In the section titled “Persons and bodies,” Steiner explores the issue of offspring rights, asking “how can we each own what we produce if we ourselves are others’ products?” Steiner whittles this question into what he calls “the paradox of universal self-ownership,” which he proposes to ameliorate via modification of the propositon, “All persons (originally) are the fruits of other persons’ labor.” He contends that reproduction occurs via a mixing of labor with natural resources in the form of “germ-line genetic information,” hence avoiding the contradiction with the proposition “all self-owners own the fruits of their labor” that generated the paradox in the first place. Thus, once children reach the age of majority, they become self-owners (all rights relating to their foetal and minority statuses are really legal powers and liberties held by adults).

Steiner turns to the question of the rights of the dead in “Persons and times.” Appealing to Hohfeldian jural relations—that rights and powers in one party are correlative to duties and liabilities in others—he argues that transfers of ownership involve an exchange of correlatives which is impossible with a testator. While a gifting process transfers rights and powers from the gifter to the receiver, and a restriction from the receiver to the gifter in turn, a testator incurs no such restriction. In other words, the transfer of ownership of property can only be performed by a living person. Thus, the dead have no rights and their property is rightfully treated like a natural resource. Steiner then connects his discussion of rights of the dead with rights of future persons: because having a right, according to Steiner, is to be in possession of the powers to waive or demand and enforce compliance with its correlative duty, a future person has no rights against present persons.

In the final section, “People and places,” Steiner underscores the meaninglessness of international boundaries with regard to persons’ original rights and the rights derived from them; they do not “suddenly evaporate” at arbitrarily drawn boundaries. National boundaries only demarcate group territorial holdings, so natural resource entitlement is global in scope. He also addresss the flaws in the ‘theory of magic dates,’ a problem faced by individual rights theorists like Locke who are anti-secession. He argues that there is no justification for a date prior to which rights-holders are empowered to jointly enter into agreements for the protection of their rights by an agency of their chosing, but after which those rights are truncated.

In the Epilogue, “Just Redistributions,” Steiner fleshes out his notions of redistribution, beginning with the process of redress as a mode of acquiring just titles to things, and how redress can be manifested through a global fund. Steiner generalizes that in a fully appropriated world, “each person’s original right to an equal portion of initially unowned things amounts to a right to an equal share of their total value.” Thus, “over-appropriated” persons owe a contribution of value to a global fund from their duties correlative to “under-appropriators’” original property rights. Another thesis advanced in the epilogue include that persons using “germ-line genetic information” must pay competitive rent on its value, as it is a natural resource; hence, adults with children with more valuable offspring (genetically speaking) must compensate those with offspring less so.

Locke’s Theory of Acquisition

Nozick’s goal in this section of AS&U is to, in his words, “introduce an additional bit of complexity into the structure of the entitlement theory.” To do this, he uses as a starting point Locke’s approach to justice in property acquisition—namely, that ownership of an object originates in one’s mixing of labor with that object. Nozick then proceeds to ask the standard gamut of questions calling attention to some difficulties in Locke’s theory of acquisition, like whether dumping a can of tomato juice in the ocean constitutes “mixing one’s labor” with the ocean. Essentially, the questions seek the strict boundary between what constitutes a mixing of labor sufficient for just acquisition and what does not. Under the Lockean notion of acquisition, it seems that one naïve interpretation would say that improving upon an object entails full ownership of the object. Of course, as Nozick points out, if the stock of improvable unowned objects is limited, this view is unfeasible. He uses the appropriation of a grain of sand as an example of one’s appropriation removing another’s liberty (as Hohfeld uses the word) to act on a previously unowned object, but intuitively suggests that this particular removal is not problematic. The central concern, he says, “is whether appropriation of an unowned object worsens the situation of others.”

Here, Nozick introduces a principle aimed at addressing that notion, which he terms “Locke’s proviso”: that an appropriation must leave ‘enough and as good left in common for others.’ One version of the proviso, if applied consistently, would make all past appropriations disallowed under Locke’s proviso once a single person’s situation were worsened by an appropriation. Nozick interjects that this argument actually depends on how stringently the proviso is interpreted. Further, he asks whether persons in a world where there are no more “accessible and useful unowned” objects are indeed worsened, citing numerous empirical considerations favoring private property vis-à-vis its satisfaction of the proviso. The difficulty of the argument, however, lies in answering the question “Lockean appropriation makes people no worse off than they would be how?” Nozick says answering this question lies beyond the scope of his work; he suggests that discovering the baseline could begin by estimating the general economic importance of original appropriation (say, by the percentage of income based on natural resources rather than human action). He closes with a note that these questions not only must be faced by advocates of private property; all theories of property (like collective property) must still, too, provide a theory of property rights legitimately originate.

The Proviso

Nozick starts off by assuming that any reasonable theory of justice must have some sort of proviso similar to a weak version of Locke’s. In short, if the position of others no longer at liberty to use an appropriated thing is worsened, a permanent bequeathable right to that thing can not be conferred by any valid process. The emphasis on the mode of worsening is important here, as the proviso does not encompass other modes of worsening, like worsening due to more limited opportunities to appropriate or “worsening” of one seller by another due to an appropriation leading to more market competition. Nozick also suggests that compensation of the appropriator to those whom he is worsening can satisfy the proviso.

Nozick then shifts the focus to justice in transfer, asserting that any theory of just acquisition must account for justice in transfer. Quite centrally, he posits, “If my appropriating all of a certain substance violates the Lockean proviso, then so does my appropriating some and purchasing all the rest from others who obtained it without otherwise violating the Lockean proviso.” Unlike the earlier argument in which the original appropriation violated the proviso as well as the appropriation which actually left a person worse off, it is only the combination of the original appropriation and the later transfers that is sufficient to violate the Lockean proviso.

Next, Nozick argues that one’s title to his holding includes the “historical shadow” of the proviso; namely, the title-holder may not transfer it into an agglomeration that violates the proviso, nor may he use it in a way that violates the proviso by making others worse than their baseline situation. Thus, one may not only not appropriate the only water hole in a desert and charge what he pleases, but he also may not charge what he pleases if it just so happens that circumstance destroys all other watering holes. Nozick briefly deviates for a moment to clarify that the owners’ rights are not eliminated in these cases, but simply “overridden to avoid some catastrophe” (not, however, in some ad hoc way, but internal to the given theory of property).

Delving into further exposition, Nozick asserts that someone owning the entire supply of something necessary for others to remain living does not always mean that appropriations leading up to this ownership left some people in a situation worse than the baseline. In service of this assertion, he cites the case of a medical researcher who finds an effective treatment for a disease but refuses to sell it except on his own terms; the researcher does not violate the proviso because he did not appropriate the chemical materials he used in a way that, through causing scarcity, violated the Lockean proviso. Ultimately, this demonstrates that the Lockean proviso is not an “end-state principle”; the structure of the situation that results is not relevant, but the nature of the actions taken to reach that result is. Following this, Nozick puts forward his belief that a free market system would not actually come into conflict with the Lockean proviso, making the “empirical historical” claim that people’s concern for the possibility of the proviso’s violation above other possibilities is only due to the effects of previous illegitimate state action, ending his exploration of the “complication in the entitlement theory introduced by the Lockean proviso.”

Nozick then moves on to address what he earlier labeled “the negative argument”: “the use of the claim that people don’t deserve their natural assets to rebut a possible counterargument to Rawls’ view. He has us consider the following counterargument to Rawls (“E”):

1. People deserve their natural assets.

2. If people deserve X, they deserve any Y that flows from X.

3. People’s holdings flow from their natural assets.

Therefore,

4. People deserve their holdings.

5. If people deserve something, then they ought to have it (and this overrides any presumption of equality there may be about that thing.)

Because Rawls would rebut this counterargument by denying the first premise, the connection between natural assets being morally arbitrary and the statement that distributive shares should not depend on natural assets is clearer. Here, Nozick attempts to show that the concept of “desert” needn’t be present in an argument of this sort for it to properly follow. He starts with a new counterargument, “F”:

1. If people have X, and their having X (whether or not they deserve to have it) does not violate anyone else’s (Lockean) right or entitlement to X, and Y flows from (arises out of, and so on) X by a process that does not itself violate anyone’s (Lockean) rights or entitlements, Then the person is entitled to Y.

2. People’s having the natural assets they do does not violate anyone else’s (Lockean) entitlements or rights.

The argument would then proceed to argue that people are entitled to the fruits of their labor and to what others voluntarily give or exchange with them. Nozick, quite succinctly, phrases his objection to holding equivalence between desert and entitlement:

It is not true, for example, that a person earns Y (a right to keep a painting he’s made, praise for writing a theory of Justice, and so on) only if he’s earned (or otherwise deserves) whatever he used (including natural assets) in the process of earning Y. Some of the things he uses he just may have, not illegitimately. It needn’t be that the foundations underlying desert are themselves deserved, all the way down.

Thus, since people can be described as entitled to their natural assets even if they can not be labeled as deserving of them, then an argument parallel to argument E with ‘are entitled to’ replacing ‘deserve’ throughout will be valid. Returning more explicitly to Rawls, Nozick then implies that Rawls’ argument is in a bind. Recognizing people’s entitlements to their natural assets could be necessary to avoid a strict application of the difference principle that would entail even stronger property rights than wealth-redistributive theories usually yield. Nozick cites Rawls’ counterargument that he avoids this dilemma, “because people in [Rawls'] original position rank the principle of liberty as lexicographically prior to the difference principle, applied not only to economic well-being but to health, length of life, and so on.” One of Nozick’s footnotes calls our attention to the discussion of collective assets later to further this objection.

Continuing, Nozick professes his inability to find a cogent argument to help support that variations in holdings caused by variations in natural assets ought to be eliminated or minimized. He connects the idea of the “moral arbitrariness” of natural assets to Rawls’ construction of the original position by pointing out that there must be an argument to “shape” the original position to exclude natural assets from the participants’ knowledge (i.e. there must be a justification for the veil of ignorance). Nozick argues that if a particular feature being arbitrary from a moral point of view is sufficient to fall under the veil of ignorance, then those behind the veil of ignorance should know nothing about themselves, because each of their features (like rationality, the ability to make choices, having a life span of more than three days, having a memory, ability to communicate) will be based on morally arbitrary facts (that the sperm and ovum that made them were genetically composed in a particular manner). However, Rawls’ construction of the original position has persons know some of these things.

At this point, Nozick stops to qualify his argument. He calls our attention to an ambiguity in the statement that “a fact is arbitrary from a moral point of view”: in one sense, it could mean that there is no moral reason why a fact ought to be; in another, it could mean that a fact is of no moral significance and has no moral consequences. Nozick states that rationality is not morally arbitrary in the second sense. Nonetheless, if rationality escapes exclusion for this reason, it now has a “partner in guilt”—natural assets—which must also escape exclusion for that reason. Thus, an entitlement theory similar to Rawls’ that holds that entitlements arise from or are at least dependent on such facts is called into question.

“Collective Assets”

Later in the book, Nozick aims to tackle Rawls’ seeming notion of “collective assets,” specifically referring to the idea that “everyone has some entitlement or claim on the totality of natural assets (viewed as a pool), with no one having differential claims.” He argues that a theory separating men from their talents, assets, abilities, and so on can only be adequate if one “presses very hard on the distinction between men [and those things],” noting that whether any conception of a coherent person remains when this distinction is made is an open question. Further, he states that talents and abilities are an asset to a free community, and are not part of a constant sum game, then asking whether extraction of more benefit is what justifies treating natural assets as a collective resources, leaving open the question of what justifies the extraction.

Summary (where not specified, statements are written in the voice of Rousseau)

In Book I, Rousseau begins his exploration of politics by pondering the source of the legitimacy of political authority. He rejects that its source is found in nature, because such a position implies the inherent natural superiority of the rulers over the ruled, though the superiority that may exist is only sustained by force. In turn, he argues that force is not the basis for legitimacy either: the idea that “might makes right” is nonsensical because it can not imply that the less strong “ought” to follow the stronger, since who is stronger is always determined by who triumphs. There would be no political authority since those who can do, will do. Instead, legitimate political authority is based on a kind of “social contract” created between society’s members. Unlike the argument of Grotius, which proposed a kind of covenant between king and people based on “a right to slavery,” one’s freedom can never be surrendered in a fair exchange. Furthermore once freedom is surrendered, then all rights are forfeited which eliminate any demand for something in return.

Why should such a contract ever be necessary? In short, there comes a point in the state of nature at which society must be formed in order for mankind to survive. The social contract’s purpose is to resolve the problem of how to bind people to each other without infringing upon their freedom, and it does this by requiring the unconditional surrender of the individual’s freedom to the whole community. The important implications of this definition are that the contract will impose the same conditions for all, creating no interest for one person making the conditions difficult for others; there will be no rights that remain that stand in opposition to the state, because the contract is formed unconditionally; and finally, because each person enters the contract on equal terms, no person loses their natural freedom. The ultimate reduction of the social contract can be described thus: “Each of us puts his person and all his power in common under the supreme direction of the general will, and, in our corporate capacity, we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole.”[1] The new entity, the whole, that is formed as a result of this contract comes to be known as the “Republic” or “body politic,” or, depending on the context, the State, the Sovereign, or the Power. Those who formed the contract come to be collectively known as the people; when sharing in the sovereign power, citizens; and in being under the laws of the state, subjects. The contrast between nature and civil society is important here: though in joining the contract we lose the physical freedom to act upon our personal appetites, we gain liberty via the limitations of reason and the general will being placed upon our behaviors.

