Agent Relative Ethics (Routledge Studies in Ethics and Moral Theory) [1 ed.] 9781032502717, 9781032502724, 9781003397687

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Routledge Studies in Ethics and Moral Theory

AGENT RELATIVE ETHICS Steven J. Jensen

Agent Relative Ethics

Agent Relative Ethics asks what the world would look like if we adopted agent relativity wholeheartedly, clinging to no shred of absolute morality. Alastair MacIntyre’s haunting image of a post-apocalyptic world, in which our knowledge of ethics has been fragmented, poses a contrast between modern morality and ancient ethics. The two stand divided along the fault line of the nature of the good. Modern ethics has placed its stake in the absolute good, while ancient ethics rests upon the foundation of the relative good. Following the lead of Bernard Williams, Agent Relative Ethics identifies alienation as a disturbing symptom of the present focus upon absolute goods. It then completes the diagnosis of the malady afflicting modern moral theory by clarifying the difference between absolute and relative goods. The remainder of the book explores how agent relativity can overcome the modern fragmentation of our ethical knowledge. Not just any relative goods can rectify the modern disorder. Only shared goods, belonging to a union of individuals, are sufficiently robust to overthrow the contemporary despotism of neutral goods. These shared goods exhibit many parallels with common sense morality, including partiality, impartiality, punishment, and an antagonism toward harmfully using others, together with a more lenient attitude toward foreseeing harm. The final chapters probe the conditions, often unpalatable to the modern mind, by which ethics might be restored. Agent Relative Ethics will be of interest to scholars and advanced students working in ethics and moral theory, ancient ethics, and the history of philosophy. Steven J. Jensen is currently professor of philosophy at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, Texas. He has published primarily in the field of ethics. His books include Sin: A Thomistic Psychology, Knowing the Natural Law, and Good and Evil Actions.

Routledge Studies in Ethics and Moral Theory

The Ethics of Attention Engaging the Real with Iris Murdoch and Simone Weil Silvia Caprioglio Panizza The Transcendent Character of the Good Philosophical and Theological Perspectives Edited by Petruschka Schaafsma Philosophical Perspectives on Moral Certainty Edited by Cecilie Eriksen, Julia Hermann, Neil O’Hara, and Nigel Pleasants The Guise of the Good A Philosophical History Francesco Orsi The Making of the Good Person Self-Help, Ethics and Philosophy Nora Hämäläinen Moral Teleology A Theory of Progress Hanno Sauer Agent Relative Ethics Steven J. Jensen

For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Studies-in-Ethics-and-Moral-Theory/book-series/SE0423

Agent Relative Ethics

Steven J. Jensen

First published 2024 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Steven J. Jensen The right of Steven J. Jensen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. ISBN: 978-1-032-50271-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-50272-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-39768-7 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687 Typeset in Sabon by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

For José and Daniela Amicitiam omnibus rebus humanis anteponatis. Cicero, De amicitia

Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group http://taylorandfrancis.com

Contents

Acknowledgments

ix

1 Fragmentation

1

2 Alienation

7

3 Goods: Relative and Neutral

30

4 Getting beyond Oneself

51

5 Sharing by Desire

71

6 Harmful Using

90

7 Foreseen Harm

109

8 Double Effect

128

9 Punishment

148

10 Impartiality

170

11 Restrictions

189

viii Contents

12 Ethics

210

13 Unity

227

Bibliography232 Index246

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all those who have helped with this book. Anonymous reviewers provided many valuable suggestions. My wife Christine, whose love supports me in all of my work, supplied careful reading and correction. Finally, I would like to thank all those at Routledge who have brought this project to realization, especially Andrew Weckenmann.

Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group http://taylorandfrancis.com

1

Fragmentation

Forty years ago, Alastair MacIntyre (2007, 1–5) entertained a disquieting suggestion patterned after Walter Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz. We live in a post-apocalyptic world in which our knowledge is distorted and fragmented. Attempts to regain our lost knowledge are often thwarted and frustrated by the very distortions with which we undertake the search. The knowledge lost, however, is not the scientific knowledge of Miller’s novel, and the apocalypse is not an atomic war. Rather, we have lost our ethical knowledge, retaining only fragments of it, and the apocalypse was the dawn of the modern age. It was not the splitting of the atom that caused disaster but the splitting of the human person, who was separated from the human function or telos, left a barren subject containing only desires. The vision of what human beings could be, or should be, was lost (MacIntyre 2007, 52). All that remained was the vision of what human beings are. MacIntyre initially thought that he could restore the telos without resorting to Aristotle’s teleological biology. By focusing upon human practices, with their inherent teleological bent, he thought that he could construct an ethics based upon a shared good. He later found his own project wanting, a kind of island that floated upon the ocean, having no foundation upon the earth’s crust (MacIntyre 1999, x; 2007, xi). Practices may have their role, he concluded, but only if they rest upon the underpinnings of a natural function. Without this function, ethics is lost. What remains is the fragmented vision of modern morality, with its major division between consequentialism and deontology. The fragmentation of our knowledge gives rise to interminable disputes (MacIntyre 2007, 6). To the consequentialist, for example, we must plainly do whatever produces the greatest good, even if the pursuit of this good involves a direct assault upon a human individual. Barb can choose to kill Scott, if thereby she produces a greater good, perhaps by saving five other individuals. To the deontologist, on the other hand, we must plainly respect the individual person, even if this respect prevents us from producing the greatest overall good. Barb must not kill Scott, even if five others die as a result. DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-1

2 Fragmentation Bernard Williams (1973, 108–17; 1981b) emphasized the tension between what is impartial and impersonal (on the one hand) and what is (on the other hand) relative to the person. We must balance the pursuit of an impersonal good against the personal pursuits in which we all engage. For Williams, the balance was easy to find: it lay entirely in the personal. For others, such as Thomas Nagel (1986, 164–88), the balance has proven more elusive. The impersonal good of consequentialism has its appeal. At the same time, it seems that each person should be able to retain something of his or her own agent relative pursuits. Philip Pettit (2000; 2015, 228–32) thinks that the balance will always tilt toward consequentialism. It is pushed in that direction by a feature common even to our personal pursuits: we recognize that our reasons for actions can be made universal. If Jane judges that she should, in her current situation, help Jerry move into his new house, then she must recognize that anyone in a similar situation should provide comparable help. If Matthew is in a similar situation in relation to Michael, then Matthew should help Michael with his move. Pettit does not think that the universalizability of moral reasons leads ineluctably to consequentialism; nevertheless, it does push in that direction. Consequentialism can be avoided but only at a great price. What is that great price? Reasons for action must be made entirely relative to the person. To see what Pettit means, consider Ben and Louisa as they play chess. As Ben contemplates the board, he recognizes that Louisa has a good reason to move her queen to B4; nevertheless, he does not want her to make the move since it will endanger his castle. What is a reason for Louisa—and what Ben recognizes as a reason for her—is not a reason for Ben himself. The reason leads to no desire, in Ben, for Louisa to move her queen to B4. The reason, then, is relative to Louisa. This relativity does not depend upon the opposition between Ben and Louisa. A bystander watching Louisa play with Hanna (rather than Ben) will pass the same universal judgment (namely, that Louisa, and anyone in her situation, should move her queen to B4), but this third-person judgment provides Ben with no motivation regarding Louisa’s move. It gives him no reason to act and it gives him no reason to desire that Louisa should act. Pettit (2000, 179) seems to think that Jane’s case is different. When she sees that Matthew is in the same situation as she herself, then Jane has reason to want Matthew to help Michael. The reason, when made universal, is not just a reason for Matthew; it is a reason for Jane as well. Ben would be rather perplexed if he were told that the universalizability of Louisa’s reason somehow compelled Ben himself to want Louisa to make the move. In contrast, Pettit is not in the least perplexed by the idea that Jane should be expected, on account of universalizability, to want Matthew to help Michael.

