs. The rhetorical art, then, can best provide us an architectonic discipline for our moral reflections. Socrates himself argues that with rhetoric we can define our happiness (0! ,). With this art we may, he explains, employ a felicitous form (6! ) to constitute a harmonious order and organization within our soul. We may act as if we were demiurges (! . . . ) of our very soul, he suggests, and of our own happiness (Gorgias 503d–504a, 504d–e, 507a–c). But we are not alone, Socrates reminds us. The heavens above and the earth below as well as gods and men hold themselves together in a community with justice, friendship, and other virtues. That is why the whole is a cosmos, he tell us. Indeed, he chides poor Callicles for failing to observe the geometric equality (; (" ; . . .) that exists between gods and men and consequently for seeking only to satisfy his greed ( *,) (507e–508a). We are, then, left with nothing more than myth. Our principles are concepts that cannot be true with any surety, though we take them for true. Our purported percepts fare no better. Can one truly say that our percepts, however vivid and vivacious they may appear, bear any resemblance at all to what might perchance exist, let alone be a literal copy? Our awareness, either conceptual or perceptual, of both our universe and ourselves thus remains myth because the whole shebang, we and our surroundings in their entirety, are inscrutable objects of inevitable change. But, forgive me, I had almost forgotten that, to appreciate these marvelous myths, we must obviously be dead. No one can have the merest glimpse of a god, or of a demigod, or of a daimon even, who is not free from the sensations and passions of the passing moment. Even though one may be resting ever so contentedly in the lap of an indulgent deity. The incorrigible Solon proves right yet again! We cloak our ignorance in divine myth, then, if we are not enmeshed in fear or mired in pleasure. The starry heavens above and the moral law

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within do indeed fill us with exhilaration and awe, to allude to our dear Kant (Practical 2. 161–162). Or, at least, they ought to do so! But we who practice the art of dying know our knowledge of the heavens and their laws to be at best wispy wisdom and nothing more, however enduring and endearing it might appear to be.

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7 Human Virtue

1. Can we become virtuous? Not very likely, I am afraid. How could mortal creatures, such as we be, entertain the merest hope even of attaining moral virtue ()? Those perseverant readers who are still with me may well have anticipated my answer. How could unrestrained, irrational ignoramuses possibly acquire a moral habit that might prove worthy of the mere name “virtue”?1 But, then, can we ever become happy? Unfortunately, we cannot. If it is to be more than a fortuitous felicity, human happiness requires, among other things, moral virtue. True, we may fall into an activity that we can value for its own sake. Even children can discover an activity of this sort when, for example, they try out a new game. But to be happy for more than a moment, we must perform our activity in a manner not only more sophisticated but also more sustained. And to sustain a eudaimonic, or even a daimonic, activity, we must use our practical intellect to develop habits of a practical sort. Nonetheless, human beings, unhappy though we be, can acquire habits that more or less approximate moral virtue. What might these approximations be? Moral virtue for us can be only a habit that we attempt to instill in ourselves in accordance with what we take to be a practical truth. But because we can only hypothesize about any truth, practical or not, our virtue, if we may so denominate it, can be at best a facsimile of true virtue. Not to mention the difficulties we shall doubtless encounter when we try to employ what we take for truth in an attempt to cajole or to coerce our passion into conduct that bears a semblance to good behavior. This chapter ought thus to be a very short one. Out of sheer desperation I could make the chapter a little longer, I suppose, by adding a few pages about the distinction between restraint ( ) and unrestraint ( ). But we cannot get off quite so easily. The human predicament is complicated considerably by the fact that there are not one but many moral principles, hypothetical though they all may be. And, what is more, 1

Chapters 3, 2, and 1 respectively.

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by the fact that these many principles are one and all objective! Because they are objective, they concern objects subject to change and at times to sudden and unsettling change. I shall argue, then, that we can acquire less-than-perfect approximations to true virtue. That these moral habits we may develop in ourselves in accordance with what we hypothesize to be true about ourselves and our situation. And, finally, that we are obliged to develop new habits as changes in ourselves or our circumstances might require. I would ask, if our practical hypotheses change, ought not we and our moral habits to change with them? 2. MH N N! We return again to the Delphic oracle, but we now turn to its seemingly less perplexing pronouncement. NOTHING IN EXCESS! This divine ordinance does appear to contain a rather obvious truth, though its decree also appears at times rather difficult to follow. Who among us does not regret actions done in an inordinate manner? Most often, no doubt, we go wrong when we overdo things, as the oracle intimates. But we can underdo things, too, or leave them undone. To understand this pithy pronouncement, I should like to speak of love (). And to speak of love, I shall have recourse to an elaborate myth of Plato and especially to a paradigm within the myth. I refer to his celebrated metaphor for the human soul and its life – the charioteer with his winged horses and their journey through the heavens. Even a casual acquaintance with it suggests that the metaphor represents a human soul struggling to reach a goal of some importance through a journey of some difficulty. We shall see especially that the metaphor shows how our knowledge, despite its deficiencies, can guide us on our journey, and how our moral habits can help us stay the course. There can be little doubt that this metaphor also concerns love. When he sets forth the myth, Socrates informs Phaedrus, his interlocutor, that he intends to make a speech about love. This speech is in fact his second on the topic. In an earlier speech he made a mistake, and he must now bring about a catharsis of himself with a new speech (Phaedrus 242e–243e, 257a–b). His mistake was to assert that love is evil, he explains. But love is either a god or a godsend ( ), and thus he can be nothing evil ( . . . ) (242e).2 After all, he is an attendant of Aphrodite (Phaedrus 242d).3 2

3

Nussbaum thinks that this assertion about love is “in direct contradiction” with what Diotima says about love. Socrates states that love is a divinity, but Diotima, she reminds us, argues that love is not a divinity (see Symposium 202b–d). Nussbaum apparently rests her claim on the translation of “ ” as “a god or a divine being” (Fragility 7. 211). But the primary meaning of “” is to be sent by or to issue from the gods. A translation along these lines would thus leave open the possibility that love is indeed a messenger between gods and humans (Symposium 202d–203a). Lamb translates “’” as “son of Aphrodite,” and other contemporary translators follow along. Nehamas and Woodruff do, for example (Cooper). But love is rather the son of Resourcefulness and Neediness. At least, according to Plato he is (Symposium 203b–c).

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What does the metaphor mean, then? Fortunately, Socrates offers an explicit interpretation of it or, at least, of its salient features. He tells us that his purpose is to use the metaphor to speak about the idea itself (! . . . " #$ ") of our soul (246a). But with a distinction between divine and human discourse, he would also appear to caution, as is his wont, that we might best take the metaphor as a hypothesis. To explain what our soul is, would require him to make use of an entirely divine ( % ) and grand discourse. But to explain what our soul is like, he can make do with a human () and lesser discourse (Phaedrus 246a). But a human discourse can be only hypothetical, you would surely agree.4 What, then, might this metaphorical hypothesis be? Socrates explains that our soul resembles what he calls the conjoined power (&'()* ' () of a charioteer and his horses (246a). He also specifies for us what he takes these three creatures to be. Each creature represents a different power within the human soul. The charioteer, he suggests, resembles our understanding and knowledge (+% ! ,()% (247c–d). The horses represent our passions, he tells us. The one is a lover of honor with temperance and a sense of shame ((" ," ( ,,) ! #'), and the other is a companion of pretense and hubris (-. ! / 0 1 ) (253d–e). The chariot, oddly enough, hardly merits a mention, though the metaphor would literally turn on it (see 246e). One would think that this vehicle represents our body. Our psychological powers do use our body as a material means to ends of their own. But then we are scarcely aware of our body when we are in good health and all is going well. We can already see without much difficulty that these three powers within us are our capacities for loves of three kinds. The charioteer, for example, 4

Griswold attempts to argue that there is no idea of the soul for Plato. At least, that there is no idea in an eternal sense but only an idea in an ordinary sense. He consequently despairs that our self-knowledge is thus not perfectible (Self-Knowledge 3. 89). He claims that the distinction between divine and human discourse is “rather weak evidence” for an idea of the soul. Why? Because, even if the soul lacks an eternal idea, we would still know her only with difficulty, and a discourse about what she might be would be long and difficult (90). I would think rather that, if we are to know ourselves in any way, there must be an idea of our soul in a philosophical sense. But I am assuming that we ought to take the simile of the sun seriously. With this metaphor Socrates explains that only an idea can enable a knower to know and a known object to be known (Republic 6. 508c–508d). The obvious corollary is that only an idea can enable us to know ourselves. And yet we are not vouchsafed to know any idea in itself. Our lot is to know an idea only by hypothesis. I take the figure of the divided line to illustrate this point. We may use our hypotheses to draw conclusions or to arrive at higher hypotheses (509c–511d). Any nonhypothetical knowledge, presumably of an idea, would appear to be beyond our ken (517b–c). We may thus say that self-knowledge for us is perfectible, but that we shall never be able to perfect it. Our hope can be only to dispense with disproved hypotheses and to develop new and improved hypotheses about our poor benighted selves.

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rather obviously represents our love of knowledge. He would appear to be very much a philosopher. As does a divine intellect, so does his intellect wish to see reality ( 2 . . . ) and truth (//"). The sight of these objects can nourish him and sooth his passion ( ), Socrates tells us (Phaedrus 247d). His love of knowledge the charioteer fulfills through recollection ( (,) of a form (3). We humans have an ability to bring together many percepts ( //+ . . . #,,) into one concept (# 4), Socrates reminds us. Knowledge of this kind concerns things that are in themselves ( 5 5) not those which we now say are (6 7 3 () (249b–c). A thing of this kind is a colorless, shapeless, and intangible essence (, ), such as justice itself and temperance and knowledge (247c–e).5 The two horses also represent loves. But these loves can differ from the love of the charioteer and from each other. After all, our passions can carry us toward things that may be either good or bad. This psychological dichotomy the horses obviously represent as well. The one is beautiful ( /8) and good ( . . .), he tells us, and the other is the opposite (246b, 253d). The good horse is a companion of opinion amenable to truth (/" 8& 1 ) as well as a lover of honor with temperance and shame. But the bad horse, again, is a companion of pretense (/ 0 ) and hubris (253d–e). But now we surely hear an echo of the ancient oracle. Because of these three loves within our soul, we inevitably possess within our very selves what we can hardly deny is a potential for conflict. Our intellect and its power can quite obviously enter into conflict with our passions and their powers. What our understanding may find lovable, a passion need not find lovable at all. Indeed, our passion may love what our intellect opposes. Our mental power may thus find itself hampered and hindered even by our emotional powers. This conflict Socrates himself illustrates with his metaphor. He does so when he explains how we can feel love for an object that happens to be a beautiful human being. The charioteer and the one horse can come into conflict with the other horse. If she has recently seen beauty itself, our soul gets goose bumps (9"/) and feels awe (( ) at the sight of a godlike form ( . . .) in another person. Our charioteer, he explains, reveres a beautiful person as if a god (Phaedrus 251a). His soul is warmed through and through, and he is filled with a longing (8') and its pricklings and ticklings (253e–254a). If we have not recently seen beauty itself, however, or if we have somehow been corrupted, our soul does not revere beauty in another but gives 5

Lamb translates “,:( ,” in this passage most unfortunately as “formless.” But Plato is obviously referring to the very forms themselves. Nehamas and Woodruff with their translation would appear to agree (Cooper).

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herself over to pleasure (;")% and hubris (-.), even acting against nature ( < ),) (250e–251a). The horse with a sense of shame does obey the driver and does not leap toward the beloved. But the hubristic horse ignores the driver and tears forcefully forward in anticipation “of Aphrodisian delights” (" + , : ) (254a). Socrates also illustrates how we may overcome an impulse so importunate and impertinent. He clearly asserts that our understanding is the pilot ( '.) of our soul (247c–d). And he continues with his metaphor in a way that carries the same implication. The charioteer can take charge of his team. The one horse he easily controls, in fact, but the other he controls only with difficulty. He uses verbal commands with the one, but with the other he must use his reins and his whip, and at times he must use them very forcefully (254a, 254d–e). How, then, does the charioteer take charge? He recovers himself through recollection! He recalls the nature of beauty when he sees the brilliant face of his beloved. This recollection fills him with awe, and he falls backward, Socrates explains. As he falls, he hangs onto the reins and pulls on them so forcefully that he pulls both horses down on their haunches. He can then lead them away, the one full of shame and the other full of anger (254a– 254c). By repeatedly restraining it in this clumsy manner, he eventually trains the wanton horse to be obedient (254e–255a). We thus see that the Delphic oracle finds a rather memorable illustration in Plato’s metaphor of the charioteer and his horses. His metaphor for our soul suggests that we may with our knowledge rein in a wayward emotion that might otherwise lead us to an unseemly erotic extreme. Our intellect would appear to have the power both to know the truth and to control our passions. We see, too, how our psychological powers can interact with or interfere with one another.6 We might conclude, then, that the charioteer represents the self-motion of our soul as a whole. You have not forgotten, I am sure, that a soul is that which moves herself ( 9 7), and that she is a spring and a first principle of motion ( : ,) (Phaedrus 245c). One would think, then, that the charioteer, because he can control the other parts of our soul, is the spring of her motion, and that this able fellow grasps through recollection a hypothesis that can serve as a first principle for her motion. But his hypothesis can never be a first principle in any absolute sense, of course.7 6

7

My reader may recall that our intellect can in fact impose a form on our emotions (see, e.g., Gorgias 503d–504a; or Republic 4. 441d–442d). Griswold agrees. He tells us that our soul has a potentiality for “internal discord or harmony,” and that she possesses a unity that is “functional and teleological.” This unity, he explains, derives from a “goal desired by reason.” In other words, “the charioteer should control the horses, and not vice versa” (Self-Knowledge 3. 94). Though he agrees about her internal harmony, Griswold apparently does not see that the self-motion of the soul is the source of her teleology as a whole (see Self-Knowledge 3. 94, e.g.).

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I would also point out that we encounter yet again, as if a philosophical phantom still haunting our humble discourse, our human daimon! We find our phantom companion present not only in Socrates but also in the charioteer. Socrates reveals to Phaedrus that something daimonic and his customary sign ( (88 ! # ,(8) came to him after he made his first speech. His daimon, he reminds us, always stops him from doing something he intends to do. On this occasion it stops him from leaving before he can make a second speech to correct the error in his first (Phaedrus 242b–c). This daimonic apparition would suggest that Socrates has an intellectual love of discourse that causes him to recant his first speech and to make amends with his second. In fact, both he and Phaedrus profess their love for listening to speeches and for making them. They mockingly tease each other about their love, and they repeatedly feign being coerced into reading speeches or declaiming them to each other (227a–228e, 235d–237a, 241e– 242b). But the Socratic daimon more usually presents itself as a love of knowledge. Indeed, the express purpose of both his speeches is to define love. In his first speech Socrates proceeds to show that love is irrational and, hence, bad ( ) (237b–238c, 238d–241d). In his second speech he shows us instead that love can be rational. He begins this speech by explaining that love is of two kinds, and that love of either kind is madness. This erotic madness can be either human or divine. Madness of the divine kind, presumably rational, the gods send to us as the greatest of goods (< ($, + +) (244a–245c).8 We can espy our daimon within the two speeches of Socrates as well. In his second speech Socrates illustrates divine love with his metaphor of the charioteer and the horses, as we have seen. Do we not find within the charioteer a daimon? Or, at least, is not a daimonic function present in his actions? The charioteer repeatedly stops himself from doing something wrong that he was about to do. When he sees his beloved, he reins in his horses, when they are unruly, and backs them off. Our charioteer in fact offers an insight into the workings of the Socratic daimon. Recollection is apparently what causes the Socratic daimon to stop Socrates from performing a misdeed. In the metaphor, at least, it causes the charioteer to stop and to pull back. His recollection begins with the sight of his beloved, who reminds him of the divine. He thus recalls how he ought to conduct himself, and he regains his self-control. 8

Diotima, again, would agree. Love, she tells us, is a daimon who carries messages between immortals and mortals (see Symposium 202e–203a). These messages would likely include knowledge, would they not, and knowledge, even if only hypothetical, surely is our greatest good. Incidentally, Socrates also would appear to distinguish divine and human love as love free (/)) and unfree (/)) (Phaedrus 243c–d and 256e–257a).

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But the horses have their daimons, too. They exhibit a love, even if it is for one of them untoward, for the beloved of the charioteer. But the daimon of the horses is not a Socratic one. They cannot recollect, nor can they correct a mistake that they are about to make. Only a human daimon has the ability to recollect, and a daimon merely animal does not (see Phaedrus 249b–c). And so the horses must rely on their charioteer to restrain and to train them. In the first speech of Socrates we find another daimon that resembles the equine variety and is of a bestial nature (237b–238c, 238d–241d). It issues in the sordid love of sailors on shore leave, and it can desire ends that are harmful to its beloved (243c–d). I shall spare you the details, which you can also find in the speech of Lysias if you are sufficiently curious (230e–234c). Or, perhaps, if you are sufficiently incautious. Socrates explicitly asserts that Lysias’ speech, too, is written daimonically ( () (234d). But he cautions that he himself succumbed to its daimon when he made his first speech. Lysias, through the speech that Phaedrus read, had carried him away, much as Boreas had carried away poor Pharmacea (238c–d; also 235b–d, 242d–e; see 229b–230a). He even feels ashamed about it (237a, 243d).9 We now encounter some complications, however. The human soul, even if daimonic, or perhaps because daimonic, has a rather arduous assent through the heavens. The charioteer may find that the hubristic horse, if not well trained, can pull his chariot back down toward earth (247b). Some 9

Socrates claims as well, less literally but more delightfully, to have been seized by a nymph ('(8/) (Phaedrus 238c–d; see, too, 241e). Unfortunately, Nussbaum overlooks the key distinction that Socrates makes between divine and human madness, and she appears to take all madness to be human. She consequently advances the astonishing thesis that in the Phaedrus Plato is recanting his concept of the human soul presented in the Symposium and the Republic. He argues, according to her account, that philosophy is a madness “of possessed, not purely intellectual[,] activity, in which intellect is guided to insight by personal love itself and by a complex passionengendered ferment of the entire personality” (Fragility 7. 200–202). In his first speech Socrates supposedly presents an earlier, ascetic view of Plato. Love is “a madness and a disease” to be avoided, and a lover must “not only attack the passions but also pretend that he himself is not a humanly erotic personality” (202–203; also 203–206). But in his second speech Socrates allegedly repudiates this earlier view. He argues that madness of some kinds “can be responsible for ‘the greatest goods,’” and that an “irrationally inspired prophetess can accomplish much good for the country, a self-possessed one ‘little or nothing’” (213–214). That Plato does not recant the concept of the soul that he presents in the Republic and the Symposium, I am happy to argue. Socrates does assert that madness can provide us with the greatest of goods. But madness does so only when “given as a divine gift” (Phaedrus 244a). Is this divine gift irrational, then? Hardly! A person mad in this sense is divinely possessed of a higher truth. The charioteer in our soul, Socrates explains in his second speech, can maintain control of his team only through recollection, which carries him back to the nature of beauty ( = 7 //' ),) (254b). Madness arising in this way brings with it many benefits (248a–249d or 255a–256e). Madness can be irrational when it is human. Madness of this kind, Socrates tells us in his first speech, rests on appetite and is hubristic (237b–238c). It is not at all beneficial (238d–241d).