In book II, Rousseau’s conception of the state begins with the idea that society functions in correspondence to the interests that people hold in common. Hence, the ultimate end of any state is “the common good.” Acting on the general will expressed by the Sovereign is the only way to achieve this common good. Incidentally, the general will can never coincide with a particular will.

The expression of the general will ultimately takes the shape of law. Law must be made by the people as a whole (i.e. made by the sovereign) and applicable to the whole. But how can the people, especially a large number of them, jointly create a set of laws? Rousseau proposes the lawgiver: an intelligent and selfless individual who will create laws in an unbiased fashion, who lies outside the authority of the Sovereign. However, Rousseau himself admits that “Gods would be needed to give men laws.” Furthermore, what will compel people to follow the laws? Besides textbook coercion, such as the death penalty for those who break the law and thus break the social contract, Rousseau suggests that an appeal to the supernatural origins of laws (much as Moses claimed that the Ten Commandments were given by God) is one way of convincing men to follow them.

The end of Book II consists of Rousseau’s exploration of the kinds of circumstances under which law is most effectively made, specifically in reference to the people for whom the law is to be made, and the nature of those laws. For example, he explains that states are ideally small-to-medium-sized: small enough to be effectively manageable, but large enough so as not to be overrun by neighboring states. The creation and implementation of laws must be timed perfectly, as a people may not yet be ready to be guided, or may have become prejudiced and resistant to the positive changes brought about by good laws. Also, the state in which laws are being established must be in a condition of at least relative peace and plenty, because of the temporary vulnerability and instability caused by a period of laws being implemented.

The goal of any system of law is reducible to two ends: liberty and equality. Here (chapter 11), equality is understood to mean not the complete absence of differences in wealth, but the absence of such differences that would damage the balance of citizens in the state: “but that power shall never be great enough for violence, and shall always be exercised by virtue of rank and law; and that, in respect of riches, no citizen shall ever be wealthy enough to buy another, and none poor enough to be forced to sell himself.” Overall, the general criteria for how laws ought to be made depend on circumstances that differ from people to people and place to place.

At the beginning of Book III, Rousseau explains the executive powers of government in terms of will and strength:

Every free action is produced by the concurrence of two causes; one moral, i.e., the will which determines the act; the other physical, i.e., the power which executes it… The body politic has the same motive powers; here too force and will are distinguished, will under the name of legislative power and force under that of executive power.[2]

The government is, importantly, to be distinguished from the Sovereign; in fact, confusion of the two is dangerous. The government deals with particulars (decrees) while the sovereign deals with the general (laws). Somewhat similar to the contract in Hobbes, the government itself is not a party to the social contract; somewhat different from Hobbes, this is because the government is an intermediary body that is created by the general will and can be freely disbanded by the general will.

As to possible forms of government, there are three primary kinds: democracy, when all or almost all the citizens are magistrates; aristocracy, where less than half are magistrates; and monarchy, where few or one are magistrates. However, there is not one universally superior form of government. In the previous chapter, Rousseau notes that the larger the population of a state, the fewer magistrates there should be. Hence, large states are best suited to monarchy, medium to aristocracy, and small to democracy. Though he personally preferred democracy, Rousseau expresses ambivalence toward democracy as well as monarchy. While he explains his concerns about monarchy’s dangerous efficiency and potential for corruption, he also claims, “there has never been a true democracy, and there never will be.” Only small states with simple and unambitious citizens could remain stable under democratic rule. Overall, though simpler forms of government are preferable to Rousseau, he suggests that mixing forms of government may dissipate the powers of the government relative to the Sovereign.

The Sovereign can maintain itself by meeting in periodic assemblies. Though an impractical demand on the face of it, ancient cities such as Rome managed to do it to some degree. The assemblies are critical because within them, all citizens are as powerful as the magistrates. Because of this, the government may take actions to dissuade such assemblies, which over time may erode the freedom and authority of the Sovereign. At this juncture, Rousseau makes sure to point out that sovereignty can not be represented: “…The moment a people allows itself to be represented, it is no longer free: it no longer exists.”

As part of a set of entailments of the general will, the latter half of Book IV expresses some specific ideas Rousseau has about the state. In some cases, dictatorship is necessary to avert the collapse the state, though the dictator does not represent the people or the laws; the dictator only acts in accordance with the general will so long as the avoiding the collapse of the state is in it. The establishment of a censor’s office is also put forward, as the vanguard of public opinion. Because public opinion is connected to public morality and virtue, and those are connected to law, the censor’s office upholds the laws by influencing public opinion. Finally, Rousseau recommends that people be free to pursue religion as they please so long as it does not conflict with public interest, but also recommends that they be required to adhere to a civil religion with essential qualities: belief in the existence of a just god, belief in the afterlife, faith in the sanctity of the social contract and its laws, and emphasis on tolerance to reduce civil strife.

Critique

The most obvious problem in Rousseau’s argument is the mostly unaddressed question of how the general will is to be determined. In a world with no gods and only men, there is no ultimate and authoritative arbiter of truth and justice. Evidence may stand on one side, but there is no guarantee of an impartial and fair supreme force that binds persons to the correct judgment. This is a phenomenon that applies to all things, even the physically tangible and empirically observable. When it comes to something very abstract and complex like the general will, the problem is amplified further as evidence one could possibly appeal to for his position is necessarily indirect and intuitive at best (see: epistemic critique), lending greater power to those of stronger expressive faculty.[3] Of course, that the determination of physical fact or right and wrong is subject to this uncertainty is not an objection, since this can be leveled against any theory. However, what is questionable is the insistence that every person must be subjected to a violence-backed decision making process that may often not agree with their own judgments. If this poses a problem, there is really no way out: Rousseau makes it clear that The Social Contract is not there merely as a suggestion for those who accept it; it is intended to be a factual and categorical description of human nature and the good society. Thus, even if we accept the general will as real, the question is still left open as to whether the general will is best achieved by organizing society into government as outlined in The Social Contract.

Another development of interest in this particular work is that Rousseau insists on a sharp distinction between nature and civil society, holding that the latter is not part of the former and is instead “artificially” created. This is essentially connected with his notion that “this [the social contract’s] act of association creates a moral and collective body composed of as many members as the assembly contains voters, and receiving from this act its unity, its common identity, its life, and its will.” In other words, Rousseau makes the metaphysical claim that the Sovereign forms a whole greater than the sum of its parts, essential to the idea that the state can not only solve problems that individuals could not possibly solve voluntarily amongst themselves, but that there is a goodness which always supersedes the good of the individual. “Artifice” enters the equation here: once society organizes along the lines of the social contract, civil society becomes possible where it was not possible before. This is critical to Rousseau’s argument, because it is the means by which the individual is given an ethical demand to consent to the social contract and all its entailments, or, conversely, the means by which force is ethically justified against the individual.

Problems with the Social Contract as a Moral Obligation

Without this metaphysical and meta-ethical foundation, Rousseau’s argument would be a non-sequitur the moment he leaps to the conclusion that one has a rational obligation to participate in forming the social contract. The social contract’s “resolution” of the problem of binding human beings together is suspect: Rousseau holds that the freedom of individual human beings is maintained by entering them into a contract on equal terms that imposes “equal” conditions on them. However, this is only so because of Rousseau’s definition of freedom, which downplays freedom of action in nature as largely meaningless due to unenforceability, reflecting the somewhat Hobbesian notion that such freedom is trivial compared to civil liberty, which is the guarantee of lesser freedoms always being protected by the community. More importantly, Rousseau places a great deal of significance upon his idea of moral liberty, which is the freedom from one’s appetites attained by obedience to “self-prescribed” laws. Certain questions must be asked: is joining in the social contract a necessity for moral liberty? Are equal terms and conditions in the letter equal for every individual? Does a man who is self-sufficient and who produces a surplus always stand to gain by entering into an obligation which can often require sacrificing a disproportionate amount of his property on behalf of others? What about someone who produces art or otherwise expresses himself in a way that would result in his censoring under the general will? Rousseau seems to presuppose a set of “right” values with relation to virtue, one’s opinions, etc. There is nothing wrong with this in itself, of course, but this certainly presses Rousseau to provide us with a convincing account of these values which holds as objective. The argument here rests on the validity of his answer.

Epistemic Critique

These objections are virtually trivial in comparison to the most critical problem with Rousseau’s work and works of a similar breed. Generally, they envision the existence of things which lie beyond empirical observation and meaningful rational analysis: in the case of Plato, it was the forms; with Hitler, it was the goodness of the Fatherland and the intrinsic deservingness of the Aryan race; in Rousseau’s case, it is the general will. In testing these theories, we can only observe a world in which people act as though those things exist, and another in which they do not, and then compare results. Yet by what standard do we gauge these results? For what are we exactly testing? For The Social Contract, we can not gauge it by pragmatic standards, because doing so would not be in accordance with Rousseau’s true theory, which states that the good is the general will. Yet we can never directly experience a form, magical Aryan goodness, or the general will. Lacking any epistemological reason to accept that such a thing as the general will exists, we have no other reason to accept it except, perhaps, as a “noble myth” which serves some other end (order, respect for tradition, etc.).

The Dangers of Rousseau

Put in a historical context, Rousseau’s ideas can be said to be responsible for much bloodshed. On one hand, it may not seem fair to say that Rousseau himself was directly to blame for the brutality that ensued in the name of his or at least a mockup of his ideas. However, personal blame is not the thrust of the criticism of Rousseau’s ideas – whose ideological cousins often result in death and destruction – nor is it at all important. If not specifically attributable to Rousseau, many ideas similar to his have been at the root of acts of violence around the world, whether in the form of civil war between factions, or the more subtle “civil war” of members of the state against its citizens. When an analytic light is shined upon the work of Rousseau and similar works, that this occurred is not surprising.

When goodness is placed outside the realm of the empirical and the rational – as when the concepts of state, the people, etc. are made primary, ignoring the instances from which they were derived – the currency upon which morality trades becomes spiritual and intrinsic, generating similar phenomena to those of religious beliefs: martyrdom, persecution, atrocity, or otherwise a climate of self-proclaimed just violence. In such a situation, the nature of goodness is not accessible to everyone, but only to the “enlightened”: the philosopher kings, the popes and bishops, or the politicians. There is no scientific reason to believe that these human beings have a sixth sense that gives them greater access to such knowledge, yet they are perceived to have it. What phenomenon is capable of explaining how biologically similar human beings can be elevated to separate moral categories in people’s minds when there is no evidence to believe that it is the case? There is one lying in plain view which has pervaded most instances of human conflict, especially of this kind: the exercise of power. Rousseau’s theory lends itself to such a world; for this assertion we have not only the immediate evidence from the French Revolution and its many succeeding Republics, but the indirect evidence of the millions of lives ended by collectivism.

Instinctively, one may object that Rousseau believed that every person composing the Sovereign must play a role in the determination of the general will. Still, so long as there are both disagreement and forceful commitment of all participants to the decision ultimately rendered, the problem persists. The category of the “enlightened” simply shifts from the popes and politicians to some arbitrary proportion of the people, be it a plurality, a majority, or a supermajority. The point remains quite the same: democracy without unanimity is just as much an exercise of power as is philosopher dictatorship, popery, or decree.

[2] Book II, Chapter I.

[3] Perhaps this objection is a commentary on Rousseau himself.

Skepticism and logical possibilityWhile skepticism takes many different forms, the primary form of skepticism under consideration can be described by single, general argument. This skepticism’s basic premise is that we are unable to logically disprove possible states of affairs in the world that would undermine our claims to knowledge about reality (“skeptical possibilities”). Generally, arguments for skepticism take the form of a modus ponens argument, such as,

1. If I can not distinguish between dreaming and being awake, then I can not be sure I have a body.
2. I can not distinguish between dreaming and being awake.
3. Therefore, I can not be sure that I have a body.

Support for the second premise derives from the possibility that, for any empirical proposition we form at a point in time, events could follow that would provide evidence to falsify that belief. If this is true, no empirical proposition is verifiable and thus none are certain.

Wittgenstein does not disagree with this, to an extent; he grants that such subsequent falsifying events are indeed always a possibility. For example, one may have very good reasons for believing his old friend is standing in front of him, but it is imaginable for that person to suddenly start behaving as though he was not that old friend after all (613).[1] However, Wittgenstein challenges the notion that such events transpiring would undermine the relevant prior empirical beliefs about the situation. In other words, he argues that such possibilities do not undermine “knowledge,” in the meaningful sense of the word, but merely fail to satisfy the conditions of a notion of logic removed from practitioners of logic (human beings).

On Doubt

In the second paragraph of On Certainty, Wittgenstein elucidates the role of doubt, almost spelling out immediately what will become his objection against skepticism: “from its seeming to me – or to everyone – to be so, it doesn’t follow that it is so. What we can ask is whether it can make sense to doubt it [emphasis added]” (2). Though the skeptics are correct in questioning the assertion of seeming or “common-sense” empirical fact, such doubts fail to (meaningfully) endorse their assertion that all knowledge can be undermined.