Fragmentation 3 The oddity here may not be so much in thinking that Jane will want Matthew to help Michael. The oddity is that this desire should have anything to do with universalizing. Does Matthew’s reason for acting—just because the two situations are similar and can fall under a universal— become a universal reason? Louisa’s reason for acting, although it can be universalized, does not become a universal reason; it remains a reason for Louisa alone. What makes Matthew’s case different? Why does his reason become a reason for everyone? This view of universal reasons is not peculiar to Pettit. It is common to many consequentialists; indeed, it is often shared by deontologists as well (Gewirth 1978, 48–128; Korsgaard 1996d, 142–43). It is a mainstay of the post-apocalyptic moral outlook. The difference between the two cases, thinks Pettit (2000, 181), is that Ben is concerned with Louisa’s personal prudential judgment while Jane is concerned with a moral judgment. The latter judgments involve “normative” reasons. But if the moral outlook and normative reasons are byproducts of the fragmentation of ethical knowledge, then the role of universalizing may be a red herring. Maybe all reasons, without the post-apocalyptic lens, will be like Ben’s. In other words, maybe there are no universal reasons— which are also called neutral reasons—that apply to everyone. Maybe there are only personal reasons. If we, like Pettit, find this possibility unpalatable, then it seems that we are thrown into the arms of neutral reasons that provide motivation for everyone. And then, thinks Pettit, we must conclude that consequentialism becomes the only plausible option. Non-consequentialists, he argues, will be forced into two possible options. Either they will adopt consequentialist reasoning in certain situations or they will maintain complete relativism, as suggested above, such that all reasons have the character of Ben’s reasoning in chess (Pettit 2000, 184). The first option concedes the field to consequentialism; the second option just seems implausible, at least in the post-apocalyptic world. But perhaps the implausible is precisely what we should be looking for. If our knowledge is fragmented, then perhaps we need something of a Copernican revolution, or rather, an inverse Copernican revolution, since previous knowledge must be restored rather than new knowledge gained. Better yet, an Einsteinian revolution might be needed, in which absolute space and time is replaced with independent frames of reference. The absolute (or non-relative) value that Pettit finds plausible must be replaced with independent frames of reference, in which what is good is always relative to particular subjects. No one subject can claim to have “the good”; each is limited always to “my good.” Nothing is agent neutral; everything is agent relative (Mack 1989a; Kraut 2007, 71–77; 2011). Perhaps we must focus only upon the garden-variety reasons that are so obvious to Ben.

4 Fragmentation In the process, we might lose morality, but we might have gained something else. If we set aside morality, if we are willing to step into the realm of the implausible, if we abandon the seeming stability of agent neutrality, and if we adopt, instead, the perspective of Williams’ personal goods, then perhaps we can discover a new world—or an ancient world. Perhaps we can discover a cohesive perspective that is not so implausible after all. Once old habitual ways of looking at things are set aside, a new vision might begin to crystallize. We might stop short of this endeavor—failing even to make the attempt—when confronted with an unpleasant feature of relative goods: they appear to be isolating. Ben recognizes many reasons for acting in the game of chess, but they provide motivation only for the person in the situation. They apply only to Ben, or they apply only to Louisa. Ben is in no way stirred by Louisa’s reasons, and Louisa is not stirred by Ben’s reasons. If universalizing has no motivational bite, then Ben will be concerned with Ben and Louisa will be concerned with Louisa. Ben will not be drawn, by the very nature of these reasons, to have any regard for Louisa. In short, these most relative of reasons seem an unlikely tool to form a union between Ben and Louisa. According to Williams (1981b), on the other hand, morality itself is isolating. Its universal reasons are impersonal. The impersonality of consequentialism, for instance, tends to isolation and alienation, a tendency that cannot be halted by sophisticated versions of consequentialism (Railton 1984). For the likes of Williams (1981b, 18), all moral rules present one thought too many; Williams will be satisfied only with the sorts of reasons that Ben uses, reasons that focus upon the concrete individual. On the other hand, perhaps relative goods need not be isolating. Nothing need limit a relative good to a single individual. Some relative goods might be shared, relative not to a single individual but to groups of individuals, even as the relative good of an orchestra is to play symphonic music. The greatest of human unions, friendship itself, might be such a shared relative good. And does not friendship encapsulate, on a limited scale, much of the behavior recommended by morality? Like common sense morality, friendship favors partiality to those with whom we are close, it eschews treating others as a mere utility, and it is averse to harming the beloved. These affinities, since they are located within a relative good, will fall short of the absolute character of morality. Friendship, for instance, does not extend to everyone. Furthermore, for agent relative goods, the word “should” must be kept in mental quotation marks; it does not imply some kind of moral ought (Anscombe 1981a). From the perspective of an agent relative good, words such as “ought” must remain relative to some particular good that belongs to some particular subject. Rules or guidelines do not necessarily apply to everyone. Rather, the guidelines must always