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souls do gaze upon the things beyond the heavens, though their horses give them trouble. Some souls see some things but fail to see some, again because of their horses. But some souls never view these heavenly things at all. They can only struggle without end to see them. Why? Because their charioteers are bad and cannot control their horses. They collide with and trample upon one another, and their horses get their wings broken (Phaedrus 248a–b). How, then, can a human soul hope to travel with the gods? Perhaps this ascent toward absolute truth, or at least the attempted ascent, may remind my reader of another image, equally famous though less poetic. I refer to Plato’s divided line. The upper portion of this figure represents our intellectual activities, both understanding and reasoning (Republic 6. 509d–e). Understanding is the activity by which we use hypotheses in an attempt to reach a nonhypothetical first principle (510b, 511b–d). This activity would appear to resemble the activity by which our soul passes through the earthly heavens to the absolute, sublime truth above the heavens. Reasoning is the activity by which we use hypotheses to arrive at our conclusions. To aid us in this activity, we use diagrams to remind us of concepts (510b, 510c–511b). This process would appear to resemble that in which our soul engages when she sees her beloved. The beloved is like a geometric figure, if you will pardon the comparison. As a geometer uses a diagram to remind him of mathematical concepts, so a lover, we might say, is inspired by the image of his beloved and reminded of moral concepts. The divided line, then, if we may compare this figure with the journey of the soul, suggests that we may make moral progress by winging our way, metaphorically speaking, from lesser moral hypotheses to grander moral hypotheses. Our charioteer could thus become a more competent and better guide for his steeds on their upward journey. If, that is, he can control his passions. But some charioteers apparently lack the ability to formulate and reformulate their hypotheses. They appear severely constrained by their passions. Plato, of course, argues that we ought to use dialectic to wend our way through the heavens and beyond. But I am urging that we might better use rhetoric to find our way through the heavens only. We may formulate and reformulate our hypotheses with our examples. But we cannot in our human life manage to break through the heavens into a beyond. I would ask, Are not our heavens themselves sufficiently sublime for the likes of us mortals? Our lot, I fear, can be to feast only on opinion (see Phaedrus 248b).10 10

Stevens is the only other person known to me with the temerity to suggest that we might take the charioteer and his horses as a metaphor for our earthly life. But he speaks of imagination and poetics instead of practical reason and rhetoric (Angel 1. 23–24, e.g.). McDowell is right to argue that our upbringing can prepare us for the dictates of reason (World 5. 91–92). He is also right to hold that our upbringing can actualize natural potentialities within us (88). But why can we not also actualize our potential for virtue with

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What about the wings? you may be wondering. Why would the horses have wings? All wings, Socrates informs us, have the power to carry what is heavy upward toward the gods. Of bodily organs they have the most in common with the divine (Phaedrus 246d). Horses are obviously rather heavy animals, and these horses are harnessed to a chariot, which would be made of wood and metal, and in the chariot rides a charioteer, who may be wearing armor. So they may need some divine help, especially if they are to haul their chariot up through and beyond the heavens. What happens is that the wings take their nourishment from things divine, such as beauty (246d–e). Again, we see an image of the divine, and this image recalls to our mind the divine itself. When we see a beautiful person, for example, we find ourselves reminded of beauty itself. An earthly beauty is radiant in this intellectual manner, and its radiance in turn warms and moistens the feathers in germ and causes them to sprout and to grow (251a– 251d). But, then, why are the wings attached to the horses? Should they not be attached to the charioteer, especially if he is in charge of his team? Perhaps, he ought to have wings, if not on his shoulders, at least on his sandals, as does Hermes. Because they are attached to the horses, the charioteer might seem less in control of this team than we have thought. The wings would seem to be allied less with our understanding and more with our passion. I take this metaphorical fact to imply that passion need not be an entirely unimportant factor in philosophical investigations, much as animal locomotion was not an unimportant factor in travel until very recently. At least, a passion can take on an importance in inquiries and investigations concerned with moral knowledge. Some emotions may assist us in attaining knowledge of this kind, but some emotions may pull us away from this knowledge. And so in our metaphor. The charioteer is helped by the horse with a sense of shame. This horse helps him pull the importunate horse back from their beloved because he is obedient. But the importunate horse with his hubris is a decided hindrance. This horse the charioteer can control only with great difficulty. Why is it so bad? Its turpitude, Socrates relates, arises from forgetfulness occasioned by its unjustness (Phaedrus 250a–b). But, still, does not the metaphor show that our soul is essentially not rational but irrational? The metaphor seems to suggest that the charioteer is not in charge because the horses determine where we go on our daimonic knowledge gained through our rationality? We no doubt ought to be brought up to listen to reason and its dictates. But one may perchance discover that what we were taught were its dictates are not. Even McDowell allows that we may make refinements within the tradition of our upbringing (World 4. 80–82). Why may reason not also dictate that we step outside of a tradition, perhaps with a new hypothesis of larger scope than our old one? Nor need we succumb to “rampant platonism” if we are to acquire a virtue or two on our own (World 5. 88 and 91–92, e.g.). I am not sure how rampant Plato himself was, but we are, nevertheless, free to eschew his or any other dialectical art for a more down-to-earth rhetorical art.

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journey. He might seem merely to guide the horses toward the goals they desire to attain. If so, our metaphor would thus be a Humeian model of the soul. We ascend if the good horse happens to prevail. But if the bad horse gets his way, we descend. The metaphor remains rational, I am happy to say. The charioteer is in charge because he remains the one who decides where his chariot ought to go. His recollection in fact somehow causes the wings to grow on his horses. It concerns things themselves, such as beauty and temperance, and this vision enables him to control his horses (254b–c). Our knowledge, we might say more literally, can inspire our passions, and it can also inform them. With our knowledge we can take charge of our passions, and eventually we can habituate them to respond as they ought (see 254e–255a).11 Are you not interpreting this metaphor a tad too literally? a cautious scholar might be wondering. Not at all. Please recall again that a soul is the spring and the first principle of motion (Phaedrus 245c). Within our soul we accordingly find three separate and subsidiary souls. Three souls in one? Yes, at a minimum. Plato explicitly asserts that the three creatures represent not only our powers but also their forms (Phaedrus 253c–d; also Timaeus 89e). He thus suggests that a form could serve either an organism or an organ as the spring and first principle of its activity. 11

Because she overlooks the intellectual role of recollection, Nussbaum fails to see that the charioteer is in charge of his steeds. She does not see that our intellect ought to be the prime mover within our soul, and she assigns this function to our passions instead. The passions, she claims, “are necessary sources of motivational energy,” “have an important guiding role to play in our aspiration towards understanding,” and “are intrinsically valuable components of the best human life” (Fragility 7. 214, 214–215, 218–221, her italics). Foot reminds us that virtue can better incline us to take into account moral reasons for acting. Virtuous people not only perform good actions, but they also “recognize certain considerations (such as the fact of a promise, or of a neighbour’s need) as powerful, and in many circumstances compelling, reasons for acting” (Goodness 1. 11–13). But she rightly goes on to point out that the “root notion” of our goodness as human beings is the “goodness of our will.” Kant was “perfectly right,” she tells us, to say that “the idea of practical rationality is throughout a concept of this kind” (14). The implication is that our practical intellect determines our virtue. McDowell, however, wants to argue for what he calls the Socratic thesis, that virtue is moral knowledge. His example of a virtue of this kind is kindness. Someone who is kind, he explains, has a “reliable sensibility to a certain sort of requirement that situations impose on behaviour.” These “deliverances” of this sensitivity are “cases of knowledge,” he claims (Reality 3. 50–51). I am not sure how Socratic this thesis is. Socrates clearly argues that our knowledge arises through recollection, not through virtue. With our knowledge we can, however, make a virtue out of our passions by repeatedly restraining them (Phaedrus 253c– 255a). Once we have acquired it, we do find that virtue inclines us toward maintaining our practical knowledge and our good behavior. But these things it tends to do simply because it is a habit. Though he does not discuss the Phaedrus, Williams would deny that our intellect could manage to play the role of a charioteer. On his concept of our soul the charioteer would have to rely on the guidance of the white horse and its sense of shame (see Shame 4. 75–85).

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This proposition is not as strange as it might at first sound. All our faculties and organs must have souls of their own if they have a function to fulfill. And they all obviously do have a function. Every faculty is accordingly selfmoved, and each has a spring and principle of its own activity. Every faculty, in a word, has causes that are efficient and final. A soul, even of a faculty, we may deem a teleology. We are indeed a city, albeit writ frightfully small (see Republic 2. 368c–369a, 443b–d)!12 I would conclude, then, that our grasp of moral knowledge determines how good we can be. At least, our ability to grasp knowledge of this kind as best we can enables us to follow our oracle and to avoid excess as best we can. When we recollect, our intellect is able to formulate a hypothesis and to take control of our bad horse, so to speak, and to make it obedient. This training I take to be the formation of a good moral habit in any naturally obstreperous passion. But, again, I would urge that we can recollect best by means of an art not dialectical but rhetorical. 3. The mean we ought also to take to heart. Our oracle is undeniably right that we ought not to let ourselves be carried away into excess, no matter how savory it might seem. But I would remind you that excess, even if more common, is only one of two extremes. Surely, we ought not to allow ourselves to dawdle and to decline into deficiency, either. Cowardice, for example, is a deficiency that is obviously undesirable. Intemperance can lie in deficiency as well. Witness anorexia, for example. If we look for them, we can find occasional, though most often overlooked, discussions of the moral mean even in Plato. These discussions concern primarily our function within society, but they also concern our material possessions. Aristotle, however, offers a more explicit discussion with greater detail. We shall especially see that his geometrical analysis of 12

Griswold agrees that the soul is teleological in two ways. The parts of our soul “have goals toward which they naturally move themselves,” and these parts also “have a hierarchical relationship to each other.” The hierarchical relationship “allows Socrates to speak of the soul as a whole, and of what is naturally good or bad for it as a whole” (Self-Knowledge 3. 95–96). That we might have more than one teleology within us helps to explain, perhaps, why Williams is in disagreement with Bruno Snell about Homeric psychology. William argues that Homeric heroes have a unity within themselves, but Snell, he reports, thinks that they are a mere collection of psychic parts (Shame 2. 25–27). Yet Williams does not find this unity in a rational faculty that resembles a will. To think that a mental action lies between our conclusion and our action would be bad philosophy, he claims (35–36). He identifies a will with serving “only one kind of motive, the motives of morality.” That is, a will serves the interest of duty “in some abstract modern sense.” He argues instead that we ought to define our practical mental functions in terms of ethical categories. These categories rest on a psychology of ethics that can account for our “dispositions, beliefs, and feelings” (40–42). He thinks that Plato invented these ethical categories with his tripartite model of our soul. But he rejects Plato’s concept of a rational faculty that can control desire (42–44).

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the mean allows us to fathom the metaphysical profundity that this ancient concept holds for benighted, but benign, souls, such as we be. Plato broaches the topic of geometry and morality in his dialogue between Socrates and Gorgias. In the dialogue Socrates chides Callicles, who has come to the defense of Gorgias, for being unaware of geometric equality (; #,8 ; ( =). Because he neglects geometry, Socrates declares, Callicles thinks he ought to devise ways to satisfy his greediness (/& ) (Gorgias 508a). This kindly admonition suggests not only that Callicles is inclined toward excess but also that geometry could somehow keep him from being so inclined. But how could geometry, purportedly moral, save the soul of a seasoned sophist? Socrates does not elaborate in detail, unfortunately. But equality of this kind, he offers by way of explanation, exhibits great power (($ ) ) both among gods and among men (508a). This equality would, curiously enough, appear to account for the order of the universe itself! It holds together, he implies, the heavens above and the earth below as well as gods and men in a community with justice and friendship and temperance (507e–508a). This hint of an explanation does not seem terribly helpful. Equality of a geometric variety now appears to have greater power than one might ever have imagined. It would appear to have the power to save not only a greedy soul but even the community of all souls, both those human and those divine! If only Socrates had explained himself further. But the fact that Socrates mentions the concept of community does present us with a clue for a fuller explanation. This clue we may take up if we consider his discussion of a human community. I am suggesting that we turn to the Republic. In this famed dialogue Socrates appears to draw a proportion between the natural powers of individuals and their happiness. The proportion he draws is a qualitative one, not a quantitative one. What do I mean? The citizens of his hypothetical city find their happiness in the fulfillment of their functions, he argues. Their happiness ought to befit their station in society. The guardians, for example, ought to enjoy the happiness of being guardians only (Republic 4. 420b–c, 420d–e). To illustrate this proposition, he uses an analogy to the parts of a statue and their beauty. To say that the happiness of the guardians, for example, ought to be somehow more than that of guarding would be as if to say that the most beautiful part of a statue ought to be painted in the most beautiful color. But the pupil of an eye, for example, ought not to be purple, which he apparently thinks the color most beautiful, but rather black. Each part ought to have the color appropriate to it (420c–d). Socrates explains further that nature herself renders to the citizens their share of happiness (Republic 4. 421c; see Republic 2. 369e–370c). She allots to each citizen a power, and this power determines what function each ought

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to have. The rulers in the city may even assign to children, because of their different talents, different functions from those assigned to their parents. Not only upward but also downward mobility is entirely possible (Republic 4. 423c–d; see Republic 3. 415a–c). A qualitative proportion, then, Socrates employs to assign to individuals the functions appropriate to them. This proportion I take to be one of geometric equality. Equality of this kind lies in a relationship between the abilities of the citizens and their functions. As nature gives to some citizens, for example, intelligence, so she would suit them to be guardians. Or as she gives to some citizens manual dexterity, so she would suit them to be, say, tailors or cobblers. One can see, too, that a moral geometry applies, perhaps more obviously, to the material possessions of the citizens. Socrates argues that the citizens need resources sufficient only for their functions. The guardians, for example, can have only their armor and their weapons, and they can receive only room and board for their services. They cannot own a home of their own or any land, nor can they possess any gold or silver (Republic 4. 419a–420b). Why? The guardians and the other citizens can find happiness only through moderation. Too much wealth, Socrates explains, would tend to entice them away from a felicity proper to their function and into a mere festivity (420d–421b). In other words, they would neglect their happiness for hedonistic pursuits. But too little wealth forces them away from a functional felicity, too. They would fall into poverty or penury. At this extreme they cannot perform their function for lack of proper tools and materials (421c–e). Indeed, geometric equality is what has the power to hold the city itself together, Socrates suggests! That those citizens who are guardians properly fulfill their function is of the utmost importance. Their task is to guard the laws of their city. If they do not perform their task, they will be nothing less than the utter ruin of their city. Those citizens who are assigned other functions, if they do not fulfill them, present less danger (Republic 4. 421a). Unless, perhaps, the other citizens become excessively wealthy or poor. The distribution of material possessions disproportionately in an extreme can also be ruinous. A city divided between the wealthy and the poor has no unity. Not only does a city lose its organic form because its citizens fail to perform their proper functions. But a city also falls into faction when some citizens have great wealth, and some have little or none. Nor can it any longer defend itself – if there is anything left to defend (421e–423c).13 13

Slote is right to point out that for Plato an appreciation of the form of the good is what enables us to evaluate individual souls, and that virtuous souls properly appreciate and are guided by this form (Morals 1. 7–8). I would add that this appreciation and guidance ought to rest specifically on the form of justice, and that we can appreciate this form or any form only with knowledge of a hypothetical sort. But Slote asserts also that Plato would use “the health and virtue of the soul” to evaluate

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We see, then, that a geometric equality can hold a human community together. Every citizen has a civic function to fulfill, and we find a qualitative proportion between their natural powers and their civic functions. But could not geometric equality hold the universe together, too? Do not the various gods have their functions within the community of gods and men much as men have their functions within a human community? Not to mention animals and plants and their communities. No doubt, Plato could draw similar conclusions about geometric equality of a psychological kind within the soul of each citizen. Each citizen has a tripartite soul, as you may per chance recall, and each part has a function for which it is best suited. But if one part does the work of another, the soul as a whole becomes corrupt and its life miserable (see Republic 4. 444a– 445b). The Stagirite would appear to take up where the Athenian leaves off. In his discussion Aristotle explicates human virtue more fully, and he makes explicit much of what Plato was content to leave implicit. He obviously agrees that we acquire our moral habits, not only virtues but also vices, by repeating our actions (Ethics 2. 1. 1103a14–18, 1103b21–25). By performing actions in exchanges with others, we become just or unjust, for example. Or by performing actions in the face of danger, we become courageous or cowardly (1103a31–1103b2, 1103b6–21). But what actions ought we to perform, if we wish to become just or courageous, say? To acquire a virtue, we ought, Aristotle explains, to engage in actions that are proportionate (< . . . ,)(( )! He implies that proportionate actions must be moderate. Actions performed deficiently or excessively, he argues, ruin us. He offers an analogy to health. Excessive or insufficient exercise ruins our strength, and food and drink, if we take too much or too little, ruin our health (Ethics 2. 2. 1104a11–19; see, too, 1104a20–27). individual actions (Morals 1. 7–8). He goes on to claim that Plato does not explain adequately why a healthy soul would refrain from unjust or immoral actions, such as lying or stealing (22). Plato would no doubt respond that we ought rather to use the form of justice to evaluate not only our virtue but also our actions. One would also think that those souls who know, if only hypothetically, what justice is would not wish to do anything that would hinder them from fulfilling their civic function. Lying and stealing would obviously undermine the function of guarding a city, for example. Because he thinks that Plato uses health and strength of soul as a touchstone to evaluate our actions, Slote classifies Plato as an advocate of a virtue ethics that is “cold.” He does not see how Plato could derive from concepts of strength and health “any sort of humane concern for other people.” He himself wishes instead to place “a special emphasis on human compassion or . . . benevolence as a motive.” Hence, he classifies his own virtue ethics as “warm” (19–20, his italics). I agree with Slote that compassion or benevolence is not for Plato the basis of just actions toward others. But I am not sure that we need classify Plato’s position as “cold.” Could Plato deny that compassion is a component of the human soul? He would, I think, argue that our knowledge of justice ought to inform any benevolence that we might feel toward others, and this knowledge would also hold in check any misplaced feelings of this sort.

