It simply doesn't follow

There seems to be a style of argument current among avowed liberals who nonetheless want to defend drone strikes no matter how many innocents—perhaps redefined as combatants by fiat—are killed or how effective drones might be in stirring up hatred and, thus, more terrorism. The structure of the argument is something like this: It is better to kill some people, including innocents, in a drone strike than it would be to invade a country and kill many thousands. In other words, better drone strikes than another Iraq or Afghanistan. And, better not just because it means fewer American lives lost—though I suspect this is the real issue—but because it means fewer Pakistani or Yemeni or Afghani lives lost as well. 

It does seem that such an argument has the point of being right about it being less bad to kill a few hundred in drone strikes than several thousand in an invasion. So, at least in this sense, the argument is correct that this is better.

There is a lot more that could be said about this kind of argument. But let me say just this: It is surely less bad—and therefore better—to cut off someone's hand than it is to murder him. It is surely better to kill five than it is to kill seven. In terms of overall murders we might have to count Hitler as less bad—better?—than Stalin or Mao. But, it simply does not follow that because x is less bad or better than y that it is good. To be better than something horrid does not make something good. I'd rather have stage two cancer than stage three, but neither one is good.

And, to make this kind of argument doesn't make a person subtle or a deeper thinker. It just makes one the sort of practitioner of Realpolitik exemplified by Kissinger, that is, the sort of person who can justify the murder of many innocents because, ultimately, some good will be achieved or might be. What are a few thousand Latin Americans or Cambodians or Vietnamese if Communism is defeated? What are a few thousand Muslims if the American homeland is safer—is it?

So, if this kind of argument appeals to you, feel free to think that I am not a realist, but I think I'd rather not be.

Don't rise to the bait

I have more vices than it does any good to list, except when I am home doing my examination of conscience and trying to decide whether to resign the papacy or not. One of these vices, in particular, seems to be shared by a growing number of people. Or, at the very least is more in evidence than it used to be, as we interact and argue more and more in the virtual world: in comment threads, via Twitter, Facebook, and the like.

There are the run of the mill vices of being an ass online, of addressing people in a way that one never if that person had to be faced. And, there are real reasons to avoid those vices, and the vices of turning a discussion or argument into point-scoring, one that arises much too often in face-to-face argument, too—and, one of which I have too often been guilty. There is the vice of being an online or in-person troll.

But, it is just as vicious to rise to the bait that the troll offers. Quite apart from the way that this feeds the troll and encourages him to continue engaging in his behavior, it speaks poorly of me if I let myself be goaded. Why do I feel the need to respond? Of course, there is value in advancing a discussion. This might sometimes require correcting someone. Sometimes. But, that isn't what is usually going on. It is usually what I tell myself I'm doing; without self-delusion I wouldn't be fully human.

It might be a very different phenomenon for others. In my own case, I am doing one of two things. Sometimes, I am really no better than the troll herself. The reason I rise to the bait is because I want to win. I want to defeat the other person and be recognized as right. I am doing the same thing the troll is, except the troll is usually more disinterested than I am. It is very important to me that I win and less so for the troll. To exactly that degree and in that respect, the troll is less vicious than I am. 

In other cases, I want to demonstrate to the other person that I understand what is going on, that I have something to offer, that I am intelligent, or something else. But, then I still want to prove something to someone, but someone who by my own judgment is not trying to forward an argument. So, here is a person that I have decided isn't engaged in the same activity I am, who isn't that interested in the same thing I claim to be interested in, and I am worried about how I appear in their eyes.

So, it appears that my self-esteem is so low that I need validation from people that I don't know and who I judge to be rather an ass—this may well be true, but it doesn't speak well of me. That can be nothing other than vicious. 

Or, I am not anymore interested in truth than my opponent. And, we are right back to the first problem.

I like to repeat to myself: Aut tace aut loquere meliora silentio.

Sometimes, we all need to practice that; it's the virtuous thing to do, even if it lets others think they have won the argument. What, really, have they won?

Why does Aristotle have to be so bad on human nature?

Yesterday I finished up my discussion of Aristotle in two of this semester's classes. I am sympathetic to much in the Aristotelian tradition. So, I always try to make him appealing; there is a lot to say in favor of his ethical theory and his theory of the soul comports much more with modern thought and scientific accounts of the place of humans in the animal kingdom than theories of much more recent thinkers. In short, I like him a lot. And, I think he has a lot to offer my students.