Fragmentation 5 remain conditional. Given that Louisa is sharing a good, for instance, then she “should” have a special regard for those with whom she shares it. Unlike morality, however, her special treatment does not apply universally; it is restricted to a limited community, to the particular frame of reference to which Louisa belongs. Similarly, it is not “wrong” for Louisa to harm Ben; rather, to the degree that Louisa wishes to share the good with Ben, she will not want to harm him. Those outside her particular shared good will be, so to speak, open game. Nothing compels her to avoid harming them. If she shares a good with Ben but not with Hanna, then she might harm Hanna for the benefit of Ben without compunction. For the agent relative good, relativity is wholesale, which is precisely what Pettit finds so implausible. We might, then, feel more comfortable with at least a modicum of neutrality, resting securely in our post-apocalyptic fragmentation of ethical knowledge. Perhaps, on the other hand, we should not hesitate. We should step into the implausible and seek to understand it. The first step in restoring lost knowledge is simply to see what it looks like. This limited goal—of seeing what full-scale agent relativity might look like—is the project at hand. The aim of the arguments in subsequent chapters is not a defense of relativity; rather, it is the explanation of what relativity is like. The process will involve much criticism of other views, especially of consequentialism. The criticism is not meant to prove that consequentialism is false or that relativity is true. Rather, it is meant to uncover a contrast. It is meant to reveal the deep differences between modern ethical views and the full realization of agent relativity. The contrast with consequentialism will be more evident, and more profound, than the contrast with deontology. Consequentialism often reaches conclusions opposed to those arising from relativity. On the other hand, deontology rarely exhibits opposition at the level of conclusions. The opposition is (often) at a deeper level, residing within the fundamental reasons underlying the conclusions. Within the fragmentation of modern ethical theory, we might say that deontology has chosen the better part. Its fragment better mimics the whole. Unfortunately, deontology still does not see the whole. By clutching firmly to the part—the fragment—it has lost sight of the whole. The criticism of deontology, then, is (with rare exceptions) found more in the big picture; in contrast, the subsequent discussion will appear to place consequentialism on center stage, often criticizing many of its particular tenents. The initial step in understanding agent relativity is to recognize the presence of the current disease. We will focus upon one symptom of the disease: alienation from friends. This symptom as realized in consequentialism, where it is more obvious than in deontology, will set the stage for an initial diagnosis of the problem. Most fundamentally, alienation from friends

6 Fragmentation arises from the neutrality of goods so central to consequentialism. By understanding the disease, we can perceive the healthy state of agent relativity. These two tasks, of observing the symptom and reaching the diagnosis, will occupy the next two chapters of the discussion that follows. Thereafter, we will progressively carve out a better understanding of the healthy state, realized in agent relativity. Criticisms of the modern fragmentation will still be needed, for we understand the healthy state only in contrast to the disease. The focus will shift, however, toward agent relativity itself. Understanding its features will require responses to concerns arising from modern ethical views. The most immediate and greatest concern has already been mentioned: agent relativity is isolating. It provides an alienation of its own. An initial response has also been suggested: some agent relative goods are shared. For these goods, we will use the word “solidarity.” In what follows, we wish to discover what solidarity looks like. In particular, we wish to see in what ways solidarity is similar to common perceptions of morality. We  want to begin viewing morality from a new perspective, from the perspective of relativity rather than neutrality.