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He explains further what the proportionate is. He begins by observing that proportions are of two kinds. A mean (($,), he argues, can be relative to us ( ;(>) or in accordance with an object itself ( >( ) (Ethics. 2. 6. 1106a26–32). A mean in accordance with an object is in accordance with an arithmetic proportion ( < = ( = / ) (1106a35–36). Consider food, for example. If ten pounds would be too much to eat and two pounds too little, then the mean would be six pounds (1106a33–35). A mean relative to us, he implies, is a geometric proportion, though he does not use the term. Consider his example of food again. A coach need not recommend six pounds for an athlete, though this amount might be a mean in accordance with the object. He might find that relative to someone being trained six pounds would be too much or too little. This amount might be too much, say, for a beginner, but it might also be too little for a seasoned athlete, such as Milo, who was an undefeated Olympic wrestler of extraordinary strength (1106a36–1106b5). We encounter, then, a geometric equality between our abilities and our material resources. At least, Aristotle so suggests with his example of diet. If we are stronger, we can properly eat more food than another, and if we are weaker, we ought to eat less.14 This conclusion Aristotle confirms when he discusses distributive justice and its mean. Justice, he points out, must concern four things. They are two people and two objects (Ethics 5. 3. 1131a15–20). Its mean, he argues rather tersely, is what is equal. Why? Because a just equality is a mean between inequalities, which are unjust extremes. An inequality of this kind would be to have more than one ought or less than one ought (1131a10–15). A just equality, he further explains, ought to lie between the persons and between the things (1131a20–21). The implication is that persons who are equal deserve equal things, and that unequal persons deserve things that are unequal. Quarrels, he observes, arise when there is no equality between persons and things. What happens is that equal persons receive things that are unequal, or persons who are unequal receive equal things (1131a21–24). Aristotle would advocate, then, a proportion between the persons to whom things are distributed and the things that are distributed. What is more, he asserts explicitly that a proportion of this kind is what mathematicians call a geometric proportion ( / ( = . . . ) (1131b12– 15)! But, we might note, different concepts of human worth define what this proportionality ought to be. These concepts of worth define the equality of the persons and hence the equality of the things to be distributed. Political constitutions would appear to determine what they are. Aristocrats, 14

After discussing exegetical complications, Leighton adroitly shows that the mean relative to us is for Aristotle a refinement of the mean in accordance with an object.

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he asserts, advocate virtue, oligarchs wealth or good birth, and democrats freedom (1131a24–29).15 Does Aristotle apply his concept of geometric proportion to individuals and their functions or only to individuals and their material possessions? Plato, as we have seen, applies his concept of geometric equality primarily to individuals and functions and to material possessions secondarily. Aristotle does the same. In his Ethics he is rather brief, however. He argues that justice divides into two kinds, which he calls lawfulness and fairness (Ethics 5. 1. 1129a31–1129b1). Fairness concerns our possessions, he argues (1129b1– 11). But lawfulness concerns our happiness. The laws aim at our common interest, and our common interest is our happiness. At least, in the best constitution it is (1129b14–25). The implication would be that, if they aim at our happiness, the laws would require that different individuals have different functions. He is more explicit about our functions in his Politics. When he discusses aristocracy, he clearly concerns himself with assigning to different individuals different functions, especially military and legislative functions. Because they are stronger, he assigns to younger men military functions, but he assigns legislative functions to older men because they have practical wisdom (Politics 7. 9. 1329a2–9). These men, of course, ought not to be merchants or mechanics or even farmers because these functions are opposed to virtue, presumably of the military or the intellectual varieties (1328b33–1329a2). There you have it, dear reader – the ancient and venerable doctrine of the mean. The moral mean is a geometric equality or proportion between persons and their actions and resources. What natural abilities we possess determine what actions we ought to perform, and what actions we ought to perform determine what virtues we must acquire and what material resources we ought to have. Remember Milo the Olympian? An athlete of greater ability can perform greater feats, but greater feats require greater resources. Contemporary Olympians can surely attest to this fact. But what is the profundity of this doctrine, ancient and venerable though it may be? my reader may yet wonder. Its profundity lies in its proportionality, must be my reply. But what is so profound about its proportionality? I would now ask you to recall, what is of paramount importance, that we can have no absolute and eternal knowledge of any kind. All our knowledge is merely hypothetical. But even if we did have absolute knowledge, and we do not, we could not have any eternal knowledge of a practical sort. Not only does our practical knowledge change, but its objects change as well. And among its objects we may number our dear selves. 15

I would note that an arithmetic mean serves as a criterion for rectificative justice. Justice of this kind seeks to restore to their proper persons objects that have been fraudulently or forcefully maldistributed. No person is of greater worth than another for this purpose (see Ethics 5. 4.).

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Aristotle’s distinction between theoretical and practical knowledge proves most helpful. The theoretical intellect, you may recall, concerns objects for which the principles cannot be otherwise ((= $: ?//), but the practical intellect concerns that which can be otherwise (< :8@ ( ) (Ethics 6. 1. 1139a6–14). The theoretical intellect concerns eternal concepts, in other words, and the practical intellect temporal percepts. The one concerns objects of knowledge in a strict sense, but the other objects of knowledge in the sense of opinion (Ethics 6. 5. 1140b25–28). Why is this distinction so important? The distinction is important because the practical intellect, Aristotle implies, allows us to see more clearly what a right principle (A B /8) is and what its definition (C) is (Ethics 6. 1. 1138b32–34). But a right principle indicates for us what our mean is (1138b18–20). In moral habits there is a goal toward which someone who has the right principle directs his activity, and there is a definition of intermediates that are in accordance with this principle (1138b21–25; also 25–29).16 My astute reader may now be able to espy the profundity of the moral mean. We humans cannot conceive of any proportion fixed once and for all to guide us in our conduct. We can only perceive a proportion at a given time and place and take it for our mean. Why? Our present self is a changing entity, and we at best only resemble our past and future selves. Our present circumstances, too, are changing, and they at best only resemble past and future circumstances. True, our selves for the most part bear greater rather than lesser resemblances to one anther, and so do our circumstances. Only occasionally do these entities undergo drastic change. But change they undeniably do, and change continuously they do. This salient but simple fact of unchanging change entails many complications for our practical endeavors. We humans can rely only on opined, or more commonly perceived, proportionalities to decide what we ought to do. We must, if you will, make examples out of our past selves to hypothesize 16

Slote quite rightly points out that for Aristotle a person who has virtue does what is noble or virtuous because “it is the noble – for example, courageous – thing to do,” not that “what is noble – or courageous – to do” is noble or virtuous because a virtuous person chooses to do it. In other words, someone with virtue “is in the best possible position to know/perceive what is fine or right” (Morals 1. 5 and 7, his emphasis). The assumption is that for Aristotle our practical intellect can tell us what our goodness is, and also that it can be the cause of actions (see Ethics 6. 2. 1139a21–26; also Ethics 1. 13. 1103a1–3). Yet Slote himself takes the contrary view that what a virtuous person chooses to do determines what is good or noble. This view he calls “agent-based,” and he asserts that it is a “more radical” and “purer” approach to virtue ethics. “An agent-based approach to virtue ethics,” he tells us, “treats the moral or ethical status of acts as entirely derivative from independent and fundamental aretaic . . . ethical characterizations of motives, character traits, or individuals” (Morals 1. 3–5). The unfortunate implication of his position is that human goodness would appear to be our virtue itself and not our virtuous action (see 5–6). But does not a moral habit find its end in our action? And is not our action an end in itself? If not, our goodness could not be our happiness.

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about our present selves, or we can make examples out of our present selves and hypothesize about our future selves. We must also take as examples our past or present circumstances to shed light on our present or future circumstances. We have no other options. Consider Milo again. As a younger man he was stronger than he was as an older man. When younger, he could consequently perform greater feats than he could when older. Unfortunately, many athletes tend to forget this rather homely fact of moral geometry. Even the prodigious Milo was unable to grasp it fully when he grew older, and he consequently overestimated his strength. He died, according to legend, while uprooting trees and pulling them apart with his bare hands. He got his fingers pinched in a crack, and he was no longer strong enough to pull them out. Wild animals, so the story goes, ate him alive. The moral mean for us, then, can only be an object not of conception but of perception. Hence, dialectical techniques, though well suited for conceptual analyses, are not so well suited for perceptual analyses. We had best rely on rhetorical techniques, especially argument by example, to determine what we ought or ought not to do. For our practical concerns we ought not to view our concepts as ideas related only to one another and forever the same, but we had best view our concepts as mere matters of fact purporting to be about external objects, which are ever liable to change. Our practical arguments, I would remind you, we ought best to rest not on the principle of contradiction but on the principles of association. Aristotle would thus suggest that our virtue has a mean that we can never hope to define in any absolute sense. We are not immortals who remain ever the same, nor do the objects of our endeavors remain long the same. We are mortals, who can define our mean only in accordance with our presently perceived capabilities and our presently perceived circumstances. But our percepts we may aid and abet with our memory and our imagination. Only in this relative but objective sense can we determine what our actions ought to be and thus acquire true moral habits or, rather, habits true enough for present purposes. We might add to this analysis a modern formulation for defining our geometrical mean. We could say that a teleological cause has a function to fulfill, and that a cause of this kind ought to assimilate only what matter it needs for its function. In other words, a mortal soul, immortal through change only, need bring to life only that which she might presently need for her function, changing though it be. If she assimilated more or less, a soul would no longer live a life proper to her. She would deform and, perhaps, destroy her teleological form, which is, after all, not eternal but ephemeral. What, then, might human virtue be? I suggest that we may continue with Aristotle. He asserts that virtue is a habit conducive to choice that lies on a mean relative to us (Ethics 2. 6. 1106b36–1107a1). That virtue is conducive to choice indicates only that he is discussing moral virtue, which issues in action. Through our actions we acquire our habits, and our habits, once

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acquired, incline us to perform our actions. Indeed, our habits better enable us to perform our actions (Ethics 2. 3. 1104b3–11).17 The mean, he continues, the person with practical wisdom defines (Ethics 2.6.1107a1–2). But we can now unpack this assertion by asking how a person of practical wisdom defines a mean. The mean, we can now see, is a geometric proportion between ourselves and our functions or between our functions and their objects. But a proportion of this kind can be only a perceived one because our function and its objects are perceived only. We can thus grasp the mean best with arguments by example. Only rhetorical arguments of this kind enable us to compare remembered or imagined selves and their situations with our present self and its situation.18 4. The unity of virtue, or rather its unities, is our next topic. This topic, I do realize, appears to be an esoteric, theoretical one. But I submit that we shall 17

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MacIntyre defines virtue as an acquired human quality that enables us to attain goods internal to practices (Virtue 14. 191). I could not agree more. We do differ, of course, about how we know practices and their internal goods. I prefer rhetorical arguments by example, which include history, poetry, and philosophy, but he has a preference for mere narration, especially historical. Today few scholars, if any, unpack this concept of a mean. They usually rest content with a blind trust in a person of practical wisdom, whoever he or she might be. They do not trouble themselves to ask what practical wisdom might be or how one might acquire it. Annas presents the most recent example. In defense of virtue ethics, she argues quite rightly that we ought to be wary of any moral system that is “of a one-size-fits-all kind.” We may take our moral beliefs from others if we are only beginners, she explains. But if we are to become fully virtuous, we must work at becoming someone “who has more understanding” (“Virtuous” 70–71). A theory of virtue must thus include a developmental process. She cites Aristotle’s analogy between learning to be moral and acquiring an art. Art provides a useful analogy because it is practical, in a general sense I presume; it requires understanding; and, most important, it is learned (68–69). She concludes that, when we look for a model of virtue, we must always ask, Is the person whom we look up to a learner or an expert? And we must ask, Are we a learner or an expert? Virtue ethics cannot have “an all-purpose decision procedure,” she explains. If it did, we would be stuck at a learner level. But our “moral life is not static.” Why? Because “we, unlike our theories, are always learning, and so we are always aspiring to do better” (72–74). I can only agree that a static moral theory is not desirable, and that a theory of virtue ought to include a concept of its acquisition and development. We surely do learn by living our lives what goodness life holds for us. But questions remain. I would first ask, Ought our ethics to be a virtue ethics? Why do we wish to acquire virtue? No doubt, we wish to do so in order eventually to attain happiness. After all, happiness is an activity that we perform in accordance with virtue. But virtue by itself cannot be our end. Someone who has virtue might, for example, be asleep on a couch, but one could hardly say that he is exhibiting human goodness (see Ethics 1. 8. 1098b30–1099a7). I must also ask, How can we know who is a virtuous person, whether expert or learner? and How can we know ourselves to be a virtuous person, whether learner or expert? Annas’s appeal to Aristotle appears beside the point. In the passage cited Aristotle argues only that we acquire moral habits through a repetition of appropriate actions. He does not tell us in the passage what would make an action appropriate (Ethics 2. 1.). Only later does he begin

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find the topic to be of practical import as well. An examination of it will give us further insight into moral teleology, viewed not as embodying an eternal form but merely an ephemeral one. We shall see that human virtue so-called must be not only relative to us and objective. But because it is objective, our virtue must be pluralistic as well. Indeed, virtue could hardly be otherwise for mere mortals. I wish to return to the ancient Greeks yet again. No surprise there, I imagine. Any reader conversant with them would very likely agree that the Greeks present a rather obvious solution to the problem of the unity of virtue. They argue that we ought to act from a moral principle, and they show how a principle can give unity to our moral habits. Both Plato and Aristotle do, though they disagree on a subsidiary point that will turn out to be of significance. Plato takes for his principle the concept of justice. Recall that this concept rests on two basic facts of human nature. These facts are our non–selfsufficiency (;(+ 4 , ) and our division of labor ( 97 6 , $ ). We come together because we are severally not sufficient to satisfy our needs. But together we can best satisfy our needs by each producing one needed object for all. The farmers ought to provide food, for example, the tailors clothes, and the carpenters shelter (Republic 2. 369b–370c). Besides these original, perhaps bucolic, inhabitants, a city eventually requires soldiers and philosophers to govern and to defend it (372c–376c). The citizens thus have their several functions to fulfill. But their functions in turn determine what virtues they ought to have. The philosophers, whose function is to rule, especially require wisdom about their city as a whole (Republic 4. 428a–429a). The guardians, whose function is defense, require true opinion about what is fearful and what is not and, of course, courage (429a–430c). The workers must know their various arts, presumably, and they must be temperate, which for them turns out to be obedience to the rulers (430c–432b).19

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to explain his concept of the mean with a preliminary discussion (Ethics 2. 2.; but see 2. 6. 1106a24–1106b7). I am arguing that we can discover new moral principles with rhetorical arguments by example, or if you prefer with the pragmatic method, and that these principles enable us to acquire and to develop our virtue and to enhance our happiness. I take my method from Aristotle, then. Indeed, Aristotle would probably find that Annas is making an appeal not to argument but merely to character. He argues instead that argument, both example and enthymeme, is the essence of rhetorical proof (Rhetoric 1. 1. 1354a11–16; Rhetoric 1. 2. 1356a35–1356b8). But an appeal to character or to passion ought to be preparatory only (Rhetoric 2. 1. 1377b20–1378a5). Again, this passage on temperance would appear to present a note of pessimism on the part of Plato. The passage defines not a moral virtue but mere restraint. It would thus imply that the workers do not acquire a habit of moderation, but that they instead require external constraint for their appetites.

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But to fulfill their functions, the citizens require the other virtues as well. The philosophers, for example, must possess not only their wisdom but also courage and temperance, which allow them to philosophize properly. Those lacking in moral virtue are not even candidates for dialectical studies (Republic 3. 412b–414b; Republic 7. 535a–536b). The guardians require, besides their true opinion and courage, temperance (Republic 3. 389d– 390c). They can hardly defend their city if they are intoxicated, for example (403e; also 403e–404b).20 These citizens must be, in a word, just. Their souls must have an order and organization proper to them. As the citizens each have their own functions, so their souls have parts with their proper functions (Republic 4. 441d–442d). These parts in turn fulfill their functions best from habit (444d–e). But their habits would obviously be moral virtue. Plato famously compares this unity of virtue in the citizens to a musical harmony. The virtuous citizens use their intellect to harmonize the parts of their soul as if notes on a musical scale (443c–444a). But I would remind you that Plato offers only a theoretical concept of justice. Their concept is a paradigm of a just city expressed in words, Socrates informs Glaucon. Hence, they ought not to be disappointed if their paradigm of justice cannot be fully realized in actual practice (Republic 5. 472b–473b). Their concept of justice, nonetheless, remains merely hypothetical. Socrates rather frequently reminds his interlocutors that it is (Republic 2. 368c–369a, for example, and Republic 4. 434d–435a, 442d, and 443b–c). Aristotle presents a different variation on this theme of unity. He would agree with Plato that a moral principle can give unity to our virtue. But he sharply distinguishes between theoretical and practical knowledge, as we have seen. He also argues that our practical intellect alone has the intellectual functions prerequisite for virtue. Why? Our theoretical intellect has its goodness in truth (/$) only, but our practical intellect finds its goodness in truth that agrees with right desire (/ A(/8 :', "% B$& "% 20

Incidentally, one can again see that a truer answer to Protagoras would be that the art of moral measurement ought to use our rational function, which for Plato is a civic one, as a criterion for the worth of an action. Our rational function is obviously other than that of seeking pleasure in the satisfaction of desire (see Chapter 4). Irwin is uncertain that Plato holds virtue to have a unity. His uncertainty arises because his concept of unity is too severe. Unity of virtue means, he thinks, that all the virtues are “really one and the same virtue.” He rightly argues that no one virtue, such as wisdom, could be the same as the other virtues because distinctions among the virtues rest on the concept of the tripartite soul (Ethics 14. 237–239). But he does not see that one and the same moral principle can give our virtues a unity for fulfilling a civic function, though each virtue concerns a different psychological function. He does agree, however, that not only knowledge of a principle but also moral habit is necessary for virtue, and that different moral habits can correct and stabilize different psychological functions (236–237).