Primarily, the skeptics make the error of conceiving logic as an empirical statement – as something independent of the agent in question – that is subject to the possibility of falsification. The Tractatus, though earlier in Wittgenstein’s philosophical development, is particularly illustrative of this problem with skepticism: “Propositions cannot represent logical form: it is mirrored in them. What finds reflection in language, language cannot represent.”[2] Moreover, we cannot sensibly falsify (or take any other action standing outside of) logic, since we can not describe what a non-logical world would look like.[3] Yet this is precisely what skepticism demands.

Skepticism, by externalizing logic, thus encounters serious error when it casts extreme doubts upon common-sense propositions, which are necessary for establishing language (and hence the use of logic). When someone says, “There are trees,” he is presupposing the existence of objects. This is not to imply an epistemological assertion that there are objects in a specific sense of the word, but it simply reveals the absurdity of saying “objects do not exist.” If one holds that to be true, he runs into the intractable problem of explaining of what it is that one is speaking when one says “there are trees.” Day to day life demonstrates that common-sense propositions must be known in some way, as evidenced by the fact that we say things to others like “move that table over here” or “open the window” (7). In light of this, the nature of being mistaken about a statement like, “I am certain that these are words on this paper” is unclear (17, 24, 32). What it would be like to find out that “here is not a hand” is peculiar and seemingly indescribable by language. This is because the language-games people use, those ingrained deeply in their practices and beliefs, depend on affirming such propositions in order for them to make any sense (to be explained shortly).

Furthermore, as Wittgenstein asserts several times, the notion of doubt presupposes certainty (115 and elsewhere). In order for one to doubt anything, one must first have certainty about what he doubts, be certain that he, in fact, doubts it, and so on. This relates closely to the foundation of (the human expression of) logic in language, as implied in Tractatus. In Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein delves into the nature of language games, which later play an important role in On Certainty. Section 7 of Investigations states, “I shall call it the whole, consisting of the language and the actions into which it is woven, the language-game.”

Wittgenstein explores how a child learns and the relationship between its learning and language in section 6 of the Investigations. A child learns what words mean by ostensive action; for example, one might instruct, “that is a chair; that is a car; that is red; etc.” In all this, however, there is a necessity for an understanding of ostensive definition itself. A child, to learn that “this is called ‘car’,” must first comprehend that names can be assigned to things. Later, in section 31, Wittgenstein uses an example of teaching someone how to play chess. When he points to a piece and says, “this is the king; it can move like this,…” the phrase “this is called the ‘king’” is only a definition if the student knows what a game is, what a piece in a game is, etc.

The point of the exploration of language games is, in short, that understanding requires some background of trust – some kind of sureness. Continuing in On Certainty with the case of the child, Wittgenstein says, “the child learns by believing the adult. Doubt comes after belief” (160). A child could never learn anything if he constantly questioned existence, for if that were to happen, he could never learn the definitions of things ostensively, just as if a person were to question the game or the pieces of chess, he would never learn that “this is called “the king” and it moves like so.”

The process of learning language is one of action (or reaction) first, then epistemological reflection at a later time once a system of beliefs is formed and it becomes gradually understood where doubt can be reasonable (538). For example, a child initially listens to verbal and written instructions, responding trustingly and candidly to what others say. When a child realizes that people have the capability to lie, however, he then has a reasonable basis for sometimes doubting the truth of what someone says. The system of belief he develops is essential to forming these kinds of curiosities and doubts. If he did not understand that other human beings like himself existed and behaved autonomously and with similar capabilities, he could not even begin to comprehend the notion of doubting the truth of their words. Moreover, even when he believed and spoke candidly, he would not have been able to do so had he questioned the existence of other human beings, and he would have not been able to understand the existence of other human beings if he questioned the existence of a world external to him.

Language is inextricably embedded into our lives. Without it, we would be unable to learn, and without learning, we would be unable to doubt. Further, it is the common understanding and foundations of language that allow human beings to communicate. Incidentally, by no means is the plain use of signs universally indicative of meaning (another basic idea explored in Tractatus that blocks a potential route for skepticism). A person who interprets and acts upon the mathematical directive “halve” by multiplying by three hundred is not casting doubt upon halving, but is merely out of sync with the rules and norms of a language-game. He is not presenting a skeptical challenge to knowledge of mathematics.

At the crux of his argument, Wittgenstein rejects the Cartesian-style premise that all propositions, even foundational ones, should be doubted along with any beliefs that they justify, unless they can be proven empirically. The skeptics’ doubt of these propositions does not merely test the truth, falsehood, or likelihood of those propositions, but ultimately necessitates questioning the methods by which testable empirical propositions are tested (317, 318). If all knowledge is based on testable empirical propositions that are justified by methods that are themselves subject to the skeptics’ pervasive doubt, then one must always acknowledge skeptical possibilities (i.e. the skeptics’ position is meaningful).

To counter this, Wittgenstein explains that claims like “here is a hand” or “the world has existed for longer than five minutes” merely appear to be statements about the external world that are true or false. However, these propositions lie beyond knowledge or doubt, because they serve as the framework by which we can speak about objects in the world. He uses two metaphors: first, that these kinds of propositions are like a “river-bed” that allow the “river of language” to flow freely (97, 99); and second, that the propositions are like hinges on a door, which must be fixed in order for the door to function in any significant way (341, 343). These kinds of propositions ostensively defined; they are not making an empirical claim about the external world, but merely show an example and hence demonstrate how the statement is to be used. The possibility of language is not made by actual facts in the world (which the skeptic can always undermine), but by simply never calling into question those facts (creating the “river-bed”).[4] Thus, Wittgenstein does superficially agree with the skeptic that such foundational propositions lie beyond empirical verification, but questions the sensibility and usefulness of such an assertion.

Objection to Moore’s Objections

G.E. Moore attempted his own refutation of skepticism, toward which On Certainty was inspired and directed to a large degree. Moore wrote several articles in challenging skepticism, including A Defense of Common Sense, Four Forms of Skepticism, and Proof of an External World. His general objection can be summarized by taking the skeptics’ modus ponens and using the same conditional to form a modus tollens argument. Using the same example as earlier, Moore would argue,

1. If I can not distinguish between dreaming and being awake, then I can not be sure I have a body.
2. I am sure I have a body.
3. Therefore, I can distinguish between dreaming and being awake.

Though Moore is correct in challenging that doubting such basic claims is unreasonable, Wittgenstein suggests that Moore still fails to answer the skeptic because Moore’s claim that he knows he has a hand is subject to the question of how he knows- bringing him back to the beginning of the argument with the skeptics.

Furthermore, Wittgenstein accepts Moore’s propositions, but not his subjective assurance that they are true. The meaning of the phrase “I know that…” is initially explained in demonstrating the insufficiency of Moore’s arguments against skepticism. Firstly, “P” can not be properly inferred from someone’s statement, “I know P.” While “P” can be inferred from “he knows P,” this requires justification (13, 14). The assurance “I know” is insufficient to demonstrate that no mistake is possible (15). Besides the contextual exceptions of the usage of “I know” (“I can not be wrong,” “I thought I knew,” etc.), the phrase is insignificant; if one actually knows that something is the case, then it is the case.

He then proceeds to argue, “Moore’s mistake lies in this – countering the assertion that one cannot know that, by saying ‘I do know it’” (521). Since skepticism is nonsense, as Wittgenstein establishes, it need not and can not be refuted by a counter-example. Moore, actually, commits the same error as the skeptic by treating logic (which is founded on those basic propositions) as empirical statements requiring proof.

Wittgenstein makes a general statement about Moore’s argument, which also happens to be a repetition of one of the most important themes of On Certainty:

When Moore says he knows such and such, he is really enumerating a lot of empirical propositions which we affirm without special testing; propositions, that is, which have a peculiar logical role in the system of our empirical propositions (136).

Moore did not recognize this, instead attempting to answer the skeptic on epistemological grounds. Wittgenstein construes this attempt as not only one to refute skepticism, but to provide a list of “certain propositions… excluded from doubt” in a “logic-book” (625). According to Wittgenstein’s approach, however, the proper response to skepticism is not to delineate particular empirical facts, which can be ultimately undermined, to show certainty; rather, it is to assert that one must be sure of facts that allow one to think about other facts.

Closing

To return to the Tractatus once more, even there Wittgenstein’s anti-skeptic stance was developed in key ways: “Doubt can exist only where a question exists, a question only where an answer exists, and an answer only where something can be said.” There are some things which must be taken without question in order for one to function as a human being. Some may mistake this as a kind of fideism, but it is, in fact, a necessity for thought and goal-directed action.

Wittgenstein aptly undermines the meaningfulness of skepticism by showing that its arguments depend in some way on what it sets out to disprove. The philosophical nature of the skeptics’ arguments is dependent on the kinds of necessary contextual statements embodied by Moore-type propositions. There is a dependency on some certainty in belief necessary for the use of language: “if you are not certain of any fact, you cannot be certain of the meaning of your words either” (114). Further, communication between two people – employed by skeptical philosophers, clearly – can not occur without some common ground. The most basic propositions like, “I have a body” or “here is a hand,” when doubted, wholly eliminate that common ground. Without certainty of rules of a language-game, which depend on commonality founded in propositions like “here is a hand,” all ideas and the meanings of all communication must be doubted, including those of skepticism. Skepticism is thus a self-detonating position.

Logic and experience can only be responsible for themselves, as there exist no other tools for evaluating them. Moore failed to call attention to the fact that skepticism uses an argument against logic and experience that requires logic and experience. Instead, he attempted to “play the skeptic’s game” by attempting to show examples that conform to the skeptics’ super-rational definition of knowledge, an attempt invariably doomed to failure. To doubt, one must have a foundation from which to doubt. He must have a position of truth to which he can retreat when he spots a falsehood. The skeptic wishes to criticize this position and any such positions, while still maintaining a meaningful existence as a human being who uses language and takes action. As On Certainty shows, those two desires are mutually incompatible. For all intents and purposes—intents and purposes, whose existences depend on human language and action—skepticism is left meaningless.

[2] Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 4.121

[3] Tractatus, 3.031

[4] Note that Wittgenstein clarifies that there is no “sharp boundary line” distinguishing between propositions like “here is a hand” and “at this distance from the sun there is a planet” (53), and in turn no sharp line between “rule” propositions (those of which we are sure) and empirical propositions (those which are justified by our rules) (319). He suggests that basic propositions vary and can be doubted, but only in context of fixed others. In line with the river-bed analogy, he likens this to sediments that are picked up from one part of the bed, carried off, re-deposited elsewhere, etc.

A universal describes a member of a class of mind-independent entities in reality that is not a particular thing, but an attribute, relation, etc. The realist position on universals posits that individuals share attributes with other individuals and that this commonality is manifested by the existence of universals. However, several philosophers have objected to this position, on the basis of objections because of the metaphysical strangeness or lack of necessity of universals, among others. In “On What There Is,” W.V. Quine addresses some of the logical and grammatical issues of ontology, and then relates them to the dispute over universals. Quine applies Russell’s theory of descriptions to form ontological propositions that entirely avoid referring to universals and invokes Occam’s razor to repudiate them as a result. One potential drawback to Quine’s approach is that he possibly fails to consistently apply Occam’s razor- as he applied it to the problematic singular descriptors- to the quantifiers (the “bound variables”) with which he replaces singular terms. Beyond that issue, however, Quine makes a convincing case against realist position on universals.

Before exploring universals, Quine discusses a series of preliminary concerns important for establishing his argument. He begins the article by declaring the problem of ontology to be finding the answer to a simple question: “What is there?” Because of the evident fact that there is disagreement on these issues, the first part of his argument is dedicated to exploring the issues of rival ontologies, manifested in the form of a dispute between him and a pseudonymous philosopher, McX. If McX recognizes certain entities (has a different ontology), but Quine does not, Quine “cannot admit that there is something which McX countenances and I do not,” because it contradicts his initial rejection. Quine refers to this traditional Platonic predicament of non-being as Plato’s beard: “nonbeing must in some sense be,” Quine notes, “otherwise what is it that there is not?”[1]

One instance of Plato’s beard in action is a disagreement between McX and Quine over the entity “Pegasus.” McX contests that if Pegasus somehow were not, then the use of the word Pegasus could not possibly be talking about anything- but its usage does talk about something, rendering that position incoherent, resulting in the conclusion that Pegasus is. Because McX clearly does not believe that space and time contain “a flying horse of flesh and blood,” he must provide details about what Pegasus is if it is not that. Quine rules out the possibility that it is just an idea in the mind, pointing out that it is not what “Pegasus” is referring to when people deny it.[2]

Distinguishing Naming and Meaning, via Russell’s Theory of Descriptions

An essential point of contention between Quine and McX reduces to what Quine describes as a gap between naming and meaning, and whether an utterance can be significant or not if does not purport to name some entity existing in reality. In the case of Pegasus, McX argued that if Pegasus were not, then the word would convey nothing (in other words, it would be insignificant). Quine invokes Bertrand Russell’s theory of descriptions to resolve this issue, disentangling the ambiguities and fallacies caused by McX’s poor language use. In particular, the theory of descriptions functions as a means of rephrasing the articles “the,” “a,” etc. to create propositions with better-defined referents. For example, the propositions “the current Czar of Russia is cute,” can be true or false, but in both cases could imply that there is either a Czar of Russia who is cute or a Czar of Russia who is not cute. However, it could be the case- as it is- that there is no current Czar of Russia. Russell’s theory of descriptions would rephrase the original statement as “There exists someone who is Czar of Russia who is cute,” thus making clearer the propositional nature of the existence of the Czar, in addition to his cuteness.