2

Alienation

A sign that something is fundamentally wrong with our conception of the good, or at least of the “moral” good, can be found in its corrosive effects upon fundamental human goods such as friendship (Jollimore 2001). A kind of fragmentation of our ethical knowledge, and especially of our knowledge of the good, has left a depleted appreciation of love. The inadequacy of contemporary notions of the good is most evident in consequentialism, which seems to transform the individual person into a mere number, a subject in which to deposit goods.1 This intuitive deficiency of consequentialism has been expressed in terms of the idea of the alienation of friends. Consequentialism and friendship, it seems, are something like oil and water. The consequentialist pursuit of the greater good excludes the appropriate special regard that a person should have for his or her friends. As a result, consequentialists alienate their friends. Consequentialists become alienated even from themselves since they themselves are merely one more realization of the greater good (Williams 1973; Stocker 1976; Wolf 1982; Wilcox 1987; Badhwar 1991; Cocking and Oakley 1995). Initially, these criticisms of consequentialism focused more upon individual acts of friendship (Stocker 1976, 456, 458–60). Somewhere along the way, however, the criticisms began to shift, moving from the individual acts of love to the more general relationship of friendship (Tedesco 2006). According to this new criticism, consequentialists fail in friendship because they lack the appropriate long-term commitment and fidelity to their friends; they are willing to abandon their friends when the greater good demands it. At first, then, consequentialists were accused of encouraging defective acts of love; later, they were accused of encouraging insufficient love, a love that fails when it should hold firm.2

DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-2

8 Alienation 2.1  Sophisticated Consequentialism Why the shift in criticism? Because it was (implicitly) granted that consequentialists had successfully provided at least a partial response. Friendship is troublesome, consequentialists claimed, only for someone who always operates subjectively with a consequentialist mode of reasoning. A more sophisticated consequentialist, however, will often suppress consequentialist reasoning, precisely because this suppression promotes the greater good (Parfit 1984; Railton 1984; Norcross 1997). Consider the following case (Stocker 1976, 461). Consequentialist Kirsten: Giuseppe is laid up in the hospital and his good friend Kirsten comes to visit him, spending long hours to cheer him up. Giuseppe is naturally grateful, but he becomes deflated when Kirsten explains, “Think nothing of it. I was simply seeking the greatest good, and I calculated that the best way to produce more good was to visit you in the hospital.” Kirsten’s reply is deflating not only because it undermines the long-term commitment of friendship but also, more fundamentally, because it seems to undermine love itself. Imagine a parallel case. Greedy Izzy: Izzy visits Giuseppe just as did Kirsten. When Giuseppe thanks her, Izzy explains, “Think nothing of it. A benevolent billionaire offered me $10 million if I could cheer you up. I figured it was a great way to make some quick cash.” In this scenario, Izzy still seeks the good of Giuseppe—that he be cheered up—but she does not seek it for his sake; she seeks it only for the sake of the money. In a typical response to these objections, consequentialists distinguish between subjective standards of deliberation and objective criterion of good and bad actions (Railton 1984, 152; Mason 1998, 386).3 The subjective standards of deliberation are what individuals actually think when pursuing various goods. They include the goals, motives, and reasoning concerning the means to attain these goals. If Kirsten uses a subjective consequentialist standard, for instance, then she sets the greatest good as her goal and she reasons through the various means by which she might produce this greatest good. The criterion of good and bad actions, which is distinct from the subjective deliberations at any given moment, is simply the standard of what makes an action to be good or bad. Consequentialism claims that actions

Alienation 9 are good when they produce the greatest good. This standard remains, even if someone does not think upon it when deciding what to do.4 Consequentialism, we are told, is most essentially a criterion of good and bad actions. A consequentialist need not always (or even often) reason subjectively with a consequentialist standard. In emergency situations, for instance, intricate consequentialist reasoning might disastrously delay the needed action (Railton 1984, 153, 157). It would be counterproductive— as far as the greater good is concerned—to calculate which action would produce the greater good. In these emergency situations, consequentialists should forgo subjective consequentialist reasoning. They should use some other subjective standard, such as instinctive reactions or certain sets of predetermined rules. The trouble with Kirsten is similar to the problem of emergency situations. If she uses subjective consequentialist reasoning, then she is apt to alienate her friends. By consciously tabulating Giuseppe’s good, for instance, and contrasting it to other possible goods that she might produce, she does not actually seek Giuseppe’s good for his sake; rather, she seeks it only for the overall greater good. Subjective consequentialist reasoning, then, gets in the way of friendship. Just as a good consequentialist need not use consequentialist reasoning in emergency situations, so Kirsten need not use consequentialist reasoning in her dealings with Giuseppe. The objective consequentialist criterion determines that friendship is a great good. It may be an inherent good that consequentialism seeks to produce, or it may be a great instrument in producing other inherent goods (Railton 1984, 139). In either case, the objective criterion determines that friendship should generally be promoted and those things that undermine friendship should be avoided. Since consequentialist reasoning itself undermines friendship, it follows that consequentialism would recommend—in dealings with friends—the suppression of consequentialist reasoning. In her interactions with Giuseppe, then, Kirsten should focus upon his good; she should not regard it simply as a single agent neutral good within a greater aggregate. Her subjective standard of reasoning should concentrate upon his good, or the good of the friendship, or some such thing. When Giuseppe thanks her for her kindness, then, she might well reply as follows: Sophisticated Kirsten: “Think nothing of it. I wanted what was good for you, and I knew my visit to you in the hospital would help.” This response reflects her own subjective reasoning. Giuseppe, however, still might feel cheated. After all, it looks as if Kirsten had to sit down and figure out that—in this case—it would be best