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B")% (Ethics 6. 2. 1139a27–31). With its truth our practical intellect actually coerces obedience from our passion as a father might discipline a child (Ethics 1. 13. 1102b28–1103a1). It imparts its form to passion (1103a1–3).21 That we ought to use our practical intellect and its principle to develop our moral virtue, he indicates even further. Virtue, he argues, is a habit that must be not merely in accordance with a right principle ( B /8) but also one that follows from a right principle ((< 7 B7 /8') (Ethics 6. 13. 1144b25–28). He adds, too, that only with intuition, presumably of a right principle, are we able to acquire virtue in a strict sense. Without intuition of this kind we may easily go astray as might someone who is without sight (Ethics 6. 13. 1144b10–14; see Ethics 6. 10. 1143a35– 1143b5).22 Indeed, Aristotle concludes quite explicitly that with practical wisdom all the other virtues are sure to follow. That is why one cannot possess only one moral virtue and not another, but one can possess one natural virtue but not another (Ethics 6. 13. 1144b32–1145a2). His implicit premises would 21

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When he discusses Aristotle, Williams denies that our intellect can create moral habits in us. He thinks that Aristotle claims too much for the practical intellect. He agrees that one “should not study moral philosophy until middle age.” But he claims that by middle age we will have “a long time since” become “preemptively good or irrecoverably bad” (Ethics 3. 38–39). Aristotle would respond that our moral habits are not nearly so inflexible. He might well concede that some people are incorrigible. One can treat them only with exile or, today, imprisonment or execution (Ethics 10. 9. 1180a9–10). He would also concede that we must be brought up to listen to reason, not to passion. We must, he states, have a character akin (# ) to virtue. The law ought to prescribe training for this purpose (1179b23–1180a1). But Aristotle also reminds us that we must constantly exercise our virtues, lest we slip out of them. In fact, most people need the law for this purpose, too (1180a1–8). If we do pick up a bad habit or two, we would yet appear able to acquire the requisite virtue by engaging in actions that aim at the opposite extreme (Ethics 2. 9. 1109a24–1109b13). But the law still remains to correct us if need be (Ethics 10. 9. 1180a8–9). Slote argues in effect that practical rationality cannot be prescriptive but only descriptive. He flatly asserts that “practical reason has nothing essentially action-guiding about it.” He explains that rational standards do not have “to guide any agent who conforms to or meets them,” but that “a description or theory of practical rationality or reason offers (and defends) standards for evaluating voluntary actions.” These standards are apparently “the general requirements of rationality.” Among them are “a rational person seeks to have a good and full life,” “such a life requires various political and personal commitments,” and “someone with such commitments shows irrational weakness of purpose if they fail to follow up on those commitments” (Morals 7. 193–195). Slote would thus appear to advocate a virtue ethics that is not an ethics of virtue in a strict Aristotelian sense but an ethics of virtue in a natural sense. Obviously, virtue in the strict sense would require a practical intellect that can guide our action. To acquire and to exercise virtue in this sense, our intellect needs to know what is good for us and to initiate our action. For action guidance Slote would suggest that we rely instead on natural compassion or benevolence in a Humeian sense, though he prefers the analyses of James Martineau and Henry Sedgwick (see Morals 1. 20, 23–29, e.g.).

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appear to be that practical wisdom provides us with a right principle, and that a right principle serves as a form to enable us to develop virtue in its entirety. In other words, practical knowledge, say of our function, could enable us to acquire the requisite courage and temperance, for example.23 But what principle ought to unify to our virtue? we must ask. Aristotle again departs from Plato. He recognizes that different practical principles can lend their unity to our virtue. Practical wisdom, he argues, is different for a city and for villages and families and for individuals, too (Ethics 6. 8. 1141b29–33). The implication is that practical wisdom provides different principles for a city and for the villages and families and individuals within it. Plato avers, of course, that only a political principle can give unity to virtue. He is infamous for abolishing the family and individuality as well. His purpose, he claims, is merely to extend to civic ties the ties of the family. The result would supposedly be a larger, more extended family than the traditional one. This extended family would be one in which every citizen feels pleasure and pain in the same things (Republic 5. 457c–466d). Aristotle, then, recognizes many unities of virtue for the denizens of his city, but Plato recognizes only a single unity of virtue for each citizen. Both philosophers agree that a moral principle can define what functions we ought to fulfill, and that a principle requires us to develop our moral habits in a unified way. They disagree about what our functions are, however. Aristotle recognizes political as well as social and individual functions, but Plato recognizes only political functions.24 23

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McDowell would appear to argue that our natural sensibility can lend unity to our virtue. He asserts that “the specialized sensitivities that are to be equated with the particular virtues” are not “available one by one for a series of separate identifications” (Reality 3. 52). But he does rightly argue that no one can possess any virtue “except a possessor of all the them” (52–53). This position is rather odd. McDowell takes his view to be Aristotelian (50). But Aristotle explicitly argues that we require practical intuition if we are to have any unity for our virtue. And that natural virtue, such as sensibility, one possesses on a piecemeal basis (Ethics 6. 13. 1144b32–1145a2, again). McDowell does cite Ethics 6. 13. in toto. He claims that our sensibility is not the outcome of “a blind, non-rational habit or instinct.” He offers as an example of instinctive behavior a courageous lioness defending her clubs. But how rational could a lioness be? Not very, apparently. Someone who has moral sensibility, he argues, “need not be articulate enough to possess concepts of the particular virtues.” He goes further and asserts that “the concepts need not enter his reasons for the actions that manifest those particular virtues” (Reality 3. 51). And yet McDowell rightly argues that virtue for Aristotle requires practical wisdom. Virtue in the strict sense, he reminds us, is not “a merely habitual propensity to act in ways that match what virtue would require” (World 4. 78–79). But he also attributes to Aristotle the view that our practical wisdom is solely the result of a decent upbringing (82). MacIntyre well explains how a practice can require all the moral virtues of us, though he does not explicitly take up the problem of their unity. He uses friendship as an example of a practice to show how this relationship would require both justice and courage, for example (Virtue 14. 191–192).

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I find myself obliged to agree with Aristotle that our virtue must have a plurality of unities. Our practical principles can hardly be one. Obviously, we each have several functions to fulfill in various political and social circumstances. Each function requires of us that we know what we do, that we have the determination to do what we do, and that we not permit ourselves to be tempted away from what we do. In a word, we must possess within our soul justice with its component virtues of wisdom, courage, and temperance. Need I point out that the contemporary world especially renders our circumstances rather fluid? If at all cosmopolitan, we may easily move from one nation to another, for example, or from one social circle to another. These various social settings can obviously require that we fulfill varying roles within them. And how easily may we not also move from one ecosystem to another if we are the least bit adventurous? We obviously find that we must vary our conduct within these environments, too. Wait! an astute reader may be thinking. Don’t we ultimately have only one concept of happiness? And so do we not have one ultimate principle? Indeed, we do. But this one concept is so very general as to be all but vacuous, practically speaking. True, this concept does define our general functions, which arise out of our cognitive, combative, and appetitive powers, and these functions do provide us with criteria for evaluating our more specific functions. But only our specific functions define for us what we ought to do here and now within an actual situation. What is rational in the Brooks Range, for example, may not be rational in the Great Basin. I would also remind you that our concept of happiness in its practical guise is not knowledge in a strict sense but knowledge only in the specific sense of opinion. Because it is so general, this concept does appear to be rather stable. But we would live a terribly static life if our practical principles, though perhaps many in application, somehow proved to be one in theory. We would most likely be possessed of a principle true once and for all and tantamount to a divine truth. This principle would take for its object a form fixed and without change. It would have us be nothing less than an eternal substance, sublimely serene in our immutability. Our general concept of happiness does seem to be rather stable, I do admit. But it so seems only because the general traits of our existence change so very slowly. Homo sapiens sapiens evolved approximately 150,000 years ago, and we have not noticeably changed since, cantankerous colleagues aside. You must also concede that new technologies, such as genetic engineering, could enable us to speed up our evolutionary changes, and consequently that new techniques could alter our species nature. But I hope and pray that our geneticists shall not prove rash. The prospect of human-contrived change of this order ought to frighten us or at a minimum to give pause. Dare benighted mortals, such as ourselves, tinker with our very souls? Or with the souls of our fellow beings?

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Every ecosystem changes as well. It if did not, an ecosystem would not be a matter of fact either. With the advance and retreat of the Ice Age, natural environments no doubt changed dramatically in the Northern Hemisphere. With the advent of Global Warming, natural environments, seemingly so stable, are obviously undergoing major change again. But these changes we might retard and perhaps reverse by curtailing activities that are bringing them about. All indications are that we dare not dally. Plato and Aristotle also noticed that our principles may change. But they noted primarily changes in political society. Plato discusses changes of political principles only as deviations from an ideal city (Republic 8. 544a–Republic 9. 580a). But Aristotle is more flexible, as is his wont. He, too, saw changes in principle as deviations from a norm, but he recognized that these changes, if not entirely desirable, might be inevitable because of local customs (Politics 4–6.). His position reminds us how difficult changes in moral habit can be. What we have found, then, is not one unity of virtue but many unities of virtue. Our trusty charioteer with his troublesome horses, we might say metaphorically, must make many journeys through the heavens, and every journey through new, uncharted, heavens. Our soul may get a glimpse of eternal truth, but she will never know if she truly does. She must remain content with an acquaintance of temporal truths. We may – nay, we must – form hypotheses about these truths, and with our hypotheses we may with due restraint of wayward impulses improve our sorry lot within our opined systems. What about the mean, then? We can have no moral virtue, not even an approximate one, without moderation. But if our moral principles differ and differ with changes in place and time, how can we hope to determine a mean for our virtue? We would appear to have as many principles as there are systems of which we are a part. And we may so easily move from one whole to another. What is more, these wholes change, and we ourselves change within them. This question is a worthy one. It allows us to see once more the profundity of the mean. How can we determine a mean for ourselves? We ought to use an argument by example, of course! An example, we might say, is an analogy not between intelligible entities but between perceptible entities. As our past self is to our present self, so ought our past action to be to our present action. Or our present action ought to be to our future action as our present self is to our future self. If you wish, you may view an analogy of this sort as an example geometrized. We find ourselves and our surroundings in a kaleidoscope of change. Our past self is other than our present self, and our present self other than our future self. Yet our examples work for the most part because our old selves are not entirely dissimilar to our new selves. Our present circumstances are other than those past and other than those

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future. But our old circumstances retain some similarities to our new circumstances.25 We see, then, that our virtue is at once both relative to ourselves and to our surroundings and, hence, pluralistic. Our moral principles are merely empirical hypotheses that we can formulate with particular percepts of ourselves and our environment. But these empirical hypotheses about our happiness and our virtue we find ourselves obliged to reformulate when we and the things around us change. We can see, too, that our happiness is as plural as are our principles. With a change in principle comes a change in our function. But in our function, I need not remind you, we find our happiness. After all, our happiness is a rational activity that we perform primarily for its own sake and that we perform well when we act out of virtue. Our happiness is thus as pluralistic and ephemeral as our virtue precisely because it, too, is objective. We ought never to forget that we and the systems of which we are a part are ever in flux. Indeed, we can hardly say that we are ourselves from day to day or from hour to hour, though we do usually bear some resemblance to our past and future selves. Yet these resemblances, fleeting though they are, provision us with our examples. Without our examples we would be as bewildered as a someone placed all of a sudden into the world, to echo David Hume (see Understanding 5. 1. 42). Plato offers a metaphor that, I submit, proves helpful again. I recur once more to the divided line. This figure suggests that we might view our existence as an image. The divided line, recall, illustrates how we may use hypotheses in two ways. We may use a hypothesis to rise to a higher principle or to arrive at a conclusion (Republic 6. 510b). When we attempt to attain a higher principle, we do not use images. We work instead with concepts alone, Socrates argues (511b–c). But when we attempt to derive a conclusion, we use perceived objects as images of our concepts. Geometers customarily use their diagrams in this way (510c–511a). I would ask, Could we not view ourselves and our surroundings as images of moral concepts when we deliberate? Plato himself would appear to imply that human existence is allegorical in this way. But he hopes to discover eternal forms that can provide moral stability for us in a world of instability. What we routinely take for what is, is merely an image of what is. That which we can conceive is more true than the objects that we perceive, he argues (Phaedrus 249c). But we do see our concepts reflected in our percepts. We may so do as a lover sees a god, for example, reflected in his beloved (249d– 250a, 250c–e, 251a). I am arguing, alas, that we can never know what an eternal form is or even that there might be one. I am thus attempting to persuade you to 25

Diotima would no doubt remind us that we remain the same only through change (see Symposium 208a–b or 207c–d).

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follow Aristotle. He prefers not a dialectical but a rhetorical art for practical matters, which can “turn out either way” (Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357a4–7). His rhetorical art relies on the techniques of example and enthymeme (1356a35– 1356b6). These same inductive and deductive techniques the pragmatists have, unawares apparently, taken up for their own method. Aristotle suggests, then, that we might view human existence as allegorical in a different way. What we conceive need not be more or less real than what we perceive, and yet we may see our concepts reflected in our percepts. Both concepts and percepts are opinions, and these opinions we take for matters of fact. These matters of fact can be general or particular. After all, we can form general concepts with our examples. A concept of this general sort we may thus find reflected in a perceived particular. Our moral principles, then, provide a unity for our moral habits, such as they are. But our principles remain mere opinion, and opinion concerns flimsy objects of unchanging change. Our concepts of a moral mean, then, are also opinions concerned with objects of unceasing change. But we can yet hope to discover general principles within our humble human experience if we can but view our percepts as examples or, if you prefer, as mere images. 5. William James, unfortunately, does not offer a full-fledged concept of moral virtue. But he does discuss human habit, and he considers what are obviously moral dimensions of habit. In his discussion he emphasizes, as one would expect, the transient nature of human goodness. This emphasis, we shall soon see, lends support to my hypothesis about the ancient concept of the mean, and it supplies additional arguments for my conclusions about its epistemological and ontological traits. Our goodness James declares to be the capacity to attain happiness. But our happiness for him is not at all a rational activity. He would even suggest that our capacity to attain felicity need not be entirely conscious. At least, it need not be intentional. Goodness must include “innumerable acts and impulses that never aim at happiness,” he asserts. We are, therefore, carried on “to the most universal principle.” Our goodness is “simply to satisfy demand ” (Will 6. 200–201, his italics; also 194–197). This demand, he explains with a touch of hyperbole, may be “for anything under the sun.” We no more have one underlying motive for our activities than physical events have one underlying cause. Ethics has “elementary forces” probably as plural as the forces of physics, he asserts. He accordingly denies that we could possibly have any “genuinely useful casuistic scale” (200–201). We are reminded, then, that happiness for James is not happiness in the classical sense. For him happiness is an activity of value not for its own sake primarily but for its consequences. These consequences are the sundry satisfactions of our passions. But we can agree with him that our happiness

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is plural. Though we have a general concept, we can in fact embody only particular concepts of happiness in our activity. We agree, too, that a casuistic scale, at least one that is fixed, would be unhelpful and unlikely. But James does recognize human habit, and he attributes great moral importance to it. He lauds habit and spells out its advantages, which the Greeks only hint at. Habit is “the enormous fly-wheel of society,” he declares (Psychology 1. 4. 120–121). Our habits become second nature for us and make our actions automatic. Actions performed by habit simplify our movements and make them at once more precise and less fatiguing. These actions also require less conscious attention to their component motions (112–120). Citing Alexander Bain, he even offers specific and practical maxims for acquiring new habits through our actions. These maxims are: to be decisive about a new habit and its acquisition; to suffer no exception before the habit is well rooted; to act on every opportunity and every emotional prompting in favor of the habit; and to keep our effort alive with gratuitous exercises (121– 127). To anyone who has consciously attempted to develop a new habit, the utility of these maxims is obvious. James thus offers insights that are surely of value for our understanding of habits and their acquisition. Though he speaks only of habits that issue in useful actions, we might ask, Do not habits make all actions automatic, both those which are ends in themselves as well as those which are mere means? His observations about our habits would thus appear to apply to actions that constitute our happiness in the classical sense. They would lend their advantages to actions that we take also to be finalities rather than instrumentalities only. Indeed, we find that James himself gives extended examples of actions that we often perform primarily for their own sake. He does so when he explains how habit can improve our activity. His examples include, among others, hunting, fencing, and playing the piano (114–115, for example). Curiously, though, he does not conceive of these actions as being themselves able to constitute our happiness, nor does he appear to view them as being of value for themselves. But, alas, James offers no concept of a mean. Or, at least, the concept does not figure explicitly in his theory. He does mention “a mean between two extremes” as a possible concept of an essential good. But he mentions the mean only in a long list of possible concepts of our goodness (Will 6. 199–200). Nor does he even bother to offer a refutation of the concept. He allows it to languish in silence (200–201). One would think, nonetheless, that we might best satisfy a desire in accordance with a mean, avoiding excess or deficiency. James argues that our desires are teleological entities with ends of their own, though they are at bottom mere reflexes (Will 4. 117–120). Would not a teleological being, albeit not a rational but an irrational one, need to assimilate only as many resources as necessary to attain its end? To assimilate too many would likely

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bloat it up into something more than it ought to be, and too little might well shrivel it up into something less. I would venture to assert that James does in fact offer a concept of a geometric proportion, though he leaves it implicit. We must satisfy our desires in the context of other desires, he observes. But these desires present actual demands that exceed their possible satisfactions. There are simply not enough physical resources to go around (Will 6. 201–203). How can we decide among them? He offers a criterion of satisfying “as many desires as we can” and doing so “at the least cost.” The best course of action “makes for the best whole, in the sense of awakening the least sum of dissatisfactions” (205–206, his italics). We ought to take into consideration, he continues, the greatness and the smallness of a desire as well. Any demand of any creature ought to be satisfied. If not, we must show why not. The only exception is when a desire conflicts with another desire of another creature. A desire, he explains, is also “imperative to the extent of its amount.” A small desire of an insignificant person we may easily put aside in favor of a large desire, presumably of a significant person (195). Do we not now espy a proportionality? The proportionality is geometric, I think, though not a qualitative one but one quantitative. Our function turns out to be merely to satisfy our desire. But we may draw a proportion between the number of us who share a desire and the resources to be allocated to satisfying it. We might also draw another proportion between the greatness or smallness or our desire and the resources allocated to it. Or between our own significance, however it is to be determined, and the resources allocated. One would imagine, then, that we would best find a mean among those desires to be satisfied. Indeed, James argues that morality has a history of struggles to find an equilibrium among satisfactions. Every moral system must have its “rumbling and grumbling in the background,” he informs us (Will 6. 206–207). Historically the satisfaction of some desires left too many desires unsatisfied and had eventually to be given up. “Polyandry and polygamy and slavery,” he offers as examples, as well as “private warfare and liberty to kill, judicial torture and arbitrary royal power” (205–206). Notice, though, that James speaks not of an organic whole but of a whole that is a totality. An organic whole differentiates qualitative functions for its parts, but a totality includes parts, if we may so denominate them, that are seen to be qualitatively the same. At least, James does not appear to acknowledge any qualitative differences between desires to be satisfied. He recognizes only differences in their extensity or intensity. He leaves us not with a holistic principle but only with a principle of costs and benefits to define our mean. Can James, then, offer a concept of satisfaction that provides a unity for our desires? Unfortunately, he cannot. We are “walking bundles of habits,”