But, if we are going to talk about Aristotle's view of human nature, we have to talk about the dark side of his view, too. This is a thinker who thought that women—being men who hadn't fully formed—and "natural slaves" were not fully in possession of reason, the distinguishing mark and telos of humans. Because of this, they can never be fully happy—those men who are capable of such happiness thus have obligations to take care of and correctly utilize women and these slaves and to give them as large a share in human happiness as possible—and we have to say that they really aren't fully human or that they aren't and can't be flourishing humans. That is a sort of elitism that is deeply troubling.

And, this raises two problems: one general and pedagogical and the other more specifically philosophical. 

The first one is how to talk about thinkers or figures who—having had the misfortune of having been born human—were deeply flawed. It is hard to talk about any historical figure let alone a philosophical one—it is the job of philosophers to have opinions—who doesn't have truly horrible skeletons in his or her closet. How can we honestly present them without having the negative parts of their views overshadow the main thrust of their ideas in the minds of students new to their thought? 

The temptation is to gloss over those bumps. At least, I know that is my temptation. But at some point, either during the class or after, at least one student will discover that Heidegger unapologetically joined the Nazi Party, or that Socrates praised Sparta—and that is wasn't quite the same city as that portrayed in 300—or that Mill seemed to favor imperialism, or ... some other view that it was too uncomfortable to cover in class. And, they will wonder then whether there is any point in thinking about them and why exactly I hid it from them. I am assuming that at least some students will continue to think about what we've discussed; that may seem optimistic, but this rare optimism has been borne out in the past.

I don't have a solution, other than to honestly present the warts and try to tease out, with the students' help, whether we can separate the wheat from the chaff. Sometimes, we are able to, sometimes we are not; in either case, some pedagogical purpose might have been served.

The second problem has to do with giving accounts of human nature, so it is both a more narrow question and one with broader implications, i.e., it matters even if we don't spend much time behind a lectern. Since it is probably more important, I have left it to last and will have less substantive to say about it; such is my way. 

Aristotle, like quite a few philosophers, focused his account of human nature—of what is essential about us, what separates us from the rest of the animals—in the faculty of reason. We have reason and the other animals do not. Of course, others have placed that difference somewhere else, whether in language, abstract thought, or someplace else. A problem with any such defining characteristic, apart from a merely biological one, is that it will admit of degrees: some people are more capable of reasoning than others, some people gain only rudimentary language, and so on. If our account of humanity—or personhood, to make it clearly not just biological—ties it to some characteristic that only humans have what does that say about those humans who don't have it or who have it to a lesser degree? In other words, can we give an account of human nature that doesn't end up, as Aristotle's does, being a graded account of that very humanity? How can we make it work—as most surely we must—that even those who don't share to a very high degree in reason or communication or even emotionality—are still fully human and fully persons?

There are a few strategies that have been tried here. One can say that even the person who does not, in fact, share in the capability or characteristic still has it potentially. How that is supposed to work I never quite understand. If I lack a capability and it is, in fact, impossible for me to develop that capability, the fact that my conspecifics have it doesn't mean that I have it potentially. I don't inherit a potential talent for musicality from the fact that some humans have it; yes, it is a characteristic of the species, but not of this member. 

Alternatively, one can try to solve this problem by adverting to souls or spirits. Of course, there are important problems with that as a philosophical move, but let me point out just one. Since I have no evidence of any souls except for maybe my own, the existence of souls will never tell me of a difference between humans and any other animals. I have as much reason to think that my dog has an immortal, or merely mortal, soul as that my partner does, unless I am basing my judgment of soul possession on some other characteristic, but then we are right back to our initial difficulty.

So, the question becomes whether we can give an account of humanity that captures all humans but excludes the animals or whether we are stuck with one of what seem to be two equally unpalatable options: a graded approach even within the species that counts some humans as more human than others; or, the view of Peter Singer and others, that we can make no important distinctions between all humans and the rest of the animals on which we might be able to base, for instance, moral considerations.

Just a couple of thoughts at the end of the semester

There are so many joys in teaching that they almost always outweigh those moments when some friend reminds me that he makes more than twice what I do, and still thinks he is underpaid. However, those moments--seeing the spark of curiosity or learning something from the fresh and incisive perspective of an undergraduate--are hard to remember at the end of term, when the pain of grading and realizing that this has almost no part in the real intellectual and educational work the university can achieve at its best is compounded by the emails of complaint about grades and the catching of students at plagiarizing and cheating.
At these moments--as in those when I suspect that I am the only one who had read the assignments or who has read any of the classics of the canon--I mourn just a little for the notion of the educated person and the liberal education that was once meant to create her.