10 Alienation overall to reason according to the standard of what is good for Giuseppe. The consequentialist reasoning, then, seems to remain in the background. Kirsten has used consequentialist reasoning in order to judge that, in this case, she will not use consequentialist reasoning. 2.2  Modifying Dispositions The standard consequentialist response insists that consequentialists need not be so crass. They can be even more sophisticated. They can have a steady disposition of suppressing consequentialist reasoning. Kirsten, for instance, need not sit down and calculate, in each instance, that it is good to suppress consequentialist reasoning. Rather, she can have a disposition such that, for the most part, when dealing with Giuseppe and other friends, she does not use consequentialist reasoning. Consequentialist reasoning need show its ugly head only upon occasion, that is, when the goods of friendship are grossly outweighed by some other goods. Such sophisticated consequentialists can be compared to José (Railton 1984, 144). Sophisticated Ambition: José is a talented tennis player who often loses because his ambition to win causes him to get nervous and “choke” in crucial situations. José decides that—in order to win—he must suppress his desire to win. He must undertake, over time, a program of change, by which he modifies his own dispositions. He must learn to appreciate playing tennis for other reasons besides victory. With time, these other reasons may come to dominate, so that he no longer focuses so much upon victory. Consequently, he no longer chokes and he begins to win more consistently. José uses an objective standard—winning at tennis—as the rationale for suppressing, generally speaking, the subjective manifestation of this standard, that is, the subjective desire to win at tennis. He does not decide, in each instance, that now is the appropriate time to suppress this desire. Rather, he forms long-term dispositions, such that the desire to win no longer dominates—perhaps rarely arising—as he plays tennis. Sophisticated Kirsten operates substantially in the same manner. She forms an embedded disposition to suppress consequentialist reasoning. Just as José learns to appreciate tennis for reasons besides victory, so Kirsten learns to reason by standards besides consequentialist standards. If ever a situation demands that she revert to consequentialist reasoning,

Alienation 11 then she is ready to do so. For the most part, however, she lives her life using reasoning that is more conducive to friendship and close relationships. Will Giuseppe be comfortable with the sophisticated Kirsten? Before answering this question, an ambiguity must be removed. Typically, the sophisticated Kirsten does not consciously advert to consequentialist reasoning. This absence of subjective reasoning, however, might occur in two distinct ways. First, Kirsten’s goals might remain the same, but she does not usually advert consciously to these goals. Second, Kirsten’s goals might themselves have changed. José might learn to stop focusing upon victory in two ways. First, he might learn to focus upon the particular shot he is making right here and now, without considering how it affects the game and set. When he plays tennis, he still wants victory—and only victory—but he does not think about winning as he makes each shot. This failure to advert to the goal that drives an action is not unusual. Barb takes a math test, for instance, with the goal of passing the class and getting a degree; nevertheless, she does not think about these goals as she takes the test; rather, she focuses upon the math problem at hand. If she were always focusing upon getting a good grade, then she could not solve math problems (Railton 1984, 154). Similarly, if José focuses upon victory as he makes his shots, then he cannot focus sufficiently upon the tennis ball and the shot before him. He becomes distracted and nerve-wracked by the importance of the shot. His game would be improved, then, if he could forget about victory and focus simply upon the shot he is making right here and now. This focus, however, requires retraining his dispositions. His goal of victory remains the same, but what he concentrates upon changes. He concentrates upon the shot and he thinks not at all upon the victory. When making a shot, his further goal remains in the background, as is the case with most of the actions we perform on any given day, whether it be solving a math problem or getting dressed in the morning (Jackson 1991, 469–70). José might retrain his dispositions, however, in a second and more profound manner. He might do more than change his focus. He might change the very goals that motivate his actions. He might learn to love tennis, for instance, for reasons besides victory. He might learn to enjoy the exercise, to enjoy the time spent with others, and so on. In this case, not only does his focus change; his goals change as well. Victory, no doubt, remains a goal, but it is no longer his sole or primary goal. Rather, other goals begin to take prominence. As a result, he no longer gets nervous while making a crucial shot; he simply enjoys the play. The case of José, then, involves a certain ambiguity. In what manner does he retrain his dispositions? Does he simply change his focus, while leaving his goal of victory the same, or does he change the very goals for