Quine utilizes Russell’s famous “The author of Waverly was a poet” example in order to illustrate the lack of ontological commitment entailed by singular descriptors, by showing that the descriptor can be contextually rephrased into another statement with a truth value. McX falsely assumes that there must be some objective reference in the statement, “the author of Waverly was a poet,” for the statement to be meaningful. Under Russell’s translation, however, the statement is changed to “Something wrote Waverly and was a poet and nothing else wrote Waverly,” thus shifting the burden of objective reference from the descriptive phrase to what is referred to by logicians as a “bound variable” (“something”). Bound variables- words such as “something,” “nothing,” and “everything”- are not names of specific entities, but refer to entities generally with a meaningful ambiguity.[3] The significance of the quantifiers does not require the presupposition of any preassigned objects. To be, according to Quine, is “to be the value of a bound variable” (emphasis added). With quantifiers in mind, Quine asserts that the notion of statements of nonbeing defeating themselves “goes by the board.”[4]

To reinforce his point, Quine anticipates and alleviates a potential problem with converting names to descriptors. In the “Pegasus” example, the word- a supposed name- cannot be processed immediately by Russell’s theory, and it must be rephrased to apply (e.g. “Pegasus was” becomes, perhaps, “Something was a winged horse that was captured by Bellerophon, and nothing else was that”). To make alleged names subordinate to Russell’s analysis, the word must first be translated into a description. Even if there is no evident definition or descriptive translation, an irreducible attribute of being Pegasus can be applied, granting the use of predicates “is-Pegasus” or “pegasizes,” resulting in the possible descriptor “the thing that is-Pegasus/pegasizes.” In summary, all (alleged) names can be converted to descriptions, and by Russell’s theory of descriptions, those descriptions can be eliminated. Quine thus concludes,

We need no longer labor under the delusion that the meaningfulness of a statement containing a singular term presupposes an entity named by the term. A singular term need not name to be significant.[5]

The Debate over Universals

At this juncture, Quine recognizes the need to address universals because of the introduction of predicates like “pegasizes,” having now dealt with the issue of rejecting the presupposition that Pegasus must in some sense be if it is said not to be. McX begins his argument for universals by citing the pre-philosophical common sense of recognizing that there are red houses, red sunsets, red roses, etc. The houses, roses, and sunsets have something in common, and that this commonality is all McX is referring to when he speaks of an attribute. That there are attributes is as “obvious and trivial”[6] as the fact that there are red houses, red sunsets, and red roses; no less does Quine expect from McX’s or anyone else’s ontology, which is basic to one’s conceptual scheme. Under McX’s conceptual scheme, the statement “there is an attribute ‘redness’” must follow from “there are red houses, red sunsets, etc.”[7]

Under a conceptual scheme different to McX’s, argues Quine, it is possible to admit the existence of red houses, roses, and sunsets while simultaneously denying that they have anything in common. “Redness” can be true of each of them individually, but there is no requirement that there must be some entity called “redness”; it could be that the houses, roses, and sunsets are all red irreducibly. Thus, there is no comparative gain in the explanatory power of McX’s theory provided by all entities given under the name “redness.” Incidentally, Quine notes that a potential argument for McX’s ontology was pre-empted by the earlier discussion of the difference between names and descriptions, and how the latter can be significant without becoming the former. Because of this, McX is unable to argue that in order for predicates like “red” or “is-red” to be meaningful, they must be names with the objective reference of a single universal entity.

In response, McX grants the distinction between naming and meaning, and cedes that “is red” and “pegasizes” are not names of attributes. With that, he counters that “meanings” are still universals, perhaps even things similar to the attributes he posits, whether named or not. Quine acknowledges this objection, explaining that he can only satisfy it by refusing to ontologically admit meanings, but he also explains his lack of hesitation in doing so: refusing meanings does not entail the absence of meaningfulness of words and statements. This is evidenced by the fact that McX and Quine can agree perfectly upon classification of linguistic forms as the meaningless and the meaningful, though McX’s criteria for meaningfulness includes the “having” (in one sense) of an abstract entity he labels a “meaning.”

Quine’s criteria are different; his basis for claiming the significance[8] of a linguistic utterance either derives from treating it as an ultimate and irreducible matter of fact, or from analyzing people’s ordinary reactions to the utterance in question and similar utterances. He reduces the useful ways that people commonly speak of meanings to two: the having of meanings (significance) and the sameness of meanings (synonymy). One’s “giving” the meaning of an  utterance is his utterance of a synonym in a more ordinary and clearer language than the original. If such an interpretation of meaning is unsatisfactory, then one can simply speak of an utterance as significant or insignificant, and in relationship to other utterances (in synonymy or heteronomy). Though Quine recognizes the difficulty and importance of handling this approach properly, he once more refers to the lack of any increase in explanatory power resulting from adopting McX’s ontology- in this case, the adoption of special and irreducible intermediary entities called “meanings.”

In light of the preceding arguments, McX is led to question whether any statements are possible that lead one to be committed to universals or other entities Quine finds unwelcome. Once again, Quine cites Russell’s theory of descriptions in tandem with quantifiers, explaining that the entities can be stated as bound variables, so long as it is said that “there is something [a bound variable] which red houses and red sunsets have in common.” As explained earlier, the only way to make ontological commitments is to use bound variables. If “to be is to be the value of a bound variable,” whatever is said by names can be spoken of without names; names can be converted to descriptions, and then eliminated by Russell’s theory of descriptions; the purported namehood of an utterance can be repudiated if no respective entity is affirmed by the proper use of bound variables. Variables of quantification have a range of reference over the whole of an ontology (regardless of the particular ontology), and an ontological presupposition is convincing if and only if it must be considered among entities in this range of reference in order to establish the truth of an affirmation.

Therefore, the utterance “some dogs are white” does not commit the speaker to recognizing doghood or whiteness as entities. Rephrased, it states, “some things that are dogs are white,” which only creates the requirement that the quantifier “something” has a range of reference that includes white dogs, but need not include whiteness or doghood. However, it is also recognized that the statement “some zoological species are cross fertile” entails a commitment to the abstract entities “zoological species” unless the subject of the statement is reducible to another entity. Generally, a commitment to any reference persists until some means of paraphrasing a statement can be devised to change (or properly delineate) its bound variable’s reference.

Choosing an Ontology

Bound variables alone do not commit one to any single ontology, but only describes the process by which one becomes committed to an ontology. One means of adjudicating among ontologies, relative to a particular theory, is by finding an ontology whose entities are required to be within the range of reference of the bound variables of the theory in order to render the affirmations of the theory true. Modern disagreement over the foundations of mathematics is divided almost exactly on the issue of which entities lie in bound variables’ permissible range of reference.

Quine suggests that Occam’s razor be fully applied as an adjudicator among ontologies and that any ontology should be accepted in the same way that scientific theories are accepted: one must seek the simplest theory that accounts for all of the evidence. In the case of ontology, one must seek the simplest conceptual scheme that can be created to account for all the elements of raw experience. Quine’s argument, by his implicit admission, refutes the realist position on universals only as much as he asserts that a physicalist ontology containing universals is a useful “myth,” specifically in the fields of the physical sciences and more so in mathematics; put differently, he refutes it only by undermining its necessity by emphasizing the marked difference between naming and meaning, untangling Plato’s beard in the process. In the end, he states that the question of which ontology to adopt remains unanswered, with only “tolerance and an experimental spirit” as advice and judgment to be reserved for each myth based on its quality relative to a particular point of view.

Critique

One potential shortcoming in Quine’s argument lies in his approach to singular terms- their elimination and replacement by quantifiers- as an application of Occam’s razor. As was explained, if singular terms can be done away with, then their supposed implications about existence vanish. Hence, by using a singular term, one need not acknowledge the existence of the entity described by the term in order to be speaking meaningfully. Yet, if quantifiers could be done away with in the same manner, would they not be also subject to ontological elimination? One such possible elimination arises from combinatory logic, which was initially intended as a means of clarifying the role of quantifiers in logic by their elimination, much as quantifiers were intended to clarify existential statements by a similar process. In her book Philosophy of Logics, Susan Haack notes, “Quine concedes that his criterion doesn’t apply directly to combinatory logic, but observes that it can be applied indirectly, via the translation of combinatory into quantified formula.”[9] This may only be an evasion of the demand that the elimination of quantifiers places on their ontological status (via Occam’s razor). Even without delving into deeper discussion, it is a possibility worth mentioning, as it questions the validity of one of Quine’s necessary steps in reasoning.

Assuming that this problem with Quine’s methodology is somehow irrelevant to his general reasoning or can be answered appropriately, Quine’s dismission of the necessity of universals, as part of a common trend in dismissing the imaginary problems of Plato’s beard, is quite effective. Indeed, something appears highly flawed about the presupposition that denying the existence of an entity somehow presupposes that entity in the same sense that affirming that entity’s existence does. Quine accurately assesses logical possibilities (though not in those exact words) as meaningful, but does not make the error of “stealing” the concept of existence by making it a predicate.

For the non-Quinean, how much can Quine’s reasoning be used to make a more decisive case against the realist position on universals? On an absolute basis, Quine seems hesitant to commit himself ontologically,[10] and does not rule out the possibility of an ontology containing universals; he merely rules out the possibility of a poorly-reasoned ontology containing universals. To utilize Quine’s argument from an objectivist standpoint, there is not much that can be meaningfully done in the discussion of universals besides Occamite elimination, as is true with any other unnecessary multiplication of entities. In communication and in action, often times a person consistently holding the realist view on universals and a person not holding the view are totally indistinguishable, except in their assertions about the nature of universals. Lacking positive proof of a position or falsification of its negatory position, an appeal to Occam’s razor is the only logical argument left to pursue.

[2] Here, Quine briefly introduces a subtler-minded pseudonymous philosopher- Wyman- who advances the argument that Pegasus is simply an unactualized possible. Hence, when it is said that “Pegasus is not,” what is really meant is that Pegasus does not possess the property of actuality; in other words, it is an entity that is already understood to be. Wyman’s definition of the word “existence” entails that “Pegasus” has spatio-temporal connotations if “Pegasus exists,” but that “exists” does not (it merely refers to actualization). Quine then moves on to discuss some problems with unactualized possibles. This discussion is not directly necessary for his discussion of universals, except in as much as unactualized possibles can be looked at as entities in a similar manner to universals.

[3] What Quine means by “ambiguity” in this instance is that the quantifiers are subject non-specific on their own and only necessitate the satisfaction of arbitrarily-stated conditions in a proposition, not that they are poorly defined in usage.

[4] P. 137

[5] P. 138

[6] P. 139

[7] Ibid.

[8] Quine uses “significant” as interchangeable with “meaningful.”

[9] Haack, Susan. Philosophy of Logics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978.

[10] At the very least, his hesitation is reflected in this article.

Prompt: At his trial, Hank Rearden declares: “The public good be damned, I will have no part of it!” What does he mean? How does this issue relate to the rest of the novel and its meaning? Explain.

When Hank Rearden sells four thousand tons of steel in mutual trade, he is tried as a criminal for breaking economic regulations. Rearden’s resounding declaration at this end of his speech during his trial carries two significant concepts that reverberate throughout Atlas Shrugged: the illegitimacy of the principle of collective good, and the removal of the sanction of the victim from acts of evil.

“The public good” is the political extension of the moral principle of “the greater good”- a concept that implies the existence of some single good that supersedes the good and well-being of the individual. This underlies one particular category of the philosophies that the novel’s heroes vehemently oppose: collectivism. Whether they truly believe in it or not, many of the villains in the book use the notion of collective good as their stated motive for action. It permits them to initiate the use of force against individuals in the name of a supposed higher justice. More importantly, the justice entailed by a “greater good” is so ambiguous and incalculable that it provides a blank check of moral authority to those who wield it, granting nearly any whim the ruse of righteousness.

Rearden had committed no moral crime. Much to the prosecutor’s confusion, he neither offers any official defense nor throws himself upon the mercy of the court. Defending himself, he argues, would not only be an admission of guilt, but sanction of the processes and principles that would be invoked to deprive him of his life, liberty, and property, only perpetuating “the illusion of dealing with a tribunal of justice” to onlookers. “If [my fellow men] believe that they may seize my property simply because they need it – well, so does any burglar. There is only this difference: the burglar does not ask me to sanction his act.” Through his denial of participation in his trial and his imposed duties of citizenship, Rearden affirms that he will not consent to involvement in the system of supposed values entailed by “the public good.” The trial is the defining moment in Atlas Shrugged in which Rearden, a victim of society’s false morality, wholly refuses to give sanction to his oppressors.

After his mills pour the first order of Rearden Metal, a triumphant personal success following a decade of hardships, Rearden goes home and gives his wife a bracelet made of his innovation. In return, his wife ridicules his romantic obsession with his work, while his mother and brother deride him for what are, in actuality, his virtues. What Rearden truly feels for his family is contempt, but he is also reluctant to take a stand against them; he cannot understand their actions, and thus feels obligated to tolerate (and support them) them for their weaknesses. Rearden remains a victim who allows legitimacy to his domination by his family and society, until he tells his brother Philip that his fate does not interest him anymore. He realizes that this was what had caused him to bear the condemnations for nearly ten years, and revokes his sanction.