Atheists and Christ

One of the classes I was assigned this semester was Twentieth Century Continental Philosophy. For non-philosophers it might not be obvious that contemporary philosophy has divided itself into two different traditions that, all in all, don't much talk to each other. Almost any philosopher you find teaching in a department anywhere in the US has been trained, unless she does history of philosophy, as an analytic philosopher. The Continental tradition is the dark, bad-poetry Other, that we are trained to ignore, scoff at, or try to forget. It is also the one that non-philosophers are much more likely to think of as contemporary or roughly contemporary philosophy. There you find Sartre and Camus and Heidegger and (shudder) Zizek. But, it has to be taught, and someone has to teach it. And, this year, that someone was me.

One thing that is notable about this tradition--though it doesn't greatly differentiate it from the analytic tradition--is that most of the Continentals are stridently atheistic. There's a good deal of "God is dead and we have killed Him," starting with dear old Nietzsche, but not ending there. And, this can be offputting for a lot of students, especially when I am yelling "God is dead" near the top of my lungs.

But what is also notable is the way that members of this tradition, Nietzsche among them, have more to say of value about Christ and the Christian idea (not so much Nietzsche there, but still) than the majority of stridently Christian thinkers. Nietzsche thinks of Christianity as a misnamed religion, because he can think of only one Christian, the one who was crucified. Camus speaks of the genius of Christianity in tying together heaven and earth, an incarnational theology from a non-religious man, and speaks solemnly of the feeling of abandonment on the Cross as the most profound moment of the Gospel narrative.

How much is lost when we fail to engage with those we disagree with, those whose worldviews are different to ours, those who start with assumptions we have already ruled out. And, how much that might be of value for our very own worldview.

In many ways, I am not a conventionally religious man; I am also not spiritual, because I have never understood what that was supposed to me, as a contrast to "religious." But, in other ways, I have a religious outlook, if not quite theistic. I can say though, I have never been as touched by some of the deepest beauties of religion as when reading the most strident atheists.

Libertarian or just bourgeois?

Some of my students like to engage in political sparring with me, especially during the election season. And, since they tend to assume I'm a far-left liberal—they tend to have a very skewed idea of what my views actually are—they like to try out right-wing or libertarian or conservative arguments on me.

One quite intelligent student, who wears campaign shirts to class every day and self-identifies as a libertarian, was talking to me about the various propositions on the ballot in California this year and asking me what my vote would be on several of them. I told him my general dislike of propositions, because of the way they lead to inconsistent legislation, the writing of legislation by interest groups, and because of the way they allow the Legislature to avoid dealing with any hard issues, the very job for which they are paid.

So, he asked me in particular what my vote would be on California's Prop 34, a measure intended to effectively repeal the death penalty. I told him I would probably vote for that one, because I'm opposed on practical, though not clearly theoretical, grounds to capital punishment. And, I threw in, that I am also opposed to the three-strikes law that California enacted through the proposition system.

He seemed amazed that I would be opposed to the three-strikes law and the death penalty. I told him that, apart from the fact that the three-strikes initiative was bankrolled by the Prison Guards' Union whose members have a financial interest in longer sentences—and, he had just told me how unions have too much influence in society—I have little faith in the police or the courts or prosecutors and certainly not enough faith in them to allow them to take lives. He seemed to find this surprising. And, then I realized, he isn't really a libertarian at all. Like many anti-government Americans, he doesn't like government when it interferes in his life in any way, but the idea that government is corrupt in those instances never bleeds over to the idea that it might be corrupt in its exercise of the police power or military adventures.

Not unlike the common belief in some circles of socialism for business and libertarianism for the individual, there is a theoretical inversion with the same result: libertarianism for the middle and upper classes and authoritarianism for the poor and delinquent and the foreign. But that's just to say, that too many of our political commitments are nothing more than rationalizations for whatever we think will benefit ourselves. 

A puzzle about property rights

Frank lives on a roughly triangular plot of land bordered on each side by a different neighbor: Joanna, Therese, and William. That is, his property is completely surrounded by the property of others. 

When he purchased this property, there was a well on the property. Through no fault of his own, nor through any actions of his neighbors, the water in the well has become undrinkable.

Because of some unchosen characteristic of Frank’s—his ethnicity, his sexual orientation, his nationality, … you may pick—his neighbors have taken a dislike to him. This dislike is so strong that they would just as lief that he be dead. However, his neighbors all respect his (negative) right to life as much as they respect property rights, absolutely. 

Thus, when Frank comes to them asking to buy water, they refuse to sell the water to him. No price that Frank is able to pay is a price that they are willing to take. There are more distant sellers willing to sell Frank water at a price agreeable to him, but they would have to cross the property of Joanna, Therese, or William to do so. And, none of these are willing to allow access at an agreeable price.

What may Frank justly do to rectify the situation and obtain water? And, why?