12 Alienation which he plays tennis? A similar ambiguity is found in the sophisticated Kirsten. She might simply retrain her focus or she might change her goals. Perhaps Kirsten learns to focus only upon Giuseppe and his good. She does not consciously advert to the greater good, although this greater good remains the overriding reason for her visit to the hospital. Just as Barb must focus upon the math problems in order to get a good grade, so Kirsten must focus upon Giuseppe in order to produce the greater good. Her goal remains the consequentialist agent neutral good, but her focus has changed. She does not think upon this remote goal as she interacts with Giuseppe (Norcross 1997, 388). Otherwise, she would “choke” and alienate him, thereby failing to produce the greater good. Perhaps, on the other hand, Kirsten not only changes her focus. Perhaps she changes her goals as well. When visiting Giuseppe she is not seeking simply the greatest good as best realized in Giuseppe. Rather, she wants Giuseppe’s good and she wants it for his own sake. She has retrained her desires, so that she gives higher priority to other goods besides the greater good of the multitude. If the sophisticated Kirsten merely retrains her focus (the first possibility), then it seems unlikely that Giuseppe will be pleased. Giuseppe would not be pleased with a sophisticated Izzy, who has trained herself, while in Giuseppe’s presence, to focus only upon cheering him up. She does not advert to her goal of getting money. Giuseppe could still object that she does not really love him; she loves money, and he is merely a means to achieve money. Her immediate focus upon him, leaving out of mind her ultimate goal of money, does not change her greedy goals. For similar reasons, it seems inadequate for Kirsten to change her immediate focus in the presence of Giuseppe while retaining her goal of the greater good of the multitude. Those who defend sophisticated consequentialism seem to have the second possibility in mind. As a sophisticated consequentialist, Kirsten does not simply retrain her focus. She retrains her very desires. She forms dispositions to esteem other goods besides the greatest good of the multitude. She learns to desire Giuseppe’s good for his own sake, and not simply for the further end of a maximal consequentialist good. It is noteworthy, however, that the suppression of consequentialist reasoning in emergency situations fits into the first category; it involves the failure to advert to consequentialist reasoning, not the introduction of new motives beyond the consequentialist good. Will Giuseppe be satisfied with this sophisticated Kirsten? The answer to this question may depend upon the answer to another question: Is the sophisticated Kirsten still a consequentialist? And the answer to this latter question may depend upon a more careful examination of the manner in which Kirsten must modify her dispositions.

Alienation 13 2.3  Is a Sophisticated Consequentialist Still a Consequentialist? To understand Giuseppe’s complaint against Kirsten, let us consider Izzy the sophisticated moneygrubber. Sophisticated Moneygrubber: Izzy has a standing offer from her billionaire friend: for every convalescent she cheers up, she will receive $1 million. She comes to recognize, however, that her focus upon money prevents her from cheering people up. She recognizes that she must change her dispositions, such that she cares less about money and begins to care for others for their own sake. Is the sophisticated Izzy still a moneygrubber if she does not really care about money? Is she still a moneygrubber if she is ready to revert to avaricious reasoning when necessary? Will she be ready to revert if in fact she does not care about money? A parallel question can be asked of the sophisticated consequentialist. If Kirsten places little importance upon the greatest good of the greatest number, then is she still a consequentialist? In a yet more extreme case, if she has ceased to place any importance at all upon the consequentialist good, then is she still a consequentialist? For two reasons advocates of sophisticated consequentialism imply that she remains a consequentialist. First, she operates under the counterfactual suggested above, namely, that she is ready to revert to subjective consequentialist deliberations when necessary (Railton 1984, 151; Mason 1999, 258). In the final analysis, then, she operates according to the consequentialist objective criterion of good and bad. Second, her dispositions of reasoning ultimately originate from an objective consequentialist standard. Just as José’s desire to win led him to suppress this very desire to win, so also Kirsten’s desire for the greatest good has led her to aim at other standards of what is good. Underlying her sophisticated consequentialist dispositions, then, we still find consequentialism. The first reason (for believing that Kirsten is still a consequentialist) poses a difficulty rarely addressed: How does the sophisticated consequentialist revert to consequentialist reasoning when necessary?5 As a sophisticated consequentialist, Kirsten is not continually evaluating her motives in light of the greater good. Rather, in her dealings with her friends, she for the most part acts upon other motives. Only on occasion—when really necessary—does she revert to subjective consequentialist deliberations. But how does she know when to call up consequentialist reasoning?