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James frankly asserts (Psychology 1. 4. 127). But a bundle of habits is no more a rational unity than a bundle of firewood is an oak tree. And no wonder! He offers us no rational function to fulfill. Desire is a function too irrational for any unity worthy of the name. Each desire may have an end of its own, but without reason no desire need have an end in harmony with another. Recall how Aristotle distinguishes between moral and natural virtue. Our moral virtue rests on our practical intellect, which can grasp a practical principle and control our passions. This principle is, of course, a concept of our rational function. By acting on this concept we can inform our instincts and instill a unity in them. But natural virtue rests on our passions only. Our passions may have a unity, but only if our nature fortuitously gives them one. Most often we are not so lucky. Nonetheless, despite these not inconsiderable differences, James does, I would now remind you, share with us an ontology of change. He contends that objects unceasingly change, even ourselves and our desires. He explicitly cautions that there is “nothing final” in any proposed equilibrium between desires that we choose to satisfy and those which we leave unsatisfied. Our current customs and laws overcame past ones and will in turn be overcome by future ones. Our traditions and institutions are merely “experiments,” he tells us (Will 6. 206–208). With this ontology James actually lends support to our claim that we may have many unities of virtue, even although he himself cannot offer any unity for virtue. He shows, but not as explicitly as one might wish, that we may stand in different relationships with our surroundings. This fact may appear obvious, but we do tend to overlook it. We shall also see that he indicates, again not at all explicitly, how we may know ourselves in different ways within these shifting relationships. What might I mean? James presents as a key tenet of his philosophy the proposition that a thing may remain one thing and yet enter into many relations with other things. A dialectician, he argues, alluding to Greek philosophy, would not think this fact possible. One man cannot be tall in relation to a second man and short in relation to a third. If he were, he would be both tall and short at once (Empiricism 2. 80–82). He calls dialectical relations, such as this one, merely verbal. He suggests that we attribute a linguistic construction to the matter about which we speak (Empiricism 3. 100–104).26 A pragmatist, he argues, would find the fact that one thing may be in many relations all too obvious. He offers commonsense examples. This present moment constitutes an end with respect to our past but a beginning with respect to our future. This plot of land may once have been part of the estate 26

Actually, James’s allusion does not appear entirely accurate. Plato, for example, argues only that one contrary cannot become its opposite, not that an object with the one contrary cannot acquire the other (Phaedo, e.g., 102a–103c).

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of a neighbor, but it may now, through purchase, become part of your estate or mine (Empiricism 2. 80–82; also Empiricism 3. 104–106, 107–109). But James speaks only of a thing and its external relations with other things. What if a thing happens to be a whole? I would ask. Could it not have external relations within itself? That is, could it not have external relations among its various parts? A whole can obviously stand in external relations to other wholes, too. It could itself even be a part of a larger whole. Would these external relations of whole and part somehow require that a thing be more than one? I think not. Surely, I need not point out that relations of whole and part are not logical ones, as James would have us think (see Empiricism 2. 41–42, for example). They are empirical connections of cause and effect. My hand, for example, is not a hand without its skeletal and sinewy structure of parts distinct from one another. But my bones and sinews have their causal connections with one another and with my hand itself. My hand has a structure that both determines and is determined by its proper motions. But I and my hand are also causally connected with an environment as parts with a whole. I am, for example, breathing air, and I am thinking about lunch, not to mention the seemingly incessant tapping at this keyboard. These external relations I take to be nothing grander than everyday matters of ordinary fact. Who could deny, for example, that there are ecosystems, and that these ecosystems are organic wholes of various animal and plant organisms? Ecology is surely an empirical science. Or who would deny that human beings are animal organisms that live within ecosystems both natural and artificial? Biology, physiology, and anatomy, too, are obviously empirical sciences. My conclusion is obvious, I would think. Our practical principles can differ from one situation to another. We may remain one and the same, or at least similar to ourselves, and yet have functions that change with different circumstances. Hence, our happiness may change, and it can demand different unities for our virtue. The happiness and habits of an athlete who competes in international events is quite different from the happiness and habits of an amateur athlete who works out on weekends. Their knowledge and temperance clearly differ, for example. We can now see that James presents an epistemological position that offers even greater insight into our moral pluralism than his ontological position. Most important, he indicates how one person may know one object in more than one way. He himself explains only how two people may know one and the same object. But when he does, he also indicates for us how one person may know the same object in two or more ways. This epistemological insight lends additional support to a pluralism of moral habits. How, then, may you and I know the same object? James assumes that we obviously may. But this epistemological claim presents a problem for him, given his concept of human experience. Experience, recall, contains both mental and physical objects. These entities differ from one another only by

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our associations. Consider a pen, for example. A pen as a mental entity is a percept that is unstable. I may alter it with my imagination, and with the blink of my eye it comes and goes. But as a physical entity a pen is a stable percept. It holds ink, puts marks on paper, and stays put when I put it down (Empiricism 4. 123–124). With our associations we actually create our mental and physical objects. With less stable associations we create mental objects, and we create physical objects with associations that are more stable (Empiricism 1. 9–15, 21–23). How, then, can you and I hope to know the same physical object if it is a mere percept associated with concepts and other percepts in our minds? Are not my associations as well as my concepts and percepts distinct from yours? If so, our objects, though presumably physical, would also seem to be quite distinct (Empiricism 4. 125–127). To show that you and I may yet know the same thing, James asks us to consider our knowledge of your body. If our minds do not have any common objects, he argues, I do not have any evidence to believe that your mind exists. Why do I believe that your mind exists? Only by analogy. I perceive your body exhibiting behavior similar to my own. But my analogy would fail if the body that I see is different from the one that you inhabit. We would live in different universes with little, if anything, in common (Empiricism 2. 77–78).27 He can easily expand this world of your body with more common objects. My percept of your body I also associate with other percepts, and you may associate your percept of my body with other percepts, too. He uses a tug of war as an example. If we both see my hands, and if we both see your hands, do we not see the very rope that we both grasp? he asks. Not only do we have our bodies, then, but we also have other objects of association in common. If you point out Cobb Hall in your world, in my world Cobb Hall is pointed out, too (78–79). But what makes an object part of our universe? Ultimately various mental operations do, James argues. These operations mean that a pen, for example, is an object of new experiences, which appropriate it as an object from the past, an object of warm feelings, such as interest, attention, and movement, and of warm feelings that are mine. Whatever is associated with these feelings is for the moment at least mine. But these feelings also make my pen a perceptual or a practical object, he tells us. It is perceptual if associated with eye feelings, and practical if associated with hand feelings (Empiricism 4. 128–130). And yet your and my perceptions cannot be one and the same. Our minds do not terminate in any percept that is numerically identical. James declares this proposition to reflect “a plain matter of fact” (Empiricism 2. 82–83). If I hold up my hand, we obviously view it from different angles. You are on 27

The percept itself cannot be the object, of course. If it were, objects would be in our heads – a hypothesis that James regards as “not seriously defensible” (Empiricism 2. 79 n. 1).

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one side of it, and I am on another side. And we may change our view of my hand. Our views would begin to diverge if you studied fine art, for example, and I studied anatomy. Numerical identity, James concludes, can only be to occupy one and the same space. Though our percepts of an object obviously differ, we yet point out the very same location when asked where our percept is. That is, our associations lead us both to the same spot. Our percepts of Cobb Hall, for example, originate or terminate in the same identical spot. Or consider your body again. If I were to touch your shoulder, say, you would feel my hand in the same place where I would feel your shoulder (84–85).28 We may now build on what James has accomplished. An object of your experience and mine can be one and the same, he has argued. Your and my associations, which are not numerically the same, can yet point out an object that is the same numerically. We may both be cognizant of your body, for example, or of mine. If it can figure in both a physical and a mental context, why, James asks, may percepts not figure in two, three, or four mental contexts (79–80)? But I must ask, if it can figure in two or more mental contexts of different minds, why may a percept not figure in two or more mental contexts of one mind? If I were to study both fine art and anatomy, say, would I myself not have two different views of my hand? True, my anatomical studies might well enhance my artistic endeavors – if I have talent. But I may delve so deeply into anatomy as to uncover facts of little import to the visual appearance of my hand and any aesthetic rendition. Would I not then perceive in two different ways a thing that is one and the same? James himself, so far as I know, neglected to make this point. But surely he could have made it. My point is implicit in his analysis of how two minds know one thing. As may two minds, may not one mind as easily associate different concepts and percepts with one thing? Are not the associations of my hand as a locus of political rights and duties on a par with my hand as a locus of medical treatment? We do not usually, I admit, bring the two trains of association together unless, for example, we find a need for a political solution to a problem of health care. I do concede that we tend to resist alternative points of view, especially those regarding moral matters. We frequently find difficulty in relinquishing an ethical hypothesis of long standing. A symptom of our recalcitrance is probably the fact that we may also make different moral associations a matter too facile to be taken seriously. With a shrug of the shoulders, we nowadays dismiss attempts to discuss alternative moral perspectives. These alternatives 28

Myers would appear to agree that James takes a position of this sort. He argues that James “was never far from materialism.” But he goes too far when he asserts that for James your and my streams of consciousness, when we perceive the same object, “literally flow together, become confluent or conterminous” (James 11. 320–324).

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are too often viewed not as matters of opinion in the sense of perceived facts. We often view them rather lazily as matters of opinion in an emotive sense. But the most significant thing we may view in two different ways within our experience is none other than our very selves! You and I not only know you in different associations and me in different associations, but we each also know our own selves in different associations. We know ourselves in different contexts not only physically but also morally. Obviously, your status as a son or daughter is different from your status as a father or mother and is still different from your status as a brother or sister. And so on. But I want to remind you that some associations we make are relations of parts within wholes. We can know ourselves, and other things, too, in different holistic contexts. These holistic relations we know, if only hypothetically, by the principles of their wholes. We thus may function within different wholes and function differently within one and the same whole. You and I are members of different families, for example, and we have different functions within our families. But we are also members of political societies and of intermediate groups between kinships and polities. We have different roles within these contexts as well. I especially have in mind ecosystems and our human roles within these systems. Ecosystems, too, have principles, often difficult to discern, that define functions for the organisms living within them. If they did not, they would not be wholes. We ought to be cognizant of our functions within these more fundamental contexts. We ought also to change our hypotheses about our environment and ourselves when necessary. Not only as we learn more about our surroundings, but also as our surroundings change. What we once deemed a virtue can easily become a vice.29 29

MacIntyre recognizes that we can be characters with roles to fulfill in more than one narrative. He observes that we are surely the main characters in our dramas, but we are also lesser characters in the dramas of others. We can thus be at best co-authors of our own drama because our different parts in different dramas constrain one another (Virtue 15. 213–214). I would ask why we might not also be the main characters in more than one drama of our own. May I not take on a major role in my professional career and also a major role in local politics, say, or in a social club? As I may have a role in my drama and in a drama of another, so I may also have a role in more than one drama of my own. And may you, too. Indeed, we may both inhabit more than one drama and interact in more than one. MacIntyre would also argue that we must have one narrative to give our lives a unity. Without unity, our lives would be “pervaded . . . by too many conflicts and too much arbitrariness.” Because we would lack an end for our life, our virtues would also remain “partial and incomplete” (Virtue 14. 201–203, his emphasis). What is more, we would lack any basis for deciding moral dilemmas. He is quite right to point out that a dilemma may easily entail a choice between alternatives that have both an “authentic and substantial good.” But he argues that we can make our choice only in light of a single narrative that unifies our life (Virtue 15. 223–225). I am arguing that a human life can have no single narrative to give it unity. Or, I might better say that our life can have no single specific good with which to unify it. The moral unity of a mortal life arises only with a general good. Only with our general concept of happiness,

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But I would argue that we ought to make the assimilation of concepts and percepts within our experience a consequence of cool thinking rather than warm feeling. I suspect that James overlooks the fact that we may have two views of one object because he relies on mere feeling for our associations of mental and physical objects. Obviously, our intellect can more often be circumspect than can our impulses, which tend to be more importunate. We might do well, then, to rely on the rhetorical art and its techniques of example and enthymeme. If we use these techniques, we may more easily connect within our humble human experience different conceptual generalizations with one and the same perceptual object, despite its penchant for change. We might, say, view as a family treasure or as a comfortable writing instrument the very same fountain pen. Or we might find ourselves in a metaphysical discussion about whether or not someone has gone around a squirrel. We ought, again, to rely on a mental analysis for our associations and not on mere emotion. Unfortunately, cool thinking can all too often encounter a barrier in warm feeling, especially if the feeling has become habitual. We then cannot always see truly the whole of which we are a part, especially if it should change, and we easily may, for a time at least, remain comfortable with an activity that has begun to violate a changed whole. 6. Madness ’tis! I surely do not have to tell you, dear reader, that our human morality, besides its other curious properties, is nothing short of sheer insanity. To be truly moral is, indeed, to be truly mad. I speak, of course, of divine madness, not of human. We may call this mental malady the madness of divine truth. But I do not mean the madness of discovering a truth truly divine. There could be a madness of this kind, to be sure. This divine madness would arise with our recognition of an eternal moral principle, reflected, perhaps, in the personage of a beloved human being (see Phaedrus 249d–e). Plato avers that we may become madly inspired with a truth of this incomparable kind (see 251a–252c). But I advocate a divine madness that follows not on any eternal form but on many ephemeral forms. Our madness is inspired by divinities merely temporal. May we not feel a divine delirium stemming from our discovery in other words, can we find unity in our life. More specific concepts of happiness, because they are ever multiple, are indeed more susceptible to conflict and more arbitrary, though these traits need not “pervade” life. A human life thus has many specific ends, but our virtues are not partial or incomplete. Our virtues are rather multiple and complete enough with regard to our specific ends. Moral dilemmas, I would argue, we ought to resolve in light of both our general concept of happiness and our specific concepts. We ought to preserve and perfect our happiness in a general sense, but we are also obliged to weigh our specific happinesses in their various guises against one another in light of their peculiar circumstances. Such is our lot in life.

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not of a pantheon of necessary gods but of a plenum of contingent gods? But when they honor us with their presence, these contingent gods give every appearance of being in flux and on occasion of being fickle even. They come and go and their principles come and go with them. I would argue especially that the form that we grasp and that causes our madness is the principle of an ecosystem. An ecosystem, after all, is a whole of which we are but a part. I am contending that we ought to act in harmony with a principle of this kind if we are to become fully moral. By so acting we enlarge our moral consciousness and our moral identity beyond our individual self to encompass a more divine natural self. We also avoid the tensions and anxieties of acting in transgression against this wider self. This principle, if we choose to act on it, releases us from our customary habits. A principle of this kind can enable us to possess what we might call an art of living instead of a mere routine. If we have a better understanding of our identity, we can better direct our actions and better inform our character. By so doing we acquire moral virtue, or its approximation, in place of haphazard habits. With our principle we can minister to our emotions as a moral physician, Socrates might say. And we can escape the baunasic routines of a mere flatterer (see Gorgias 500a–501b; also464b–465d). Human madness is the font of immorality. Madness of this sort is not that inspired by our vision of a principle of understanding but that spawned by our sight of an object of longing. Insanity of this sort expresses not a teleology of our intellect but a teleology of our impulses. Unless held in check with our rationality, our impulses can become rather importunate and inordinate with their demands (recall Phaedrus 253d–254a). They can corrupt our vision of principle and may even strike us blind (243a–b, for example)! I would conclude, then, that we are both one and many. We are not allotted one unity of virtue but many unities of virtue. We ought not ever to forget that we are not privileged to be relations of eternal ideas, but we are fated to be merely matters of empirical fact. We and our actions and our habits must change unchangingly within a world of unchanging change.

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8 A Symposium

1. After my philosophical sojourn I was walking down the street one day toward the university and was greeted by a colleague. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

You’re back! he said. Yes, I replied. Back to the land of the living. Are you sure? You hesitated. Well, I’m not so sure I can come back. Can’t come back? Don’t tell me you found another job. No. But things have changed. They haven’t changed much, have they? Perhaps not. But enough so that I can’t quite get my bearings. It’s the same old place, don’t worry. You’ll be back in the swing of things soon enough. Maybe. But I almost feel like a stranger. It’ll take some imagination to figure everything out again. Oh, you won’t need any imagination to figure this place out. But I can’t rely on memory anymore. Or at least not as much as I used to. Going senile, are you? Doesn’t matter. All you have to do is keep your eyes open. Things will be obvious enough. Ah, but there’s more than meets the eye, my friend. Good god, you’re not getting paranoid, are you? No, I’m only my usual skeptical self. Without any memory or imagination we’d be confined to an itty-bitty here and now. All right, all right. You’ve gone philosophical on me. And at this hour. I haven’t even had my coffee yet. But I just got back from sabbatical. Besides, a little imagination never hurt anybody. In theory perhaps. But in academia? A little imagination could be a dangerous thing. 274

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A Symposium – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

– – – – 1 2

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Actually, it’s all imagination, you know. What? Every waking moment is imagined. Wait a minute! Are you saying that you’re imagining me? I sure am. And you’re imagining me. But then we’d be fictitious characters, wouldn’t we? We sure would. But then we’d both be mere figments of your imagination, wouldn’t we? And of yours! Don’t you remember, Phil?1 I phoned from Berkeley and asked permission to borrow your persona for a dialogue? Of course I do. So? Well, we need to borrow each other’s personae for reality too. Though we don’t usually bother to ask permission. Give me a break. People don’t go around making each other up. We are what we are! But it’s all made up, all imagined, whether you call it fact or fiction. All made up? What about perception, then? Huh? Sure, there’s perception. See! Or rather sensation. But ’tis a mere snowflake falling into the Merced. A moment white, then gone forever.2 The Merced? Up in Yosemite. Never mind. A river. Tell me the difference between fact and fiction then. You don’t deny there’s a difference, do you? Essentially none. Except that you tend to be a little more livid in person. I mean vivid! More vivid? Yeah, more vivid and vivacious. Right. More vivid and vivacious. Where’s my caffeine when I need it? We simply imagine each other a little differently if we decide that we might be what we customarily call real. I tend to think you a little more recalcitrant, shall we say, than I otherwise might. What we customarily call real? What are they smoking in Berserkeley these days? Me? I don’t smoke. You found something better then? No, not at all. Well, maybe. The name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. To paraphrase Bobby Burns.