The National Alliance of Railroads (an organization allegedly created to protect the welfare of the railroad industry) votes on and passes the “Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule,” a precaution claiming to eliminate “destructive competition” by not permitting more than one railroad to operate in a region. However, beyond its stated altruistic, common-interest motive, the rule’s passage is part of a personal deal between Orren Boyle and James Taggart to exert influence in Washington to cripple Rearden Steel in exchange for destroying Taggart Transcontinental’s primary competition in Colorado: Dan Conway’s Phoenix-Durango. When Dagny Taggart confronts Conway about fighting back to keep his railroad, he responds, “… they had the right to do it… I promised to obey the majority. I have to obey… It would be wrong. I’m just selfish.” Though he had been wronged by the expropriation of his line, Conway gives his predators sanction for their actions by not fighting the seizure of his property, and even recognizing their right to do it despite his beliefs to the contrary.

Quite differently from Conway, Ellis Wyatt issues an ultimatum to Taggart Transcontinental to serve his needs or be destroyed with him, essentially denying permission to the predators to harm him. This is reflected later on when he disappears, not only removing his productivity from the reach of the looter society, but also setting his oil wells on fire. His burning wells become known as Wyatt’s Torch, a symbol of defiance- a refusal of sanction that burns until the heroes can return to reclaim the world.

The ever-increasing regulations issued by the looter government in the name of “the public good” until and after the passage of Directive 10-289 destroy all remaining incentives for production and soon afterward halt the growth of the economy. Directive 10-289 gives the government a limitless range of “emergency” economic powers, freezes wages, consumption, and innovation. Employment becomes based on need instead of productivity, as determined by the Unification Board, while the new-found power of those residing in government is exploited to grant favors to friends and other preferred classes. Production and commerce come to a halt; quality plummets as the worst companies receive windfall demand for essential commodities; the good of the public becomes the good of the cronies and scavengers as wealth is pried from the corpse of what was once an economic giant. The philosophy of sacrifice results in a reality of destruction.

“I swear by my life and my love of it that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.” Though Rearden had not yet met John Galt at the time of his trial, he unsurprisingly reiterates a form of Galt’s oath when he rejects the “public good” that aims to shackle him to the needs of society. No matter how altruistically its actors behave, any system which emphasizes the moral righteousness of sacrifice is barbarous as a principle in compromising one individual for the benefit of another. Beyond that, it is corruptible. It serves as a means of exploitation of man’s passionate desire to live: the villains of Atlas Shrugged are numerous and of many philosophical colors, but they all are similar in advocating coercion as a means to their ends. The “public good” is merely one pretext by which they seek to guilt those who produce into volunteering their livelihood away without resistance. Should the productive reject the public and not proffer their labor, the villains then have no value to offer the individual- as one offers a value in exchange for another in mutual trade- but merely a “zero,” the promise that they will not kill, imprison, or otherwise harm the productive if they submit to their demands. When the Atlases of the world- the producers- shrug their burdens and consent to their subjection no longer, the villains will have no control over individuals who understand rationality and production as the only true means of survival. They will no longer possess an avenue to evade reality. They invariably must face that reason is law, that creation is sustenance, that A is A; to do otherwise is to perish.

In “The Subjectivity of Values,” a chapter in Ethics: Inventing Right and Wrong, J.L. Mackie develops his theory of “moral scepticism.” In the first sentence, he states his thesis plainly: “there are no objective values.” He goes on to fully define his position, by clarifying the sense in which he means it: that there do not exist in the world any such values. Though Mackie’s moral scepticism is a strong explanation for the failure of theories which posit values that are intrinsic features of the universe, such theories do not account for all theories which hold objective values; in short, not all objective theories are of the kind that Mackie describes and critiques.

Initial Discussion

Mackie spends the first portion of the chapter emphasizing a critical set of distinctions to understand his argument: namely, that his theory is not a first-order (normative) form of subjectivism or scepticism, but a second-order (metaethically descriptive) one. For example, his position is not one of a moral skeptic who would argue that we ought to reject all conventional moral judgments (and thus make a positive, first-order statement about morality). Likewise, he is sure to distinguish between other second-order theses and his own. Subjectivist theories such as emotivism attempt to provide an explanation for what constitutes moral speech. An emotivist would argue that all moral speech is merely an instance of the speaker expressing his own attitude toward the subject (“stealing is wrong” means “boo for stealing!”) In contrast, Mackie is simply describing the nature of normative statements and their respective ontological projections (or lack thereof). “Moral scepticism” is concerned with saying what does not exist, as opposed to what does; it is a negative, as opposed to a positive, doctrine.

Mackie does hold that there are clear factual descriptions of acts which we commonly ascribe to moral actions: “the present issue is with regard to the objectivity specifically of value, not with regard to the objectivity of those natural, factual differences on the basis of which differing values are assigned.” In other words, kindness and cruelty can be described in totally non-normative terms; they simply are different classes of behavior to which moral values are commonly attached. However, value statements like “killing is wrong” are not propositional (true or false) like “three plus seven is ten” or “the earth is flat.” The only exception is when there is an agreed upon standard of value (in a sense, an implicit transformation of a hypothetical imperative) for the subject of such a statement. For example, if it were agreed that a good ethics class is one which has a lecture on subjectivism and Hauptli’s ethics class did not have one, then the statement “Hauptli’s ethics class is good” has a truth-value (false). Morality can thus be derived from standards of evaluation, but Mackie argues that appealing to a standard of evaluation simply shifts the question posed by his scepticism to the standard.

The Arguments from Relativity and Queerness

After his introductory discussion, Mackie’s theory branches into two primary sections: the argument from relativity, and the argument from queerness. The argument from relativity begins from a point about the obvious historical variations in the content of moral beliefs across groups, classes, and societies. Of course, the presence of disagreement does not disprove the existence of objective value, just as disagreement does not disprove objective scientific facts. However, scientific disagreement relies on differences in speculative inferences and explanatory hypotheses based on gathered evidence, to which moral disagreement does not have any claim. On the contrary, moral dissimilarity is more indicative of adherence to different ways of living. The causal connection is reversed: people approve of monogamy because they live monogamously, not the other way around. “Universalizable” or other general, basic principles not only come about because of widespread implicit acceptance, but individually because of the strength of one’s response to it, despite the fact that others may respond quite differently.

The argument from queerness itself has two parts, one metaphysical, and one epistemological. Its metaphysical claim, in summary, is that objective values would be radically different from anything in our experience; “if there were objective values, then they would be entities or qualities or relations of a very strange sort, utterly different from anything else in the universe.” In turn, the crux of its epistemological claim is that there would be no way to know these queer things without a special, non-empirical means of knowing them (intuition). The central idea of intuitionism, which is that there is some specific and unique interface with which humans come to realize objective moral values, is thus the logical reduction of all theories of objective values. At some point in these theories, some essential concept or inference will only be known via intuition, thus committing any consistent objectivist theory to a “lame answer” to this problem.

Mackie cites Plato’s Theory of Forms as an extreme example of what an objective moral theory entails. Either objective goods have “to-be-pursuedness” built into them, or situations must somehow have a demand for a specific kind of action. Because of this queerness, Mackie questions the connection between an action and a value, and how, if it were to exist, humans could know it. The wrongness of an action must somehow be “consequential” or “supervenient” upon the action; thus, if the natural class of an action is deliberate cruelty, it must be wrong because it is a piece of deliberate cruelty, to which Mackie inquires, “but just what in the world is signified by this ‘because’?” Whatever it is must be beyond the realm of empirical observation, to which the only intrinsicist response is to find “companions in guilt”: identity, number, the infinite extension of time and space, among other things for which empiricism allegedly can not account. Mackie properly acknowledges that the only valid approach to this objection is by providing empirical accounts of such things, and applying the argument from queerness to those “supposed metaphysical necessities” which cannot be explained.

Critique

It is evident that Mackie’s argument is guilty of a straw-man fallacy, or, at least, of incompleteness. At first glance, it may appear that Plato’s Theory of Forms is used as a straw-depiction of utilitarianism, Kantianism, and other objective moral systems. Indeed, he acknowledges that few philosophers actually believe in the Forms. Nonetheless, as Mackie cites it, Plato’s theory is actually appropriately representative of those systems. He makes two implicit assumptions about objective moral theories: first, that if they are to have objective values, that these values must have an existence in reality as objects or relations have existence; second, that knowledge of such objective values compels the agent to comply. Seeing that, the actual shortcoming of Mackie’s argument is much more subtle: he is essentially claiming that all objective moral theories must possess these properties.

As will be seen, that is clearly not the case. While the following discussion can be construed as a debate resolved by clarifying definitions, the misinterpretation of definitions which Mackie does not clarify may lead to misinterpretations of the implications of his argument. The definition at hand here, of course, is that of “objective value.” If Mackie presupposes that it comes with a Platonic conception attached (the two implicit assumptions listed above), then his argument is unproblematic, but it fails to account for all “objective” moral theories. For the remainder of the discussion, we can understand “objective moral theories” to mean sets of propositions about morality that are true through time, regardless of whether agents believe that they are true, false, or meaningless. What Mackie has successfully refuted is only a subset of the above, that is, he has only challenged those theories which hold values as features of the inanimate universe.

Though ultimately inadequate, Mackie’s argument from queerness offers some valid insight. It is true that there is no logical necessity linking actions with values of the fantastical kind to which Mackie is actually referring. To better illustrate, take the case of any hypothetical imperative: it begins with a conditional “if,” and then a prescribed course of action to best fulfill that condition. The first part sets the desired factual state of affairs, and the second part describes the physical action required to best achieve it. Thus, when an action takes place, a direct connection can be drawn to the corresponding hypothetical value, which is brought about by the achievement of a standard. Suppose the imperative, “if one wants to get an ‘A’ in ethics, he ought to do his final paper.” Then, when Chris does his paper, his action can be linked to the fulfillment of the goal of Chris having an ‘A’ appear on his transcript. Both parts of the statement pertain to material cause and effect, which can be observed and predicted scientifically (i.e., rationally). Suppose, on the other hand, the imperative, “Chris ought to do his final paper (because it is good/his duty/etc.)” If it is true, when Chris does his paper, his action achieves a good- not a good to him, or for him, but a good in itself. How does he know which actions best bring about that good in the first place, if this good simply occurs with no tangible effect upon him? This, in light of Mackie’s argument, is a very difficult question to answer. In contrast, so long as an imperative is conditional, the link between an action and a respective value is quite clear.

The next question leads ultimately to the defectiveness of moral scepticism: must a value be unconditional or categorical in order to be objective? The argument from queerness incorporates the assumption about the impossible kind of “entity or object or relation” that an objective value must be. Mackie’s faulty epistemology may be part of the problem. In particular, objectivity does not necessarily imply intrinsicality. A concept, for example, does not represent some intrinsic feature of the universe, but only comes about as the product of a particular process of integration of sensory information. Likewise, values are not an intrinsic part of reality. For value to exist at all there must be a valuator- an agent- to impose a standard on what is otherwise an indifferent universe. Things are good to agents, for the sake of attaining some goal; they are not simply good in themselves. Put differently, reality comes before morality. Prior to all good and evil, there must be a world of things that can become good, evil, or neither. In that regard, value is conditional: it predicates on the existence of agents who have some standard for the material state of affairs.

Our next concern is what makes these conditional values objective. First, we must ponder the exact notion of value. With no need to assert psychological egoism, we can say that all human action is disposed toward the pursuit of value (subjective or objective), whether it is in seeking worldly pleasures, peace of mind, good conscience, or a healthy soul, and whether these actions are self- or other-oriented. Consider value as a means by which things can be preferred over others; in essence, how an agent values something will affect how he acts in order to attain or keep it. The objectivity of such values arises from the fact that agents, specifically humans, possess a physical nature that generates the material basis for a standard of evaluation, from which “the good” is generated. The presence of the fundamental alternatives of existence or nonexistence (“to be or not to be”) is a necessary precursor of value for humans.[1] Without some fundamental alternative, an agent’s course of action would have no purpose and thus no value, if he would even act at all.

Value, then, is derived from a system of conditional imperatives that reduce to the fundamental alternatives and the respective facts pertaining to them. If one wants to live, he ought to eat; if one wants to eat, he ought to produce food; if one wants to produce food, he ought to learn about agriculture, gathering, or hunting, etc. Because the achievement of prolonged existence or one of its corollaries is the achievement of a material state, there is a consistent and empirically-derived basis for resolving the content of the latter portion of conditional imperatives. In this sense, values are objective; they can not be achieved consistently by arbitrary whim.