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– I thought so! What is it? ’Fess up. – It’s philosophy! The fourth kind of madness!3 What else would it be? – The fourth kind of madness! What else would it be! You go away on sabbatical and return insane, is that what you’re saying? – What are sabbaticals for? But it’s divine madness. In fact, my madness is nothing more than good ol’ American craziness! William James, in fact. – William James? Not Hume? What’s James got to do with it? – Well, James would say that I associate you – though I would add practically, not pathologically – with my percepts in one way if I take you for an entity that we are accustomed to call real. I associate you with my percepts in another way if I take you for an item in my mental life. – An item in your mental life? – Yes, if I imagine you to be an obstreperous physical entity, you are a fact. But you are a fiction if I imagine you to be a pliant mental entity.4 – A pliant mental entity? I thought you said not pathological! Sounds pretty pathetic too. – It all depends on the mental life, I’d say. – Right! But I’m not sure I want to hear about yours. – And it’s all fantasy. – All fantasy? I thought you said there was a difference. – I did. But within the realm of fantasy. “Fantasy” is what we classical philosophers know in our professional jargon as a homonymic genus. Some fantasies are real, some are unreal. – Unreal, indeed! A homonymic genus! Have you been drinking? – No, not since I’ve been back. – So you are back! – So it appears. I am a little thirsty, though. – It’s delirium tremens, no doubt about it. – Let’s go across the street and have a drink. – Yes, let’s. I think I could use one too. 2. – – – – – – – –

3 4

This place is a dive if I ever saw one, he said. Sure is. Look at all the images. All illuminated, too. Your classical imagination must be running riot! All illuminated from behind! A veritable allegory! Yes, indeed! What’ll it be, gentlemen? A couple of shots of whisky, please. One for me, and one for this fine figment of my imagination. Phaedrus 249c–d. Empiricism 1. 9–15.

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– Shouldn’t we be ordering imaginary whiskies? – Imaginary whiskies are fine with me, gentlemen. So long as you pay with imaginary dollars real enough to spend. – He’s got it! The difference between real and unreal fantasy! Imaginary dollars that spend! He’s a bloomin’ pragmatist! – That I am. Someone has to pay the bills, you know. What do you favor, gents? – Do you have any single malts? – We do, indeed. – The best distillate this side of eternity? – That could only be Lagavulin! – You got it! – Lagavulin it is! Two shots? – Yes. Straight up, please. Or, rather, neat, I guess the word is. – Neat it is! 3. – – – – – – – – – – –

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Ahhh! There’s nothing quite like a good single malt! So how’s the manuscript coming? Quite nicely, thank you. I suppose you’ve got this William James stuff in it. Why, yes. I start with it. You start with it? Of course. But why drag me into it? I wanted to share the poetry of it with someone. Share the poetry? Yeah, I’m a sensitive guy. What can I say? Sharing the poetry of insanity with your colleague. How wonderful! Well, I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. But you could say the poetry of insanity. Though poetry is a distinct form of insanity, you know, not unlike philosophy. The other two being religious, prophecy and purification, right?5 You do know what I am talking about! I, however, would prefer to call those two insanities rhetorical rather than religious. Rhetorical? The one concerns our ability to guess at the future, the other our ability to grapple with the past. These are two of the three divisions of classical rhetoric. They are usually referred to as deliberative and adjudicative.6 So rhetoric is madness too? Yes, though today we prefer to call it marketing. New products guarantee a new and improved life, ninety-nine and ninety-seven one-hundredth percent pure, give or take. There’s your purification and purgation for you. Phaedrus 244a–245a. Rhetoric 1. 3. 1358b2–20.

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A new narcotic for the masses, eh? A better bar of soap will do nowadays. But what about the third kind of insanity? Oh, yes, poetry. We might view poetry as rhetoric too. Demonstrative rhetoric, that is.7 Good god, is everything rhetoric? What about philosophy? Philosophy would appear to concern timeless truths. Obviously. So it’s not rhetoric! Actually, it can be. Look at it this way. Philosophy concerns ideas as such. Plato was always harping on this theme. Dialectic, he calls it, deals in ideas, with ideas, and through ideas.8 Hume picks up the theme too. He recognizes an object of reason that he calls relations of ideas.9 Are you with me? Sounds analytic to me. Correct! But rhetoric is synthetic. It concerns matters of opinion in the ancient sense.10 Hume would say matters of fact.11 So? But surely we may take analytic propositions for synthetic! Quine did, didn’t he? So the analytic philosophers are rhetoricians? Yes, you could say that. Better yet, the analytic philosophers are the synthetic philosophers! You could say that too! Even philosophy is synthetic nowadays! But what about Kant and his synthetic a priori concepts? What would they be? Huh? I got you there, don’t I? Isn’t he talking about ideas in Plato’s sense? And yet he comes up with synthetic propositions.12 Ah, yes. Kant is talking about matters of fact that are mental! A clever trick! He calls it critique. All you need is an immortal soul. Or, at least, a postulated one.13 Right again. And it’s goodbye to any Humeian epistemology and ontology. But if it’s rhetoric, wouldn’t philosophy be poetry or another of the rhetorical insanities? One can view philosophy as demonstrative rhetoric. Along with poetry. And also history, of course. And also history? I’m not sure I’m following you. But one might better view philosophy and poetry too as rhetorical arguments. Rhetoric 1. 3. 1358b2–20, again. Republic 6. 511b–c. Understanding 4. 1. 25–26. Rhetoric 1. 2. 1357a1–7; see, too, Republic 5. 476d–478d. Understanding 4. 1. 25–26. Practical 1. 1. 7. 31, e.g. Practical 1. 2. 4. 122.

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– Rhetorical arguments? Poetry maybe, but philosophy? And what happened to history? – Haven’t you heard of parables? Aristotle recognizes the Socratic parables as rhetorical examples.14 – I suppose one could use philosophical arguments rhetorically. But then they would be applied philosophy, wouldn’t they? – Yes, they would. – Like applied math?15 – Why not? Poetry is more properly a rhetorical example too.16 But an example tending to affect us with pleasure. Kant was on the right track.17 – But wouldn’t it be pathological, then? – It could be. But there is good as well as bad poetry. – Okay. What’s good poetry, then? – Poetry of the good variety afflicts us with divine madness, which is to say, mental. But bad poetry affects us only with human madness, which is passional.18 – I see. Back to the Phaedrus. – Yes, it all depends on what you mean by probability. If you mean ideas that people have strong feelings about, you mean how ideas affect us and you’re into bad poetry, I would say. If you’re lucky, you can run a whole society on myths!19 – On myths? – Sure. Bad myths usually. People often act on what they like to believe rather than on what they ought to believe. – Doesn’t sound so good. – It’s not. But if people act on what they ought to believe, they act on what is in fact likely or not likely to happen. And you have good myths. Good myths to define moral values and not bad ones.20 – Good myths? Now you’re making good poetry rhetorical, too? – I am. And good poetry may be deliberative rhetoric as well as demonstrative. Or even adjudicative. 14 15 16 17

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Rhetoric 2. 20. 1393b4–8. See Understanding 4. 1. 31–32. Rhetoric 2. 20. 1393b8–1394a1. Judgement 1. 1. 1. 203–204. Stevens presents the distinction in more contemporary terms. A philosopher, he tells us, “searches for an integration” of concepts “for its own sake.” He wants his “integration to be fateful.” But the poet “searches for an integration that shall be not so much sufficient in itself as sufficient for some quality that it possesses.” He wants his integration “to be effective” (“Collect” 276). Again, the philosopher “moves about . . . like someone intent on making sure of every foot of the way.” But the poet “is light-footed. He is intent on what he sees and hears . . .” (276–278). See Phaedrus 242d–243a, 243c–d. See Phaedrus 272c–273c. Phaedrus 273d–274a.

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– Maybe so. But what you say doesn’t sound very much like Williams James to me. – It’s not. James saw only the rhetoric, but he didn’t see it as such. – James? A rhetorician? – Yes, the experimental method is essentially a rhetorical method of deliberation. – Really? – Yeah. I’d be happy to explain it to you some day. Or you could read the second chapter of my manuscript. – I’d love to. When are you going to give me a copy of this manuscript, anyway? – Delighted! Thought you would never ask! But James also missed something else in Greek philosophy. Something perhaps even more important. – What’s that? I’m afraid to ask. – Their ontology. He had no use for final causes. – Few people do. – Yes, I know. No one does, and no one can. They’re totally useless, you know. – What? – That’s the poetry of it, really. – Poetry? Again? – I’m simply stating an obvious philosophical fact. – Oh, it’s obvious all right! – Final causes wouldn’t be final if they were useful, would they? – Well, I don’t suppose they would. But then of what, what shall I say? Of what value are they? – Excellent question! Not all values are to be found in utility. – Then where? – In finality! Some things are to be savored for their own sakes. And perhaps for their effects as well. Like this glass of whisky. Imbibing is an end in itself. A symposium, I dare say, if we share it with another. But it’s also smooth and smoky, and it liberates the spirit. All in moderation, of course. – Poetry is a glass of scotch? – Of course! It’s a spiritual experience. All things have spirits in them. Even bottles! – I’m going to tell the bartender to cut you off. – No, don’t! – Then explain yourself. – Spirituality is merely another way of viewing finality. Having a drink with a friend is an end in itself. Having a conversation is too. Especially a philosophical one. No good will come of it, nor will any harm, either. That’s the beauty of it, and that’s what scares people. But it doesn’t get any better than this. Oops, where have I heard that before? – So this is somehow congenial, then?

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Yes. Then it sounds like bad poetry! Well, it’s not bad poetry because it’s true. Or as true as poetry can be. Good god! True myth again? Good god, indeed! Actually, good gods!! You see, when we find a final cause, we have found a goodness and a goodness in which we can rest.21 Because we have found the meaning of some portion of existence. Or some potation? Yes! Like having a drink! I’m not so sure having a drink was a good idea. We do not live in the midst of a valueless vacuum! We live and have our being in a plenum of value! We’re surrounded by spirits here and now. There’s no escaping them. Poor James! He was looking for a spirit to animate the world, and he overlooked myriad spirits right at his elbow.22 Maybe he should have bent it. His elbow, I mean. He thought he was surrounded by dead, inert matter.23 Don’t tell me you’ve turned theological on me. Just a wee bit, maybe. You’re going to advocate a necessary, unmoved mover, aren’t you? What next! Nope. Then what? 4.

– A sublime accident! – A sublime accident? What in Blue Blazes might that be? – Just ask the bartender! Bartender, what would you say if I said that life is a sublime accident? – Well, I don’t know. I do know of some people whose parents say they were accidents. So I suppose life can be an accident. – Yeah, what about that? Are you saying that life is unplanned parenthood? – Not exactly. We have to go back a little further. I’m talking about life itself, not this or that life. – Oh, you mean life on the planet? Or in the solar system? – Well, actually I mean existence itself. The solar system or even the planet would do well enough for the sake of argument, though. – Existence itself? How is the solar system an accident? – It’s like a fine scotch. A single malt, of course. 21 22 23

To paraphrase F. H. Bradley. Universe 5. 205–211. Will 6. 189–192.

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– Existence is like a glass of scotch! A single malt! Now that’s clear as a crystal! Say, why don’t we get crystal in this place? Never mind. It’s got something to do with pragmatism and bills, no doubt. – You know the story of scotch, don’t you? – No, I don’t know the story of scotch, don’t you? – You don’t? – No, I don’t! – Bartender, surely you know the story of Scotch whisky. – Sorry, can’t help you there. – I’ll enlighten you both, then. But first another wee dram. Bartender, two more if you please! – Comin’ up! – And one for yourself, barkeep. – Why, don’t mind if I do. Thank you very much. – Well, the story goes that Scots were distilling their liquor up in the highlands somewhere, I imagine. No, out in the islays! – The islays? – Yes, that’s Scottish for islands! – Oh, of course, Scottish for islands! That’s Scottish for islands? Did you know that, barkeep? – As a matter of fact, I did. – Anyway, they had a fresh batch of hooch in their kettle and nothing to put it in. So they made do with some empty sherry casks sitting around the place. And when they tapped into the casks sometime later – months or years, who knows – they had their first taste of true whisky. That miraculous event, gentlemen, that fortuitous combination of a refined distillate and a sherrific residue, that is what is known to the initiates even unto this very day as the Sublime Accident! A toast to Accidents of the Sublime Variety!24 – Hear, hear! – So, what you are saying then is that life is a sublime accident? And existence too? – Yes, but not only that. Life is every bit as wondrous as scotch and to be savored as much if not more. – Well, I can see the accident part, but I’m not so sure about the sublimity of it. Though some of my best customers seem to prefer scotch to life. When they can afford it. – I don’t doubt it, my dear sir. But the sublimity is that your life, any life, might not have been. – You mean I might not have been a bartender? I can see that too, but I still don’t see the sublimity of it. If you will excuse me, I have to attend to another customer. 24

Jackson, intro., 17–18.

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5. – There’s the poetry of it and the pity too. The pity is that we don’t often see the sublimity. Not only do we take our ideas of things for reality, we usually take some paltry interpretation of things, invented by Heaven knows whom, for reality. And it’s all pretty utilitarian, you have to admit. There’s your cave for you. – I admit it’s utilitarian. But where’s the poetry? – The poetry is in the sublimity. – In the sublimity? – What I mean is that there are final purposes extant, and they are what make existence sublime. – How do they do that? – We recognize their tenuousness and the tenuousness of our knowledge of them, by the way, and yet we act. – That’s sublime? – Of course. We act unflinchingly in the face of fickle fortune. Way back in the Fifties people used to think that the world had suddenly changed because someone had invented the atomic bomb. They thought that we would have a bleak outlook on life because we all might be blown to bits at any moment. But the A-bomb didn’t change a thing. How could a mere human contraption make a metaphysical difference? Any undergraduate who has read Hume knows that the universe is a matter of fact. The sun need not rise tomorrow, etc., etc. The whole shebang need not have shebanged! – Need not have shebanged? – The idea is very Kantian, you know. – Kant? – Sure. It’s a sublimity of the dynamic sort. We act in the face of absurd circumstances.25 – Absurd, yes! – But I wouldn’t want to deny the mathematical sublimity. Especially if you accept our mortality.26 – No, no. Of course not. Especially if we accept our mortality. What are you talking about? – But life has its tragic and comic aspects too, you know. – Tragedy and comedy? What happened to sublimity? – Yes, the tragedy comes from doing what most people did about the A-bomb. – Most people didn’t do anything, did they? 25 26

Judgement 1. 2. 28. 260–264. Judgement 1. 2. 25. 248–250.

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– Well, actually some people did dig fallout shelters. But most people simply forgot about it. – What’s so tragic about that? – What’s so tragic about that is we forgot about the contingency of life. We simply assumed that things have to be the way we always thought they had to be. And we prefer to act on that assumption. – What’s the difference? If we act on the assumption that things will continue to be the way they are or on the assumption that things might not continue as they are, our actions will be the same, will they not? As long as we know how things are. – Ah, but we will never know how things are! – We won’t? Is this not a glass of scotch I see before me eyes? – You don’t know that it is. – I don’t? – No, if you knew that it was, it couldn’t become other than it is. You couldn’t drink it! – Oh, that wouldn’t be any fun. – No, it wouldn’t. You only believe that you’re sipping scotch. – Do I detect mitigated skepticism again? – You do! But with an ontological twist. – An ontological twist? It isn’t weird enough that we don’t know if there’s anything behind our sensations? Or if they might not resemble them? I mean, believe.27 – Sorry, but things, if they’re out there, do appear to change. I might have slipped something into your scotch. – So you might have. Did you? – No need. We’re doing just fine as is. You see, there are two kinds of errors. – Only two? – Two epistemological kinds. The really harmful error is to think that you know what you are doing. But of course nobody does. Nobody can. – Nobody can know? Or know what they’re doing? – Good point. Nobody can know, either. You would have to know everything to know anything. And only a god can do that. – Of course. God, the great Know-It-All in the sky! – But if we could know, and we can’t, we still couldn’t know what we are doing. – Why not? – What I mean is that we can only believe or opine what we are doing. Because we are matters of fact, remember? – Ah, yes. So what you’re saying is the harmful error is to think that we know something when we can only opine it? But what’s the harm in that?

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Understanding 12. 1. 151–154.

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– The harm in that is not only can’t you know what you’re doing, but even if you could, you and your surroundings would change on you. – So? – So you would not likely accept the change, and you would likely do whatever you had to do to act as if nothing had happened. You would probably end up in denial until you were surrounded by undeniable homemade havoc. – A tragedy! – A tragedy, indeed. Though we can get pretty stubborn about our own opinions as well. But usually we are quicker to admit that our opinions are wrong, especially if we recognize them as such, because we know opinion concerns matters of fact. – Which change! – Which change. And so we do less harm. Considerably less. We might even laugh at ourselves. – Comedy! So, the big trouble comes from those who think they know what they’re doing but can’t possibly. – Right again! Plato calls them philodoxers. They take for certain what is not. – But philosophers know that they don’t know, of course. – Of course! Ever heard of Socrates? What’s more, true philosophers love all knowledge, including opinion. That’s why philosophy is so much fun!28 – Oh, great fun! – Those who think they know, Plato says, do evil unwillingly.29 – Unwillingly? – Of course. They think they know what’s right, but they don’t even know they don’t know. – But if I follow you, you have to admit that no one can escape such a fate. Because nobody can ever know or even opine correctly. – Right again! But we can know that we can’t. – We can know that we can’t? – Can’t know or opine correctly. It’s mitigated skepticism all over again. – Mitigated skepticism all over again. I might have known. Or not known.30 6. – Back to the cave. Bartender, a brace more, if you please! – Comin’ up, laddies! 28 29 30

Republic 5 474b–475c. Gorgias 509e; i.e., 466a–468e. Williams believes that tragedy in the contemporary world can be only political. He argues that instead of a divine metaphysical fate we must substitute social and political realities (Shame 6. 164–165). But I would suggest that we may find a metaphysical fate, if contingent, within our own nature or within a nature more divine. When we act forgetful of a nature, whether ours or not, we can easily weave ourselves a tragedy of our own design.