Without any further elaboration, Mackie’s argument from relativity will pose a problem for the objectivity of value. One could simply argue that there was never a contention in the first place that the optimal fulfillment of hypothetical imperatives was not a matter of objective fact- that it is only the content of the “if” portions of the imperatives that lend themselves to subjectivity, and this is our concern. The problem with this assertion is that it ignores the essential commonality among human beings. In one way, relativity has merit: if you want to grow food in Italy, grow wheat; if you want to grow food in Ireland, grow potatoes. These are two different “ways” of life, both of which can be correct. However, those statements are merely higher-order expressions of the basic imperative, “if you want to live, eat,” which is one of the many imperatives relating to the agent’s relationship to the fundamental outcomes of existence versus non-existence. In other words, by their being what they are, humans are committed to the conditional imperative “if you are human, and if you want to live, satisfy your physical needs.”[2] The chief difference between a condition such as “if you desire a grade of ‘A’” and “if you are human” is that the products of the latter have claim to objectivity, because the agent does not choose it, whether as an end or a means to an end; it is only a fact given by nature. The result is the existence of an objective value which is not intrinsic, but is logically dependent on the presence of humankind.

In the end, Mackie’s argument for the subjectivity of values makes a strong case against the existence of intrinsic values. He draws attention to several important inconsistencies and difficulties encountered by the philosophical daydreams of Platonic ideals, intrinsic values, and others of their conceptual family. Nevertheless, his argument is insufficient as proof for the subjectivity of values across different agents of the same kind (humans, as the only relevant case). In summation, consider the following hypothetical imperatives: if you are looking for an unambiguous explanation of why the concept of intrinsic value is metaphysically and epistemologically bizarre, read Mackie’s “The Subjectivity of Values”; if you are looking for a normative validation of a moral free-for-all, read Gilbert Harman’s “Moral Relativism Defended” instead; if you are looking for proof that objective values do not exist, you must extend your search a bit farther than Mackie’s limited, albeit excellent, article.

Source:

Mackie, J.L. “The Subjectivity of Values” In Ethical Theory: Classical and Contemporary Readings, edited by Louis Pojman, 446-456. Belmont: Wadsworth, 2002.

[2] “What if I don’t want to live?” is a question that merits some serious discussion beyond the scope of this paper. My summarized response is that life is a necessary precondition for all possible values that follow. One who does not want to live constitutes one who has chosen to reject interaction with reality, which cannot be replaced by something else.

Changes in attitude toward laissez-faire capitalism historically have been generally defined by any or all of three major shifts: most importantly, the replacement of liberal political rights with economic entitlements; closely connected, a new emphasis on collective instead of individual good; and in effect, the belief in the use of organized coercion (government) as a valuable tool for bettering those collectives. Two contemporary thinkers, John Rawls and Robert Nozick, brought the debate about the role of government in a wealthy liberal democracy (such as ours) back to the philosophical forefront, asking the essential question: if they should at all, for what reasons should government be able to interfere with the market, beyond protecting its citizens from violence and fraud?[1] On one side, Rawls’ Theory of Justice attempts to justify a broader scope of government powers by appealing to a Kant-esque “original position,” in which agents must decide on principles of justice irrespective of what their physical position will actually be in the world. On the other, Nozick’s Anarchy, State, and Utopia sets out to construct a consistent account of the ideal libertarian state, and in the process reject Rawls’ arguments.[2] There is strong evidence – both in Nozick’s writings and elsewhere – that the position delineated in A Theory of Justice is a flawed justification for the liberal welfare state.

Rawls’ Equality and Difference Principles

Though the focus of this post will be on government’s role as a redistributor of wealth, a holistic understanding of Rawls’ account of government is essential to understanding his position on redistribution. His primary concern in exploring social justice is what rights and duties members of a society must have in its institutions, and in turn how the benefits (and burdens) of social cooperation should be distributed. He argues from two principles of justice: the equality principle and the difference principle. The former prescribes that each individual must possess the same level of liberty as each other individual, and the latter prescribes that social and economic inequalities should be rectified for the greatest benefit of the least advantaged. These are ordered by priority; the institutions of the first can not be surpassed by “greater social and economic advantages.” Rawls defines these two principles are part of a larger, more general conception of social values: “all social values – liberty and opportunity, income and wealth, and the bases of self-respect – are to be distributed equally unless an unequal distribution of any, or all, of these values is to everyone’s advantage.” One essential implication in this statement is that institutionally, the course of action we should take (as constrained by the equality principle) is an empirical question. If general property rights, freedom of association, and other facets of laissez-faire capitalism most frequently lead to material inequality compared to centrally planned production, yet produce a level of output that makes everyone better off, then they ought to be instituted.

The Original Position

He arrives at his principles of justice by creating a thought experiment, the “original position,” from which he derives his notion of “justice as fairness.” Before doing so, he establishes two primary premises. The first is a constraint of social unity; the freedom and equality of citizens must be respected. The second pertains to the fact that there always exists a plurality of conceptions of the good; these include one’s fundamental beliefs, values, projects, personal loyalties, and so forth. Because of these underlying necessities, Rawls holds a contractualist position in order to create a theory of justice which does not depend on any of those conceptions, but one with which free and equal citizens could be expected to reasonably agree. The establishment of a contract (a consensual agreement) would be the only way of respecting the autonomy of individuals totally, while at the same time providing a framework for universal governance. For a simple example, a comprehensive moral doctrine such as utilitarianism (“always act in such a way that leads to the greatest happiness”) would not, in Rawls’ view, be used as a starting point from which societal institutions would be designed, because one can always reasonably disagree with such a doctrine. Instead, the principles of justice would be determined by the hypothetical rational agreement in what Rawls argues to be the fair conditions of the original position (hence “justice as fairness”).

The original position has several necessary characteristics to achieve Rawls’ conclusions about justice. Firstly, he defines the participants, positing rational agents, who, in the negotiation, seek the guarantee of rights and resources to pursue their individual conceptions of the good, reflect on them and change them, and apply them. These assumptions are responsible for traditional liberal institutions (rights) of “freedom of conscience”: freedom of speech, press, religion, etc. Likewise, they are partially explanatory of common, universally accessible public resources: free primary schooling, public libraries, universities, etc. Secondly, he delineates the critical constraints: the finality of the contract, and most importantly, the “veil of ignorance.” Those participating in the original position have no knowledge of what their natural endowment, their place in society, or their conception of the good will be, but they will have general knowledge of how the world works and expect moderate scarcity of resources. The purpose of the veil of ignorance is to prevent these self-interested agents from supporting principles of justice that are biased in favor of their characteristics, instead forcing them to adopt universalizable principles. They will not know who they will be when they enter society (rich or poor, utilitarian or Kantian, etc.), and thus any preferential policy which they advocate in the original position is equally likely (from their perspective) to be to their benefit as their detriment.

Rawls on Wealth Distribution

This leads to Rawls’ position on wealth redistribution. Its primary cause extends from the condition of utility maximization in the context of a lack of information about the distribution of outcomes. In effect, Rawls is appealing to the choices rational economic actors ought to make in the face of uncertainty. Imagine the following example of choice relating to uncertain outcomes. Someone must choose between two different coin-flip games: in one, the heads payoff is $5000, and the tails payoff is $0; in the other, the heads payoff is $2000, and the tails payoff is $1000. The coin is being flipped by a well-known trickster, who is reputable for his pleasure in biasing coins to any possible distribution. The player is aware of this, and thus does not know the probability that either heads or tails will occur on the coin, entailing a situation of total uncertainty. By Rawls’ (and standard game theoretic) reasoning, the player’s rational choice would be to choose the $2000-or-$1000 coin, in effect maximizing the outcome of the worst-case scenario. This coin is known as the maximin option, the uncertain game with the best worst outcome. In distributive justice, the maximin option would be the one in which the least advantaged, whoever it may be, will be guaranteed a certain payoff by society, whether it is in food, shelter, employment, healthcare, or education, at the expense of a higher payoff for others.

Rawls’ position is thus unique, in that he constructs it from no particular conception of the good except that of respecting individual autonomy at the inception of political principles. Unlike most advocates of distributive justice, he does not conclude his principles from some objective conception of the good, but only from a rational contractarian decision by agents to properly define the rules of social cooperation.

Objections a la Nozick and me

In opposition to Rawls, Nozick questions the validity of defining justice as some pattern of holdings- a material end-state. He holds that any theory of justice must either be end-result or historical, and either patterned or unpatterned. Nozick’s “entitlement” theory is historical and unpatterned; in short, a just distribution of wealth does not require any correspondence to some pattern (moral merit, need, etc.), but merely the appropriate history of how it was acquired. Nozick thus emphasizes the importance of “justice in acquisition” and “justice in transfer,” as opposed to “justice in holdings,” an important concept in the thought of the economic left.

Central to Nozick’s objections to Rawls is his assertion that liberty inevitably disrupts patterned holdings. An important part of ownership is the freedom to transfer things to others. This means that any given distribution, after it is allocated, will be immediately changed so long as individuals choose to freely exchange their possessions. In order for a principle of patterned distributive justice to be consistent, it must always be applied; thus, the only means of guaranteeing any specific distribution is by constant interference in the economy or the abolition of free individual exchange. In light of that, Nozick observes the alienation from the source of wealth caused by patterned distribution principles. Wealth is implicitly taken as a given thing to be divided, when, in fact, how it is divided affects how much wealth there will be over time.

Rawls’ general process of justification for welfare merits interpretation and criticism. The original position (OP) is flawed as an accurate representation of the frame in which valid principles of government, if there are any which do exist, should be determined. Assuming a group has no choice but to endure conditions in the OP as set forth by Rawls, their strategy makes sense. Discussing the OP from a different angle yields additional insight into its nature. With a specific focus on those issues of justice relating to property, we can reformulate the OP as a new thought experiment, in this manner: our world as we know it- with the rich and poor, the talented and untalented, etc.- must have a “Rawlsian original position” convention in order to determine the proper principles of justice. In order to do so, everyone must leave his actual person and move behind the veil of ignorance. Thus, an agent whose actual person is rich by talent and hard work will be unaware of his actual status, and, in accordance with his rational interest in the original position, will have no choice but to accept the maximin set of rules and unwittingly sacrifice his wealth.

To implicitly reiterate this formulation, Nozick cites an example of students taking an examination who decide to go to the original position to determine what the criteria for grading the test should be. Each party in this contract will seek to secure the best arrangement for himself. The maximin option will likely entail that what will not be chosen is a policy based on what students earn through their performances.

This exposes a pair of critical observations about Rawls’ argument: first, that it depends on the notion that gains from differences in nature are “unfair,” “undeserved,” or “morally arbitrary”; second, that individual merit (such as choosing to work hard to develop one’s talents instead of lazily watching television) is not relevant. His argument shifts from one position which (reasonably) says that “deserved” is not a valid descriptor of natural endowments, to another that holds that those endowments are explicitly “undeserved.” The difference between the two is clear: the former merely reflects the value-neutrality of natural outcomes, allowing one the right to individually benefit from them; the latter clearly describes a situation which normatively requires redress. It appears that Rawls- if he chooses to reject a person’s entitlement to the benefits of his own natural states- will be caught in between contradictorily ignoring individual merit and holding a view of humans as deterministic zombies.

Empirical issues?

Another major area of contention against the general idea of government-enforced “distributive justice” lies in the historical and expected performance of institutions manifesting those principles.[3] There is little doubt that humans are, at least generally, self-interested. Their admission into a government post does little to alter that fact: agents will always seek to maximize their own utility, which is for the most part only checked by externally-imposed penalties. As a point of clarification, self-interested activity need not be self-oriented; the defining feature of self-interest is the pursuit of one’s conception of the good, no matter what it is. Other-oriented behavior is still detrimental to the efficiency of operating a government post, so long as the objectives of an action are not functionally isomorphic with having an interest in the efficiency or proper operation of government (e.g. one gives preference to one’s family, or ethnic group, etc.) Institutional design should ideally be aimed to create this isomorphism of personal to public interest, in the theoretical tradition of Madison, established in Federalist No. 51; though this may be the best solution, this does not mean that it is totally successful in absolute terms.

The operation of institutions to enforce justice in general is faced by many challenges. Simply dealing with the basics – military, police, and courts – is already a daunting task to do correctly. Even on the comparatively simple starting point of individual rights to life, liberty, and property, cases of conflicting obligation arise on a frequent basis, particularly in establishing “reasonable expectations” in cases where a contract was not explicitly written and signed. The incorporation of distributive justice into the system of obligations complicates it immensely. Now, those tasked with adjudicating disputes must appeal to a broader host of laws and guarantees, while adapting to the constraints of equality, scarce resources, and respecting Rawls’ first principle of justice.

The cost of oversight is borne by more institutional expenditure (bureaucracy to watch bureaucracy, which may require some oversight of its own) which ultimately is borne by the constituent public. Besides taxes, the individuals must be attentive to their tax dollars at work. End-state distributive justice, as in the case of adjudication, not only necessitates the creation of more laws and more bureaucracies to execute those laws, but requires more lawyers, advocates, lobbyists, action groups, and others of their kind. Essentially, an entire sector of labor and knowledge must be dedicated to navigating complex institutions instead of those resources being applied to more productive endeavors. Furthermore, for the average citizen, a greater level of education and attentiveness to current affairs is required to ensure that he is not being swindled by special interest groups via these institutions. The bottom line is that he must trade off work hours or leisure in order to protect his “investment” in the government. His alternative is that his tax dollars go to waste-a problem plaguing governments worldwide today.