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– This place is a cave, isn’t it? I said. – You’re right about all the images. The neon lights and electric signs. All illuminated too. Nails in the wall hold them up, though.31 – And they all bear the same message, my friend, Life is better after death. If only we would swill down this beer, or light up that cigarette, we would be immolated into a Heaven underwritten by the full faith and credit of the Almighty Dollar! – It’s mercantilism at its best. – Amen! Everything has a cash value, and its cash value is a life of blissful satisfaction. – Would you say we need more of a leisure society and less of a consumer society? – Yes! I sure would, wouldn’t you? – I believe I just did. Though maybe I should have said less of a consumptive society. Get it? – Got it. But you have to appeal to final causes again. – Final causes? – Of course! What else can we do?! – I suppose you’re going to say that Heaven is a final cause. And don’t these images all point to a final cause? – Yes, I believe they do. Indeed, they do. But a false final cause. The final cause that I have in mind is an activity, not mere sensation or satisfaction. All that glitters is not gold, my friend!32 – All that glitters is not gold! Why didn’t I think of that? You have a clever way with words, my friend. – Why, thank you, my friend! You’re too kind. – Back to activity, please. What about activity? – That we act in accordance with the cosmos and its systems. Or rather in accordance with the cosmoses. I mean, cosmoi. – Oh, cosmoi! Or quasimoi? – Well, quasimoi sometimes. All too often, in fact. But preferably cosmoi. – Yes, preferably cosmoi. – When our activity accords with the cosmoi, we are happy. – Happy? – Yes, if we act for the sake of our action itself. 31

32

Annas thinks that images, represented by the divided line in its lowest segment, do not play a large part in our lives (Introduction 10. 248–249, 250–251). I beg to differ. We have become so accustomed to them that we can easily overlook their ubiquity. In contemporary society with its mass media, images of all sorts inundate us daily and all but overwhelm us. There are radio, television, records, photographs, videos, movies, and now compact disks, digital video disks, and the Internet, not to mention newspapers, magazines, journals, and books. One might also add conversations, discussions, lectures, letters, telephones, including cellular phones, and e-mail. And I almost forgot the fine arts! See Judgement 1. 1. 2–3. 205–207.

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– For the sake of our action itself? – Yes! To cosmic action! – Cosmic action?! 7. – Oedipus Rex! – Oedipus Rex?! Now, there’s a happy camper! Good god, man! What’s he got to do with it? Why raise his ghost? – Oedipus Rex is much less interesting than Oedipus at Colonus, don’t you see. – Oh, by all means. No doubt about it. What the Devil are you jammering about? – Ol’ Eddie was a philodoxer, you see. A philodoxer’s philodoxer, you might say. – A philodoxer’s philodoxer? – In his youth, I mean! – Oh, yes, in his youth! What? – Yes. He thought he knew what he was doing! – He thought he knew what he was doing. But he didn’t? – No, not at all! That’s why he flubbed up. – Flubbed up? You mean, * * * * * * up, don’t you! Get it? – That’s why Freud is wrong! Pleasure had little to do with it. Eddie got a little hot-tempered when he killed the old man maybe. But he never really lusted after the old lady. He didn’t lose control. Except maybe when he poked his eyes out. But what a metaphor! – No, he didn’t! But wait! Freud was wrong, then? – Poetic license, you see. – Poetic license, you see? – That’s why Oedipus at Colonus is the better play. The old boy simply wants to curl up and die. Which is all we all can do. Ultimately, I mean. Between now and then we can always enjoy a sip of whisky with a friend. But he also knows that we don’t know anything! And if we did, he knows it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.33 – He knows it wouldn’t make any difference. – Opines, I mean. And he’s surrounded by all those infernal relatives who inherited his worst philodoxastical tendencies! Bury his body in the backyard, that’s what they want.

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Dodds would agree about “this vision of man’s estate” in Oedipus at Colonus, though he makes no mention of philodoxy. He takes note of Oedipus’ “bitter conclusion from his life’s experience” and “the famous ode on old age,” which alludes to Silenus. He finds the play worthy of Samuel Beckett (Progress 4. 77)!

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Good god! What a thought! Philodoxers in the family!34 I’ll say! But there’s more! There’s more! Yes! Eddie answered the Sphinx correctly. But he didn’t understand his answer! He didn’t? Why didn’t the Sphinx clobber him then? She surely clobbered all those other poor souls. Or so they say. Why she didn’t clobber him? I don’t know why. But I do know that the three stages of life are sentiency, philodoxy, and philosophy! That I do know! To philodoxy! Philodoxy? I mean, to philosophy! To philosophy! Wait! Wait! What Sophocles is saying is that we’re all * * * * * * * * * ** * *! Easy, man. Not so loud. Oops, I’m sorry. I’m getting carried away. It’s too early to be communing with spirits. It’s not so early. Especially ones that come in bottles. It’s almost noon already. But I’m beginning to feel it. Well, it was funny enough. I wouldn’t feel too bad. Another shot or two will wash your sins away. We’d better forget about your Sphinx. And I’d better answer to my sphincter. Before it clobbers me! 8.

And so ended our symposium and my sabbatical. I was about to say that I shall miss you, dear reader. But I imagine that I shall conjure you up again ere long for another sojourn, if you don’t mind. ’Til then, fare thee well! 34

Williams approaches the concept of philodoxy in the pejorative sense, but he does not quite grasp it. He argues more specifically that Oedipus is responsible for an action that he both did and did not do. What one has done, not merely what one has intentionally done, exercises its authority over us (Shame 3. 68–72).

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Select Bibliography of Works Cited or Consulted

Annas, Julia. An Introduction to Plato’s Republic. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981. “Being Virtuous and Doing the Right Thing.” Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association, vol. 78 (2004), pp. 61–75. Anscombe, G. E. M. “Thought and Action in Aristotle.” Bambrough, Renford, ed. New Essays on Plato and Aristotle, pp. 143–158. New York: Humanities Press, 1965. Bagg, Robert, trans. The Oedipus Plays of Sophocles. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2004. Baier, Annette C. A Progress of Sentiments. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991. Bellah, Robert N., Richard Madsen, William M. Sullivan, Ann Swidler, and Steven M. Tipton. Habits of the Heart. Updated ed. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996. Bloom, Allan, trans. The Republic of Plato. 2nd ed. [New York]: Basic Books, 1968. Bradley, F. H. Ethical Studies. 2nd ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1927. Brennan, Bernard P. The Ethics of William James. New York: Bookman Associates, 1961. Brickhouse, Thomas C., and Nicholas D. Smith. Socrates on Trial. 2nd printing with corrections. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990. Brukhardt, Frederick H., Fredson Bowers, and Ignas K. Skrupskelis, eds. The Works of William James. 19 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975–1988. Bury, R. G., trans. Plato: Timaeus, Critias, Cleitophon, Menexenus, Epistles. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1929. Callicott, J. Baird. In Defense of the Land Ethic. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989. Cook, Harold P. and Hugh Tredennick, trans. Aristotle: The Categories, On Interpretation, Prior Analytics. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1938. Cooper, John M., ed., and D. S. Jutchinson, assoc. ed. Plato: Complete Works. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1997. Cornford, Francis MacDonald, trans. and comm. Plato’s Cosmology. Original English ed. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., [1957]. Dawkins, Richard. The Blind Watchmaker . New ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1996. 289

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Dennett, Daniel C. Darwin’s Dangerous Idea. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1995. Elbow Room. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1984. Dewey, John. How We Think. New ed. Lexington, Mass.: D. C. Heath and Company, 1933. Dodds, E. R. The Ancient Concept of Progress. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973. Plato: Gorgias. Rev. text. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959. Dover, Kenneth, ed. Plato: Symposium. Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980. Durrell, Lawrence. The Alexandria Quartet. 4 vols. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1961. Einstein, Albert, and Leopold Infeld. The Evolution of Physics. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1938. Engstrom, Stephen, and Jennifer Whiting, eds. Aristotle, Kant, and the Stoics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Foot, Philippa. Natural Goodness. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001. Virtues and Vices. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978. Fowler, Harold N. and W. R. M. Lamm, trans. Plato: The Statesman, Philebus, Ion. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1925. Fowler, Harold North, trans. Plato: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1914. Freese, John Henry, trans. Aristotle: The “Art” of Rhetoric. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1926. Fyfe, Hamilton W., and W. Rhys Roberts, trans. Aristotle: Poetics, Longinus: On the Sublime, Demetrius: On Style. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1927. Gaskin, J. C. A., ed. David Hume: Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion and The Natural History of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993. Gould, Stephen Jay. Wonderful Life. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1989. Griswold, Charles L., Jr. Self-Knowledge in Plato’s Phaedrus. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1986. Hawking, Stephen. A Brief History of Time. Updated ed. New York: Bantam Books, 1998. Hill, Thomas E., Jr. Dignity and Practical Reason in Kant’s Moral Theory. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1992. Hudson, Hud. Kant’s Compatibilism. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1994. Hume, David. Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding and Concerning the Principles of Morals. L. A. Selby-Bigge, ed. 3rd ed. P. H. Nidditch, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975. A Treatise of Human Nature. L. A. Selby-Bigge, ed. 2nd ed. P. H. Nidditch, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978. Irwin, Terence. Plato’s Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Irwin, Terence, trans. Plato: Gorgias. Clarendon Plato Series. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979. [Jackson, Michael.] Michael Jackson’s Guide to Single Malt Scotch. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: Running Press, 1991. James, William. Essays in Radical Empiricism. 1912 ed. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996.

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A Pluralistic Universe. 1909 ed. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996. Pragmatism. New York: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1916. The Principles of Psychology. 1890 ed. 2 vols. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1950. The Will to Believe. 1st ed. Human Immortality. 2nd ed. [New York]: Dover Publications, Inc., 1956. Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Judgement. James Creed Meredith, trans. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952. Critique of Practical Reason. Mary Gregor, trans. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals. James W. Ellington, trans. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1981. Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics. Gary Hatfield, trans. and ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone. Theodore M. Greene and Hoyt H. Hudson, trans. 1934 ed. with corrections and revisions. New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1960. K¨oniglich Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, eds. Kants Werke. 1902–1923 ed. 9 vols. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1968. Korsgaard, Christine M. Creating the Kingdom of Ends. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Lamb, W. R. M. Plato: Laches, Protagoras, Meno, Euthydemus. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1924. Plato: Lysis, Symposium, Gorgias. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1925. Leighton, Stephen. “The Mean Relative to Us.” Richard Bosley, Roger A. Shiner, and Janet D. Sisson, eds. Aristotle, Virtue, and the Mean, pp. 67–78. Edmonton: Academic Printing & Publishing, 1996. Leopold, Aldo. A Sand County Almanac. New York: Oxford University Press, 1949. Levi, Edward H. An Introduction to Legal Reasoning . Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949. Louden, Robert B. Kant’s Impure Ethics. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. Lovelock, J. E. The Ages of Gaia. New York: Bantam Books, 1990. Gaia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979. MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue. 2nd ed. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984. Maxwell, J. Clerk. Matter and Motion. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., [1952]. McDowell, John. “Eudaimonism and Realism in Aristotle’s Ethics.” Robert Heinaman, ed. Aristotle and Moral Realism, pp. 201–218. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1995. Mind and World. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1996. Mind, Value, and Reality. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998. McKeon, Richard, ed. The Basic Works of Aristotle. New York: Random House, Inc., 1941. Millgram, Elijah. Practical Induction. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997. Myers, Gerald E. William James. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986.

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Nagel, Thomas. The View from Nowhere. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. Nussbaum, Martha C. The Fragility of Goodness. Revised ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Poetic Justice. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995. O’Neill, Onora. Constructions of Reason. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Perl, Eric D. “The Demiurge and the Forms.” Ancient Philosophy, vol. 18 (1998), pp. 81–92. Plato. Gorgias. W. C. Helmbold, trans. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1952. Phaedrus. W. C. Helmbold and W. G. Rabinowitz, trans. Indianapolis: The BobbsMerrill Company, Inc., 1956. The Republic. A. D. Lindsay, trans., and Terence Irwin, ed. Rutland, Vt.: Charles E. Tuttle, 1992. Timaeus. John Warrington, ed. and trans. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1963. Popkin, Richard H., ed. David Hume: Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 1980. Popper, Karl. The Open Society and Its Enemies. 5th ed. 2 vols. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1966. Quine, W. V. Ontological Relativity and Other Essays. New York: Columbia University Press, 1969. Rackham, H., trans. Aristotle: The Nicomachean Ethics. New and revised ed. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1938. Raz, Joseph, ed. Practical Reasoning . Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978. Rolston, Holmes, III. Genes, Genesis, and God. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Philosophy Gone Wild. Buffalo, N.Y.: Prometheus Books, 1986. Rosen, Stanley. Plato’s Symposium. 2nd ed. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1987. Roth, John K. Freedom and the Moral Life. Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1969. Shorey, Paul. The Idea of the Good in Plato’s Republic. A Committee Representing the Departments of Greek, Latin, Archeology, and Comparative Philology, eds. The University of Chicago Studies in Classical Philology, vol. 1, pp. 188–239. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1895. Shorey, Paul, trans. Plato: The Republic. 2 vols. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1935. Slote, Michael. Morals from Motives. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Smart, J. J. C. “The Existence of God.” Donald R. Burrill, ed. The Cosmological Arguments, pp. 255–278. New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1967. Stevens, Wallace. “A Collect of Philosophy.” Milton J. Bates, ed. Opus Posthumous, pp. 267–280. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989. The Necessary Angel. New York: Random House, Inc., 1951. Storr, F., trans. Sophocles: Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus, Antigone. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1912. Suckiel, Ellen Kappy. Heaven’s Champion. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1996. The Pragmatic Philosophy of William James. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1982.

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Tait, W. W. “Noˆesis: Plato on Exact Science.” David B. Malament, ed. Reading Natural Philosophy, pp. 11–30. Chicago: Open Court, 2002. Tredennick, Hugh, and E. S. Forster, trans. Aristotle: Posterior Analytics, Topica. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960. Vlastos, Gregory. Platonic Studies. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1973. Plato’s Universe. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1975. Socratic Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Watson, Gary, ed. Free Will. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Wick, Warner A. “Truth’s Debt to Freedom.” Mind, n. s., vol. 73 (1964), pp. 527–537. Wicksteed, Philip H., and Francis M. Cornford, trans. Aristotle: The Physics. 2 vols. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1929. Wiggins, David. “Categorical Requirements.” Monist, vol. 74 (1991), pp. 83–106. “Teleology and the Good in Plato’s Phaedo.” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, vol. 4 (1986), pp. 1–18. Williams, Bernard. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985. Shame and Necessity. Berkeley: California University Press, 1993.

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Index

accident, sublime, 281–282 Alcibiades Socrates, figurines within, 28–29 Socrates, hubristic, 110–112 animal, hypothesizing, 72, 142 Annas, Julia activity, rational, 88n27 good, the, 10n11 happiness, 89–90n28 hypothesis, 5n5 images, 286n31 knowledge, theoretical, 89n28 knowledge and opinion, 38n8 nature, human, 85n23 virtue, 256–257n18 Anscombe, G. E. M., 113n56 argument, cosmological abbreviated, 201 god, postulate of, 221–222 knowledge and opinion, 202–203 mercantilism, 231–232 moral and natural, 223 See also Hume, David; Kant, Immanuel; Socrates argument, mythological, 234–235 Aristotle concept, prior by nature and prior to us, 140 dialectic and rhetoric, 43 enthymeme and example, 42–43, 56–57 example, argument by, 45–48 history, fable, parable, 58–59, 278–279 history, poetry, philosophy, 60 intellect, theoretical and practical, 254, 258–260 justice, 252–253 mean, the, 251–253 nature, principle of, 142, 162 necessity, hypothetical, 161–162

necessity, hypothetical and mathematical, 181–183 probabilities and signs, 61–62 probability, 182–183, 184 rhetoric, power, 41–43 teleology, 163 virtue, unity, 258–260 Baier, Annette, 117n1 Bradley, F. H., 131n16, 132n18, 281n21 Brennan, Bernard P., 23n24 Brickhouse, Thomas C., and Nicholas D. Smith, 6n8, 27n27 bulb, electric, 192 Burns, Robert, 275n2 Callicles freedom, 124 goodness and pleasure, 125–126 greed, 236, 249 happiness, 94–95, 124 nature, human, 97 philosophy and experience, 40 Callicott, J. Baird, 224n34 Chisholm, Roderick M., 142n30 Cornford, Francis MacDonald, 198n8, 199n11, 200n13 cosmology. See argument, cosmological; god or gods; Timaeus; universe countenance, familiar, 68 courage, epistemological and ontological, 148–149 daimon bestial, 244 cognitive and conative, 73–74 conceptual and perceptual, 30–31 daimonology, 225 dialectical and rhetorical, 34, 44, 73–74

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296 daimon (cont.) epistemic and doxastic, 33–34 happiness, 113 love, 73–74, 133 See also Diotima; Socrates; Timaeus dance, variety of, 168 Dawkins, Richard biomorphs, 200n12 monkeys, 150n37 selection, cumulative, 150n37 space, genetic, 201n14 Dennett, Daniel C. discrimination, right, 148n35 elbowroom, 134n20 example, 59n26 generator, pseudo-random, 130n14 humanism, secular, 185n25 language, 64n35 method, 40n11 rationality, 112n54 rhetoric, 47n17 skyhook and crane, 204n18 soul, tripartite, 82–83n20 desire, intellectual and physical, 130–133 dialectic and rhetoric analytic and synthetic, 278–279 concepts and percepts, 59–61 irrational, 64 powers and domains, 37–38, 44 self-knowledge, 44 Diotima daimon, 70 demiurge, immortality, 200 desire, 131 happiness, 69–76 immortality, 74–75 ladder of loves, 76–77 love, 70–73, 74–75 love, allegory of, 133 Dodds, E. R., 94n32, 99n37, 287n33 Dover, Kenneth, 28n29, 29n30, 74n9, 111n53 Engstrom, Stephen, 106–107n48 example, argument by. See Aristotle; experience; method, experimental or pragmatic experience conceptual and perceptual, 18 dialectical and rhetorical, 55 example, argument by, 54–55 knowledge and opinion, 14 See also James, William; rhetoric experience, religious, 217–219 See also James, William; Socrates Foot, Philippa activity, rational, 81n19 animals, 186n27