On the flip side of the problem of Rawls ignoring individual merit is the issue of diminished incentives to produce. In a market setting, wealth redistribution can be construed as a subsidy (or a kind of de facto tax) on a particular kind of behavior, namely labor. Rawls cannot simply assume that individuals will work and produce as they would have before; with an expectation of a certain level of well-being, many recipients of welfare benefits will be far less likely to produce the value of the goods and services they are guaranteed. From their perspective, they possess an exogenous level of utility irrespective of their action (sans filing the correct forms). Not all of them will be dependent on government services for factors supposedly beyond their control. The presence of those institutions will have a distortionary effect on how wealth is generated in the economy. Even argued strictly in terms of Rawls’ theory, these observations about redistributive establishments demonstrate that the “pie” is heavily damaged by the presence of such institutions.

Some would argue that wealth redistribution and other forms of economic interventionism are institutions we need or ought to have, and that they can work if they are designed correctly or if the right people staff them. To some degree, that is true, but only in as much as it is true of all institutions and forms of government. If people of the appropriate mindset who possess the appropriate values are readily available, then almost any system of any values will not produce unbearable results. Small, Republican city-states of the kind that Rousseau so often praised are examples of such agreement between people and state. Nonetheless, this is an ambitious and unrealistic necessary precondition for any system, which is more than often faced with the reality of many people with many competing interests. The fact that so many brilliant minds are and have been ideologically committed to the construction of wealth-redistributive institutions, yet at the same time have not succeeded in designing comprehensive ones that have proven to be effective, sustainable, and cost-efficient, is testament to the fact that the inherent nature of such institutions conflicts with the inherent nature of humans and reality. Of course, by no means does this paper claim to be the last word: to do justice to Rawls’ Theory of Justice (no pun intended), a fuller exposition of Rawls’ potential counter-objections as well as greater clarification of the assumptions at play are required. Nevertheless, the essence of the argument stands that Rawls, as one of the most prominent supporters of the liberal welfare state, must address several problems- both theoretical and empirical- with his conception of justice.

Sources:

Rawls, John. 1971. A Theory of Justice. Harvard University Press (1999).

Nozick, Robert. 1974. Anarchy, State, and Utopia. Basic Books, Inc.

[2] Nozick’s position in totality is much less linear, and much more difficult to summarize, than Rawls’. That is not to say that Rawls’ position is simpler or dumber, but just that his account is easier to capture briefly. My exposition of Nozick will thus be limited to his position vis-à-vis Rawls’ view on distributive justice.

[3] Evidence generally supporting my argument are nations with major government intervention and spending that have descended into massive debt. The United States is one such example. Also, most of the nations of Europe (notably France and Germany) are suffering from large debts and unfunded welfare liabilities which account for as much as 250% of GDP. Enumerating many specific institutional cases would be an interesting basis for further study of my assertions.

Hobbes

Firstly, Hobbes’s moral philosophy is specifically egoistic. While many of his statements point to his being a psychological egoist, much of what he says implies that he is, in fact, an ethical egoist: he believes that we ought to do what is in our individual self-interest. Namely, he suggests that humans are frequently short-sighted in their decisions, self-deceptive about their motives (e.g. altruism), and otherwise unreliable in rationally determining actions in their interests. Generally speaking, while we always act in our self-interest, we do not always act in a way that fulfills it best (though we ought to).[1]

According to Hobbes, the state of nature is defined by the absence of authority (except that of a mother over her child). All men are more or less equal. Though some may be stronger or smarter than others, each man is always susceptible to being killed by others, whether by deception, by others in unison, etc.[2] Because men are egoistic and will do whatever is in their interest, this pits mankind in a perpetual state of war of “all against all.”

He argues that peaceful cooperation is impossible without the power of an umbrella of absolute authority, for three general reasons: first, we will compete violently for subsistence or other material desires; second, we will live fearfully and challenge others in order to ensure our personal safety; and finally, we will seek reputation, by violence primarily, to ward others off from challenging us.[3] With no guarantor of security, “the wickedness of bad men also compels good men to have recourse, for their own protection, to the virtues of war, which are violence and fraud,”[4] ensuring the constant perpetuation of war.

In the state of nature, man has “a right to all things,” which is an implicit basis for the rest of Hobbes’s argument for the moral rightness of an absolute sovereign. He derives this right from the understanding that all humans seek self-preservation and are not only entitled to it, but to be the judges of what it entails. Given that, Hobbes states, “…this also is consequent: that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice have no place [in the state of nature].”[5]

The Sovereign

From these suppositions and observations about human nature, Hobbes invariably concludes the requirement of an absolute sovereign. In accordance with egoism, we ought to avoid the state of nature because doing so is prudently avoiding violent death. In turn, the only thing that can allow humans to avoid the state of nature is an unlimited sovereign. Hobbes’s first “law of nature” states, “every man ought to endeavor peace, as far as he has hope of obtaining it, and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek and use all helps and advantages of war.”[6] Hobbes’s second law states:

“That a man be willing, when others are so too, as far-forth as for peace and defense of himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all things, and be contented with so much liberty against other men, as he would allow other men against himself.” [7]

These two laws are the bridges Hobbes builds to close the gap between the state of nature and civil society. Because man should endeavor peace, and because the antithesis of peace is man exercising his right to all things (i.e. war in the state of nature), man must sacrifice this right for others to do the same. This specifically includes the right of judgment, which is then transferred to the sovereign. The result is a government with absolute power, as the only rightful judge of any dispute. If the government’s power is not absolute, then a state of war persists because the government does not possess all the means to stop it.

Some Problems with Hobbes’ Sovereign

Hobbes’s explanation for the formation of civil society is troublesome, at best. The covenant (or contract) that Hobbes suggests for the empowerment of an absolute unlimited has numerous difficulties in being both plausible and consistent. When the sovereign fails to protect life, the duty of obedience lapses, but that leaves unanswered the question of what one’s obligations are during civil war. Hobbes tries to remedy this problem by placing emphasis on promise-keeping as having moral value, yet a civil war (the breakdown of government’s control) represents a lapse into the state of nature, in which there are no obligations, and a paradox in Hobbes’ thought arises. The only consistent solution is for the people to obey whoever possesses the supreme force. Also, the covenant meets difficulties when applied to those born into existing governments, to which Hobbes objects that those who did not explicitly consent to the covenant are at least responsible for it implicitly, because it is in their self-interest to do so. However, this is really an objection of prudence and can be disputed by any amount of evidence to the contrary. Overall, the contract produced by Hobbes is hardly genuine.

Furthermore, Hobbes’s account of human nature and rights leaves much to be desired. From positing a hypothetical state of nature, he semi-sensibly concludes that in such a state, each individual has a “right to all things.” However, he incorrectly uses this single hypothetical state as the moral barometer with which he judges everything else. In other words, he fails to acknowledge any human-based moral truths that are broader than the “right to all” found in his hypothetical state of nature. Internally, this may pose no problem for the traditional mechanistic, psychological egoist Hobbes: there is no use for morality if the world is determined, and rights are determined by what one can and can not do; liberty, as he says, is freedom of motion. Thus, the right of man would be to assure his freedom of motion by any means possible, which (when unregulated) results in the destructive state of nature, and so forth.

However, for a reading of Hobbes that allows for moral error, it is precisely because the state of nature is so chaotic, dangerous, and unpredictable that humans cannot be expected to choose the “high road” while their primary concern, their own preservation, is in direct danger. The upshot is that the “high road”[8] exists, and there is no reason why it can not be taken under different circumstances. Though he provides a very compelling scientific-deductive argument for the state of nature as it results from human inclinations (to be selfish, aggressive, vainglorious, etc.), Hobbes too rapidly concludes that egoistic behavior always results in a dangerous state of nature. Egoists behaving rationally can recognize that, for example, the breaking of a contract may be a plausible enterprise now, but it results in the inability to construct contracts later because of a reputation effect. They can recognize that force is not a value- it can only be used to confiscate values which can only be made by production (a rational process) – and that a world of force is a hungry and poor one, with little incentive to change. They may, as in Locke, recognize rationally that committing an act of force to rule another essentially subjects them to a forfeiture of their own rights. Many present and past societies such as those in the United States have shown that the combination of minimal government and egoistic individuals, forming what would be according to Hobbes a state of nature, have coexisted peacefully and produced much “commodious living.” Therefore, the greatest good for the egoist individual does not invariably reside in consent to absolute governance, as Hobbes would insist.

Locke

On the other hand, Locke expresses a different notion of human nature and, concordantly, of the state of nature. He holds that “Men living according to reason, without a common superior on earth, to judge between them, is properly the state of nature.”[9] Because Locke’s theory is rooted in natural law, his arguments closely follow the notion of the objective rights of individuals- broadly, their freedom, equality, and independence. His portrayal of the state of nature better resembles one of anarchic individualism, an image far from the brutality and paranoia of the Hobbesian state. Locke claims, indirectly, that Hobbes fails to distinguish appropriately between the state of nature and the state of war. He also does not simply posit man in nature as a thought experiment, as does Hobbes, but he suggests that historically many have lived in such a state.

Locke asserts the transcendent reality of natural law, with reason as the tool for discovering it. In short, by initiating force, aggressors against persons or property have renounced reason (and their humanity) and are subject to force themselves.[10] Underlying Locke’s nature-war distinction, only the initiation of force constitutes a state of war, and thus a state of nature can exist in peace. While Hobbes described man in nature as primarily amoral, Locke holds the opposite as true. Besides the existentialist-like quality of morality under natural law- by which one who wills some immoral wrong has inevitably willed it universally and for himself- rationality also guides action by demonstrating the counter-productivity and destructiveness of aggression against one’s fellow man. In this way, Locke addresses the problems in Hobbes’s analysis of the violent and chaotic implications of egoism, instead arguing for the spontaneous orders caused by rational self-interested thought.

Locke’s Civil Society

The reasons Locke provides for why man might want to leave the ideal state of nature’s “perfect freedom and equality” are the “inconveniences” experienced by the majority of rational people: the costs of lack of knowledge of certain laws and an impartial adjudicator; the absence of an ultimate power for law enforcement, which allows for the strongest groups to execute what they please; and the agent’s general difficulty in judging law impartially.

For Locke, the purpose of civil society is not for the governed to be directly guided in such a way that they will survive and flourish, as Hobbes might advocate. Though survival and propagation are the preferred outcomes, the function of government is specifically to provide a framework for the protection of life, liberty, and property. Locke’s view can be summarized as one of a minimal state, whose justification requires total consent of the governed.[11] His objections to unlimited sovereignty of the kind Hobbes supports are part of an implicit undercurrent of his works, but are well-delineated in his Second Treatise in Chapter IV, “Of Slavery”:

“But freedom of men under government, is, to have a standing rule to live by, common to every one of that society, and made by the legislative power erected in it; a liberty to follow my own will in all things, where the rule prescribes not; and not to be subject to the inconstant, uncertain, unknown arbitrary will of another man: as freedom of nature is, to be under no other restraint but the law of nature.”

Unlimited sovereign authority is precisely that: the inconstant, uncertain, unknown arbitrary will of another man. The only form of government which is consistent with the rights of man is one which is restrained by the law of nature.

Some Problems in Locke

By contrast, we can see the comparative improvements of Locke’s political theory over that of Hobbes, though it also possesses some significant shortcomings. Among these are issues of consent to governance, in which Locke suffers from the same plausibility-versus-consistency trade-off as Hobbes does; and the inherent conflict between the idea of electing an arbitrator and government as the imposition of a single one for all.[12]

Consent is largely a problem for any political theory which treasures the independence of man, in the sense that there are numerous externalities that complicate the pragmatic feasibility of a right to secede and form governments freely. Locke somewhat resolves this with his doctrine of tacit consent, appearing the moment that someone resides in a sovereign’s territory or owns property there. However, this is at best a patchwork fix to the problem of consent, since governance should be a compact between the state and the governed, none of which directly implies territoriality or any non-consensual obligation.

Likewise, the need for a universal arbitrator as a reason for exiting the state of nature to form civil society can be contested. One might ask, “Who is to arbitrate between the people and the state?” This creates another problem for Locke, who acknowledges it:

“Where an appeal to the Law … lies open, but the remedy is deny’d by a manifest perverting of Justice, … there it is hard to imagine any thing but a State of War. For wherever violence is used, and injury done, though by hands appointed to administer Justice, it is still violence and injury, however colour’d with the Name, Pretences, or Forms of Law…”[13]

Concerns about the capture of arbitration, especially one which is practically monopolized on issues of force, severely undermine Locke’s political theory in favor of anarchistic individualism. Likely sensing that this objection was beyond the scope of his capabilities and not inclined to accept rebellion as a solution, Locke simply suggests that those dissatisfied with arbitration, with no other appeal available, “are left to the only remedy in such cases, an appeal to heaven.”

[2] Hobbes, Leviathan, xiii.

[3] Hobbes, Leviathan, xiii.

[4] Hobbes, De Cive, Epistle Dedicatory.

[5] Hobbes, Leviathan, xiii.

[6] Hobbes, Leviathan, xiv.

[7] Hobbes, Leviathan, xiv.

[8] The “high road” is used in the ethical egoist’s sense, i.e. the most rational action of self-interest. This could entail even a Lockean perception of morality, connecting the two thinkers quite closely.

[9] Locke, Two Treatises. 2.19

[10] Locke, Two Treatises. 2.16

[11] Locke, Two Treatises. 2.176

[12] Locke’s Political Philosophy. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/locke-political/. Accessed March 05, 2007.

[13] Locke, Two Treatises. 2.20

Overall, utilitarianism is a philosophical mess. Its moral implications are strange; its practice is filled with difficulties and absurdities; and its justification arises from, principally, nowhere. Mill’s treatment of utilitarianism, in particular, is one with egregious flaws. Its essential characteristics can be listed as follows: pleasure (in the non-degrading sense) is all that is intrinsically valuable; each person’s pleasure is valued equally, with allowance for “kind”; an action’s morality is measured by its positive productive correspondence with pleasure (for all); and agents must be disinterested spectators in order to consider their decisions correctly.[1] Problems with utilitarianism can be generally summarized in three, often inter-related, categories: the alienation of agents from themselves, problems of moral calculation, and lack of justification.

The doctrine of consequentialism[2] is the principal cause of bizarre moral demands expressed by utilitarianism. As Philippa Foot notes, there is a very compelling idea behind suggesting that no one would ever consider it morally acceptable to choose a worse state of affairs over a better one.[3] Using that idea as an argument against non-consequentialist theories, however, either begs the question or causes friction with pre-existing, weak intuition, depending on the senses of the words “better” and “worse.” If they are used normatively, clearly no deontological[4] moral theorist would reject a morally “better” state of affairs (more duties fulfilled) for a “worse” one – to do so would be antithetical to having a moral theory in the first place, and thus this case is trivial.[5] If they are used supposing some usage which is non-normative but somehow value-based, then they essentially ignore the moral theory under criticism, instead imposing a standard from a foreign hierarchy of values, i.e. a floating abstraction. For example, one might criticize Ayn Rand’s Objectivism for providing no political guarantee for the care of physically handicapped (beyond protection from coercion), indicating an alleged problem with the consequences of Objectivism. However, Objectivism establishes a direct relationship between its principles (e.g., non-interventionism) and concretes (e.g., nature of reality, nature of humans, validity of the senses, etc.), so this criticism merely involves some relativistic view of a “good” state of affairs being used as a standard to judge a reasoned moral theory.

Consequentialism affects the role of the agent in moral decision-making quite severely. Under consequentialist utilitarianism, an action’s morality can be defined thusly: that action is moral which brings about the intrinsically desirable state of affairs. An agent is as much morally responsible for those states which arise from his action as those from his inaction. Therefore, at any given point in time, he must decide which action will produce the proper state from that point forward, regardless of the past. An important observation here is that the actions of other agents are no greater factors in the agent’s decision than anything else, i.e. they are simply part of the environment in which he must bring about the best state of affairs.

In other words, all considerations for an agent’s decision are exogenous: his concern ought to be to take what is given, and to produce the best outcome from it. Suppose a man, a proficient utilitarian named John Stuart, is walking down the street of a very happy society. Along comes a man of great evil who is part of an alliance of reputable wrong-doers, who presents the utilitarian with an ultimatum: “kill yourself, or I will kill ten people very much like you in this very happy society.” The evil alliance of wrong-doing does, indeed, have a strict policy of honoring its sinister promises when they are made, and has yet to break it. J.S., as a good utilitarian, knows that if he does not kill himself, he will be morally responsible for the deaths of ten very happy people, since he could have prevented it.[6]

Clearly, there is something amiss in this example. A determined utilitarian could say that the evil man is morally blameworthy for presenting J.S. with such a terrible situation, since either outcome (minus one person or minus ten people) reduces the greatest overall happiness. Nonetheless, this does not change the nature of J.S.’s decision: he must weigh the utilities at hand, which obviously point away from his continued existence, and make the right or wrong choice. The relevant implication is that J.S., as an agent, is alienated from his own person. He is not only responsible for his own actions, but for the actions of others (the evil man and the sinister organization). As Bernard Williams states, consequentialism implies that “from the moral point of view, there is no comprehensible difference which consists just in my bringing about a certain outcome rather than someone else’s producing it.” Because the focus of utilitarian moral action is to produce a specific end-state for everyone, J.S. (or anyone in his position) must put aside all of his projects (being happy, being a philosopher, being alive) when the ultimatum is issued to him and act as the projects of others demand.[7]

The utilitarian calculus is also the source of much trouble. How practical is it to fully integrate all requisite information (the happiness of all others, the results of an action on it, etc.) into a properly weighted scale in order to make the right decision? Mill qualifies this problem by suggesting that it is a problem shared by all moral theories:

There is no ethical creed which does not temper the rigidity of its laws by giving a certain latitude, under the moral responsibility of the agent, for accommodation to peculiarities of circumstances and, under every creed, at the opening thus made, self- deception and dishonest casuistry get in. There exists no moral system under which there do not arise unequivocal cases of conflicting obligation.

This contention does not suffice, however. It is indeed true that all moral theories encounter difficulties, but to invoke that as an absolution of utilitarianism’s difficulties is analogous to telling an upstart typewriter company in the 21^st century, “every business has trouble and needs to invest at a loss when it gets started- don’t worry, go ahead and invest.” Utilitarianism requires a tremendous amount of input in order to properly discover the right decision, across many persons in both the short-run and long-run. The sheer volume of particulars in the world must be considered in every case, as opposed to the fewer particulars that would be necessary in, say, a natural law framework of morality. The conclusion is that the “calculated” utilitarian choice is often wildly divergent from its ideal, morally correct choice. Contrarily, in a natural law theory, someone makes a contract and knows to keep it because, via reason, he has concluded that contracts ought to be kept, and that in this specific situation he knows that it applies (for the obvious reason that he signed his name on a physical contract with another person). In the context of the theory, there is only a miniscule chance that he has made an error in his judgment.

Rule utilitarianism is an attempt at fixing this insurmountable pragmatic challenge, but it only serves to reaffirm, as almost a utilitarian’s admission of guilt, the puzzles encountered in using the greatest happiness principle as a moral guide. Whereas deontological moral theories fix their rules as absolute, rule utilitarianism only provides its laws as “rules of thumb” which supposedly tend to bring about the greatest happiness. For the former, in practice, there is a much higher correspondence between reality and its ideal principles than the latter possesses. Though these tremendous obstacles for the greatest happiness principle do not necessarily refute it, they are evidence for the weakness of utilitarianism as a theory which represents reality.

Supposing that we can accurately calculate the greatest good, what kind of outcomes could we find? Take a society of k agents, whose utility distribution is expressed by (U₁, U₂, … U_k) and whose total utility is, accordingly, U_t = U₁ + U₂ + … U_k. Compare different distributions: A = (10, 10, 10, 10, 10), B = (15, 15, 10, 5, 5), and C = (20, 15, 5, 5, 6). Holding that any synergistic gains in benefits (elimination of class barriers, social stability, etc.) are accounted for, the principle of utility should show moral indifference between A and B (both of sum 50), and ideally choose C (sum 51). Yet C, hypothetically, could possibly be a society of slaves. This does not constitute a logical objection to utilitarianism, and to contend so would be to commit the fallacy of using an external value as a standard of judgment, as I mentioned earlier. However, it is certainly an implication that a utilitarian must acknowledge when advocating this as a moral theory.

In light of this, utilitarian calculus can always be revised appropriately to face any objection or unpleasant reality. Different weights can be placed on certain kinds of suffering or kinds of action to the point that the consequentialist moral structure can be functionally isomorphic with a deontological structure. Though each revision does not make consequentialism void ipso facto, it progressively weakens the significance of using a results-oriented moral theory as an alternative to deontological theories. While Jeremy Bentham accuses moral thinking of being tethered to the notion of usefulness, it is here where the argument can be turned against the utilitarian for attaching itself to some notion of duty.

Rule utilitarianism is one such attempt to correct difficulties by combining consequentialism with a desire to adhere to traditional moral rules (promise-keeping, non-violence, private property, etc.) All the utilitarian must do is hold that the pragmatic result of some rule (formerly conceived as a duty in itself) leads to the greatest happiness, or that violation of it leads to the greatest pain. For example, Mill would argue against a hypothetical slave society as posited earlier by saying that no such society could ever exist. At best, this is a very weak method of refutation and the burden of proof is on Mill to either show that the empirical facts strongly affirm the statement, or to allow that such a society is morally acceptable. The alterability of the standard moral content of utilitarianism subjects it to the dangers of whim and abuse, which frequently undermine its significance as a theory of how we ought to behave. One need only examine each time historically a “greater good” was invoked in order to mobilize people to commit atrocities (the Holocaust, the Soviet purges, Rwandan genocide, etc.)

The entire discussion prior to this sentence, of course, is mostly an exercise of thought and is not essential; simply put, Mill’s Utilitarianism fails to present a valid justification for the principle of utility in the first place. In fact, it is this failure that indirectly causes the aforementioned difficulties. There is no relationship drawn between the moral theory he advocates and any believable story of human nature. The previously expressed concerns are mostly problems encountered with utilitarian principles as a given, but how these principles were derived in the first place must be addressed. Mill’s bogus proof is the first part of this failure:

The only proof capable of being given that an object is visible is that people actually see it. The only proof that a sound is audible is that people hear it; and so of the other sources of our experience. In like manner, I apprehend, the sole evidence it is possible to produce that anything is desirable is that people do actually desire it… this, however, being a fact, we have not only all the proof which the case admits of, but all which it is possible to require, that happiness is a good, that each person’s happiness is a good to that person, and the general happiness, therefore, a good to the aggregate of all persons.

The equivocation of the word “desirable” in his proof is clear. He intends to argue that people desire happiness, which makes it desirable (i.e. intrinsically good). However, he fails to account for the different senses of the word “desirable.” His proof could correctly assert that if people desire happiness, it is capable of being desired, but his intended demonstration that happiness is intrinsically worthy of being desired because people desire it is fallacy. By Mill’s logic, one could simply substitute any noun- like “cats”- for “happiness,” and there would be a proof for the intrinsic value of cats! The problem with Mill’s proof is that what people contingently happen to desire does not change what is “desirable” (in the intrinsic sense); just because nobody in the 14^th century desired equal recognition of the rights of women does not mean that it is not in fact desirable.[8]

Furthermore, the second part of his proof commits the fallacy of composition. While it is indeed true that the good of one individual contributes to the good of the aggregate of all persons (which is merely a sum total of individual goods), the reverse (that the general happiness is a good to the individual), which is the goal of Mill’s proof, is not true. The aggregate of all persons is not an entity in itself which possesses a good, and any increase in the aggregate of happiness is not necessarily fulfilling the desire for happiness of all its members; it could be fulfilling the desires of one, few, or many. Even supposing the reality of some kind of collective entity, Mill provides no reason why we ought to care for each other’s happiness.

Is there, yet, any defense of utilitarianism which renders it plausible? In the absence of a proof of the principle of utility, Bentham contends that all moral systems reduce to a form of utility, are ambiguous, or cannot be followed consistently. While Bentham’s claims about the utilitarian climate of moral reasoning are true, its implications do not end in utilitarianism. How agents ought to behave must be connected in some way to a view of the physical nature of those agents and the physical reality in which they reside. It would, for example, be nonsensical to argue that an incorporeal being has a right to his own personal space, or a right not to be stabbed- these are all rights that implicitly depend on the agent residing in physical space. Likewise, a reasonable morality which pertains to human beings corresponds to their nature- desiring to live, existing in space and time, mortal, requiring sustenance, etc. There is no justification for a moral theory that does not consider these facts (it is either ambiguous or inconsistent). In this respect, moral theory is concerned with utility. Since rights are derived from man acting in the function of man, so it is no surprise that these rights are concerned with fulfilling man’s functions and purpose (the ultimate end), and are thus utility-related. The fundamental difference between utility in this sense and utility in the utilitarian sense is that the former more generally deals with the pragmatic satisfaction of any given purpose, while the latter is its own moral system which prescribes a specific purpose: the greatest happiness for all. In summary, Bentham’s contention can be satisfied without requiring the adoption of the specific normative guidelines of utilitarianism.

The period extending from the late 19^th century to the present day could be described as “the slow death of deontological morality to consequentialism.” Indeed, changes in the texture of popular philosophical discourse have invariably seeped into the political environment. The Progressive movement of the early 20^th century changed the focus in America from political to “economic” freedoms- no longer the right to property, but the right to a decent standard of living. Social revolutions occurred everywhere in the world, to “make the lot better” of struggling groups: the proletariat in Russia, the Aryans in Germany, and the dissatisfied of Cuba. Each year, the most powerful governments of the world shift policy toward socialism and guarantees of results for the citizen, whether it is healthcare, shelter, employment, or social acceptance. Underlying this great movement is a moral righteousness endorsed by consequentialist philosophies which share the general forms of Mill’s Utilitarianism (not his political theory, however), usually with specific collectivist undertones. In any case, these belief systems have been shown, in argument, to be implausible, and even evil; whether they will work out is a question that has been and will be answered in history.

[2] “Consequentialism” is used to represent the idea that the right act is one that produces the best overall state of affairs.

[3] Philippa Foot, in Pojman, 215.

[4] I will use “deontological” chiefly as a contrast to “consequentialist” for the remainder of the paper; “deontological” is meant to include all non-consequentialist theories.

[5] The objection could present a problem for a moral theory which mixes moral obligation between means and ends, but such a theory is already problematic in itself and does not merit discussion.

[6] This is in accordance with “negative responsibility” entailed by consequentialism.

[7] Bernard Williams, in Pojman, 227.

[8] Hauptli, Lecture Supplement on Mill.