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Index antinomy, practical, 143n31 ecosystem, 207n23 goodness and rationality, 159n7 happiness, 81–82n19 imperative, categorical and hypothetical, 159n7 life, species, 81–82n19, 102n43 necessity, Aristotelian, 164n12 rationality, human, 82n19, 154n1 soul, tripartite, 82n19 speech, 64n35 virtue, 247n11 will, free, 134n21 freedom or liberty absolute and relative, 114–115, 136 antinomy of, 141–145 circle, eleutheric, 138–140 example, argument by, 134 happiness, 115, 116, 129 liberty of indifference, 114–115, 133–134 liberty of spontaneity, 114–115, 133–134 melioristic, 150–151 method, experimental or pragmatic, 116 positive and negative, 136 postulate of, 145–146 power to engage in rational activity, 133–134 rational and passional, 129–130 spontaneity, 138–139 transcendental and immanent, 222 See also Callicles; Gorgias; Hume, David; James, William; Kant, Immanuel; Polus; Socrates Gaskin, J. C. A., 228n39 god or gods cause, final, 281 daimonology, 225 enmattered, 212 eternal and ephemeral, 201–203 Gaia, 206 imperative, moral, 207 montheism and polytheism, 208 pantheism, 225 postulate of, 235 religion, objective and pluralistic, 207–208 retribution, 226 teleology, hypothesized, 208 transcendental and empirical, 222 whole, organic, 207–208 See also James, William; mover, unmoved and self-moved; Timaeus goodness, human. See happiness Gorgias dialectic and rhetoric, 37 knowledge and opinion, 37 liberty of spontaneity, 129 rhetoric, power, 34–35, 128

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Index Gould, Stephen Jay, 204n18 Griswold, Charles L., Jr. argument, cosmological, 203n17 lover and beloved, 205n19 soul, idea of, 240n4 soul, self-motion, 242n7 soul, teleology, 195n3, 248n12 soul, unity, 242n6 happiness activity, intellectual or rational, 68–69, 78, 105–106, 108 activity, organic, 78–82 activity, philosophical, 88–91 cosmic, 286–287 daimonic, 78 eternal and ephemeral, 74–76 freedom, 115 goodness, human, 69–78 method, experimental or pragmatic, 91–92, 103 nature, human, 97, 102 principles of, 83–86 reason, empirical, 108–110 unity and plurality, 261–262, 263 value, intrinsic and instrumental, 86–88, 94–103, 156–157 value, objective and subjective, 91–103 See also Callicles; Diotima; freedom or liberty; imperative or obligation; James, William; Kant, Immanuel; Socrates; universe Hawking, Stephen chance, lucky, 203–204n18 earth, the, 224n33 universe, no boundary for, 203n18 Hill, Thomas E., Jr. freedom, negative, 140n28 imperative, categorical, 158n5 imperative, categorical and hypothetical, 155n3 self, noumenal, 138n25 value, source of, 158n6 will, free, 136n23 hubris ineradicable, 110–113 rational and passional, 112–113 Hudson, Hud, 138n25 Hume, David argument, cosmological, 226–234 chance, 119 god, contingent, 227–229 god, existence, 228 happiness, 107–108 liberty of indifference, 117 liberty of spontaneity, 118, 120 mercantilism, 231–232 nature, human, 109 necessity, 181, 182–183, 184

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probability, 183 reason and passion, 115–118 sympathy, 108, 185, 186 Timaeus, 229 universe, soul of, 228–229 will, 116–117, 187, 188 hypothesis cause, efficient, 134 cause, final, 164 cause, formal, 78 cognitive and conative, 175–176 conceptual and perceptual, 8–14 daimonic, 78 desire, 71–72 freedom, 115, 134, 136 habit, moral, 239 happiness, 85–86 law, moral, 136 moral, 174–175 regulative and constitutive, 144, 170, 177–178 understanding and reasoning, 15 See also James, William; knowledge, moral; method, experimental or pragmatic; Socrates imperative or obligation categorical and hypothetical, 159– 160 comprehensive and common, 186 end, empirical and moral, 168–170 essential and accidental, 164–166 function, rational, 154–168 happiness, 152–153, 167–168 mysterious, 189–191 nature, rational, 154–168 necessity, hypothetical, 160–163 proximate, 152 synthetic, 140–141 See also god or gods insanity. See madness or insanity irrationality, irrefragable, 64 Irwin, Terence desire, rational, 88n27 good, the, 10n12, 13n15 happiness, 96n35 hedonism, 123n8 hypothesis, 5n5 jars, myth of, 99n37 philodoxer, 39n10 rhetoric, 37n7, 95n33 virtue, 258n20 James, William action, reflex theory of, 118 chance, 118–120, 188 craziness, 276 experience, 11–13, 54–55 experience, religious, 217

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Index

James, William (cont.) freedom, indeterminate, 118–120 freedom, positive and negative, 120 god, identification with, 212–213 god, reflex theory of, 214 god, superhuman, 211–212 habit, moral, 264, 265 habit, unity, 266–267 happiness, 93–94, 264–265 hypothesis, agnostic and gnostic, 175 hypothesis, live and dead, 23–24 hypothesis, perceptual, 8 hypothesis, understanding and reasoning, 14–15 immortality, 179 imperative, 172–173 knowledge, absolute and empirical, 22–23 knowledge, passional, 23–24, 98 knowledge and opinion, 14 liberty of indifference, 120 liberty of spontaneity, 120 mean, the, 264, 265–266 method, pragmatic, 48–51 nature, human, 97 nature, sentient, 171–172 poetry, 280–281 polytheism, 219 rhetoric, 280 self-knowledge, 14 soul, nominal entity, 214–215 teleology, objective and subjective, 209 teleology, passional, 92–93, 101, 173–174, 179–180 teleology, problematic, 180 thing, how two people know, 268–270 thing, relations of, 267–268 truth, pragmatic, 49–51 universe, paradigm for, 209–211 universe, pluralistic, 209 universe, sympathy with, 215–216 universe, unity, 213 whole, organic, 15–16 justice. See Aristotle; Socrates justice, mythological, 235 Kant, Immanuel activity, rational, 103–105 argument, cosmological, 219–221, 232–234 circle, eleutheric, 137–138 concept, regulative and constitutive, 170 critique, 278 daemonology, 225 end, empirical, 169–170 freedom, absolute, 135–136 freedom, antinomy of, 141 freedom, positive and negative, 134–135, 145

freedom, postulate of, 145 function, rational, 157–158 god, postulate of, 220 happiness, 107–108 idea, regulative and constitutive, 144, 177 imperative, categorical and hypothetical, 155–156, 157–158, 166 imperative, synthetic, 140 mercantilism, 233–234 morality and happiness, 153–154, 156–157 nature, human, 109 nature, rational, 153–156, 186 necessity, categorical and hypothetical, 163, 164–165 pantheism, 225 reason, functions of, 106 self-legislation, 157–158 soul, postulate of, 177 spontaneity, 137–138 sublimity, 283 teleology, moral, 219–220, 226 teleology, moral and natural, 219 teleology, natural, 220–221 universe, final end of, 223–224 will, 154–155 will, good, 103–104 knowledge, moral, 18–28 Korsgaard, Christine M. freedom, standpoint of, 138n25 knowledge, theoretical, 91n29 principle, organizing, 164n13 reason, fact of, 105n47 reason, theoretical and practical, 107n48 spontaneity, 142n30 value, conferring of, 156n4 Lagavulin, 277 Leighton, Stephen, 252n14 Leopold, Aldo, 206n22 Levi, Edward H., 58n24 liberty. See freedom or liberty life. See Socrates; teleology; universe Louden, Robert B., 189n28 love, hypothesizing spirit, 72 See also daimon; Diotima; Socrates Lovelock, J. E., 193n1, 197n6, 206n22 MacIntyre, Alasdair animal, story-telling, 72n2 identity, social, 85n24 narrative, 59n27, 64–65n36, 271–272n29 practice, 87–88n26, 260n24 quest, 86n25 tradition, 63n34 virtue, 63n34, 86n25, 256n17 madness or insanity divine and human, 272–273, 279 morality, human, 272–273

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Index philosophy, poetry, prophesy, purgation, 274–276, 277–281 religious and rhetorical, 277–278 McDowell, John code, moral, 57n23 imperative, categorical, 167–168n17 language, 64n35 naturalism, bald, 80n16 nature, enchanted, 196n5 obligation, refinement of, 86n25 platonism, rampant, 93n30 sensiblity, natural, 260n23 spontaneity, 139n26 state, orectic, 132n18 tradition, 58n24, 59n26 upbringing, 245–246n10 virtue, 247n11 mean, the allegorical, 263–264 equality, geometric, 248–255 example, argument by, 253–255, 262–263 profundity of, 253–255, 262–263 unity and plurality, 263 See also virtue method, experimental or pragmatic example, argument by, 44–53 happiness, 91–92, 103 self-knowledge, 32–33, 57–59 See also James, William Millgram, Elijah, 56n22 Milo, 252, 255 monkeys at typewriters, 114, 149–150 mover, unmoved and self-moved eternal and temporal, 234 multitude of, 209 necessary and contingent, 201–203, 281 universe, 193, 201–203 Myers, Gerald E. consciousness, stream of, 270n28 desire, 173n20 metaphysics, irrational, 210–211n26 objects, relations among, 16n19 reason, 121n6 relations of ideas and matters of fact, 17n20 that, undifferentiated, 12–13n14 myth divine, 236–237 good and bad, 279 sublime, 234, 235 Nagel, Thomas antinomy, practical, 143n31 art, mensural, 122n7 death, 208–209n25 deontology, 158n6, 165n14

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example, 52n19 faculty, a priori, 144n32 freedom, human, 144n32 hypothesis, normative, 33n2 individual, persisting, 178n22 method, 44n15 mind, 196n5 objectivity and subjectivity, 94n31, 97n36, 102n44, 119n4, 143n31 rationalism, a priori, 15n17 realism, normative, 82n20 reason, agent-neutral and agent-relative, 165n14 skepticism, heroic, 13n16 standpoint, universalistic, 43n14 truth, eternal and nonlocal, 37n7 understanding, 5n4 nature, human cause, internal, 142 See also will, free necessity, hypothetical essential and accidental, 160–163, 184–185 habit, mental, 183 Nussbaum, Martha C. action, voluntary, 142–143n30 Alcibiades, 111n52, 112n54 art of measurement, 123n8 desire, 142–143n30 example, 59n25 goods, intrinsic and instrumental, 89n28 knowledge, practical, 42n13 knowledge, theoretical, 62n33 love, 77n12, 239n2 madness, 244n9 passion, 247n11 philosopher, 111n51 obligation. See imperative Oedipus. See Sophocles O’Neill, Onora beings, noumenal, 138n25 example, 53n20 imperative, categorical, 158n5 rationality, 104n46 oracle, Delphic KNOW THYSELF, 1, 3, 7, 29–30, 68 NOTHING IN EXCESS, 1, 239, 241–242, 248 See also Socrates pandaimonium, 219 Perl, Eric D., 199n10 philosophy and philodoxy, 64–67, 235–236, 285, 288 See also Socrates philosophy and rhetoric. See dialectic and rhetoric

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July 21, 2006

Index

Plato cave, allegory of, 276, 283, 285–286 charioteer, myth of, 239–248 divided line, figure of, 4–5, 245, 263 jars, myth of, 97–101 sun, simile of, 9–11, 13 See also Diotima; Gorgias; Socrates; Timaeus; et al. poetry comedy, 285 sublimity, 283 tragedy, 283–285 Polus, 127, 128 Popkin, Richard H., 230n41, 231n42 Popper, Karl, 21n21 pragmatism daimonic and radical, 31 rhetorical, 53–64 Protagoras, 121–124 Quine, W. V., 66n37, 278 Raz, Joseph, 56n22 rhetoric experience, 54–55 happiness, 129, 236 imperative, essential and accidental, 166–167 knowledge and opinion, 34–36 liberty of indifference, 126–129 liberty of spontaneity, 129 myth, 279 opinion, objective and subjective, 40–43, 61–63 power, 36 pragmatic, 53–64 self-knowledge, 33, 53–64 techniques, deductive and inductive, 41–43 truth, necessary and contingent, 39 See also Aristotle; dialectic and rhetoric; Gorgias; Socrates Rolston, Holmes, III creation, soft, 204n18 land ethic, 206n22 value, instrinsic, 224n34 Rosen, Stanley beauty, 73n4, 76n12 goodness, 73n4 love, 72–73n3, 73n4 soul, 72–73n3 Roth, John K., 118n3, 173n20 self-knowledge. See James, William; method, experimental or pragmatic; oracle, Delphic; rhetoric; Socrates Shorey, Paul, 7n8, 38n8, 80n17

Silenus, 28–29 Slote, Michael action, good, 80n17 benevolence, 173n20 reason, practical, 259n22 self-interest, 168n17 virtue, 250–251n13, 254n16 Smart, J. J. C., 203 Smith, Nicholas D. See Brickhouse, Thomas C., and Nicholas D. Smith Socrates argument, cosmological, 200–201 argument, divine and human, 27 art of measurement, 121–124, 125–126 daimon, 18–22, 30–31, 34, 71–72, 160–161, 243 death, 24–26, 97–101, 218–219 desire, intellectual and physical, 130–131 dialectic and rhetoric, 35–36, 40–41 discourse, divine and human, 240 experience, religious, 218–219 freedom, 121–130 goodness and pleasure, 125–126 happiness, 79–81, 87–88, 96, 98–101, 125–126, 205, 236, 249–250 hubris, 110–111 hypothesis, conceptual, 9–11 hypothesis, test of, 20–22 hypothesis, understanding and reasoning, 4–5 justice, 18–22, 79–81, 83–84, 87–88, 89–91, 236, 249–251, 257–258 knowledge and opinion, 9–11, 35–36, 38–39, 40–41 knowledge and pleasure, 121–124 knowledge, divine and human, 3–7, 22–23 knowledge, moral, 18–22 knowledge, rational, 24–26 liberty of indifference, 127–128 life, self-motion, 194–197 life, unexamined, 2–8 love, 71–72, 205, 239–245 mean, the, 249–251 necessity, hypothetical, 160–161 oracle, Delphic, 2–3, 20 philosophy and philodoxy, 38, 64–66, 67 pleasure, mental and physical, 132 reason and passion, 121–130 recollection, 240–241, 242, 243 rhetoric, art and routine, 95–97, 98–101 rhetoric, power, 34, 35–36, 126–128 self-knowledge, 7 soul, ascent of, 244–248 soul, idea of, 240–248 soul, immortality, 78, 200–201

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Index soul, self-motion, 194–197, 242, 247–248 virtue, unity, 257–258 Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus, 287–288 Oedipus Rex, 1, 287 soul immortality, 178–179, 198–203 postulate of, 177–178 significance, pragmatic, 215 teleology, 195, 196, 214–215 See also James, William; Kant, Immanuel; Socrates; Timaeus Sphinx, 288 Stevens, Wallace, 235n44, 245n10, 279n17 Strawson, Peter, 118n2 Suckiel, Ellen Kappy belief, passional, 27–28n28 experience, spiritual, 218n30 truth, 55–56n21 values, unperceived, 101–102n42 Swenson, William G., 138n25 Tait, W. W., 5n6, 41n12 teleology causes, famous four, 163 circle, eleutheric, 140 eternal and ephemeral, 130 freedom, 115, 134 life, 194 mean, the, 255 method, experimental or pragmatic, 92, 103 moral and divinelike, 205 moral and mortal, 78 moral and natural, 164, 223 mysterious, 145 natural, 180 nature, 171 problematic, 180–181 rational and passional, 120, 130, 180, 186 transcedental and immanent, 144 See also god or gods; soul; universe television, uninspired watching of, 152, 191 temperance, epistemological and ontological, 189 Timaeus daimon, 205–206 demiurge, 197–198 gods, ever existing and one day existing, 198–200 soul, immortality, 198–200 universe, life, 197–198 universe, soul, 197

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301

universe divinity, mysterious, 193 final end of, 224–225 happiness, 194, 204–206 life, 193–197 sympathy with, 216–217 teleology, contingent, 193–194, 234 teleology, monistic and pluralistic, 214 teleology, rational, 196–197, 198 See also James, William; mover, unmoved and self-moved; Timaeus virtue habit, approximate, 238 habit, moderate, 255–256 unity and plurality, 256–261, 262 See also mean, the Vlastos, Gregory knowledge, certain and elenctic, 6n8, 21n22 love, 76–77n12 scheme, metaphysical, 198n8 Warrington, John, 199n11 whisky accident, sublime, 281–282 experience, spiritual, 280 imaginary, 276–277 late glass of, 68 sip of, 131 whole, organic conceptual and perceptual, 16–17 how known in many ways, 270–272 universe, 213–214 virtue, 268 See also god or gods Wiggins, David, 161n9, 185–186n26 will, free cause, efficient and final, 170 cause, formal, 144 cause, internal, 171, 187 content, 187–188 self-activity, 138–139 spontaneity, 138–139 transcendental and immanent, 144 uncaused and self-caused, 187, 188–189 See also freedom or liberty; Hume, David; imperative or obligation; Kant, Immanuel Williams, Bernard activity, rational, 88n26 agent, rational, 168n18 desire, categorical, 160n8, 163–164n11 disposition, acquired, 93n30 duty, moral, 167n16 ethics, objective, 86n25

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302 Williams, Bernard (cont.) freedom, positive and negative, 133n19 freedom, rational, 133n19, 136–137n24 god, supernatural, 206–207n22 habit, moral, 259n21 imperative, categorical and hypothetical, 167n16 loyalty, 23n25, 36n6 necessity, practical, 163n10

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Index Oedipus, 288n34 perception, 86n25 psychology, 79–80n16, 248n12 purpose, supernatural, 226n36 shame, 167n16, 247n11 society, hypertraditional, 36n6 standpoint, universalistic, 43n14 tragedy, 285n30 Williams, Michael Jay, 1n1

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