14 Alienation One possibility is that she never calls up such reasoning. She always operates with other subjective modes of deliberation. Nevertheless, she still generally produces the greater good. How? Because these other motives, and these other modes of deliberation, generally do produce the greater good. The sophisticated Kirsten never thinks in consequentialist terms; nevertheless, she for the most part lives according to the objective consequentialist criterion. She remains a consequentialist—so it is claimed—for the two reasons given above. First, she follows the objective criterion of consequentialism. Second, her complete suppression of subjective consequentialist deliberations finds its origin (in the past) in consequentialist reasoning. Neither of these reasons seems sufficient. A multitude of people might meet the first condition (of living according to the objective consequentialist criterion). Someone committed to Aristotelian virtue might match the criterion; a deontologist might match the criterion; someone who thinks little of morality but much of his friends might match the criterion. We do not call these individuals consequentialists, even if their behavior happens to produce the greatest good. The first reason, then, seems insufficient. Perhaps it is effective, however, when combined with the second reason (that the suppression of consequentialist reasoning originated from consequentialist reasoning). This argument, however, does not correspond with common usage. We are not apt to attribute the label “consequentialist” to someone who no longer believes in consequentialism, even if his prior consequentialism first led him to abandon his consequentialism (Wilcox 1987, 82). As José changes his dispositions—on account of victory—his desire for victory is eventually eclipsed; it is no longer a guiding goal for his behavior. As he continues to modify his dispositions, then, he does so for a new reason. He may, for instance, find playing tennis solely for victory rather distasteful, since it detracts from the enjoyment he has with his friends. He continues to modify his dispositions—attempting to eliminate his desire to win—but his motivation has changed. He no longer tries to diminish his desire to win in order that he might win. It is inaccurate, then, to say that victory shapes his current behavior. At some point, a similar shift will take place in Kirsten the sophisticated “consequentialist.” The desire for other goods will outstrip her desire for the greatest neutral good. If she continues to modify her behavior, it will be on account of a new goal, and not for the sake of any consequentialist good. Consequentialism, then, ceases to shape her behavior. A person who does not believe that the consequentialist objective criterion is correct, who in no way (or rarely) finds the consequentialist good a source of motivation, hardly seems to be a consequentialist (Williams 1973, 127–29; Brink 1989, 259–62). In what sense does Kirsten believe that the greatest good “should” be pursued, if she in no way thinks that she herself should pursue it?

Alienation 15 Individual consequentialists, of course, can insist that a consequentialist is simply someone who produces the greater good, no matter what she believes. On this account, “objective consequentialism” is the view that the criterion of good and bad actions is the consequentialist criterion (Railton 1984, 152). Evidently, however, it is not a view in which the objective consequentialist must believe (Railton 1984, 155). This oddity— a theory of good and bad actions that provides no motivation—may serve as an interesting museum piece, but it hardly seems an ethical theory worth considering (Stocker 1976, 463). While consequentialists might insist upon this esoteric meaning, it does not correspond with common usage. Furthermore, it appears to have little bearing upon the question of love and alienation. Giuseppe might be pleased with Kirsten the objective consequentialist, but only because he thinks she is no longer truly a consequentialist. Indeed, Kirsten herself would no longer think of herself as a consequentialist; she would repudiate consequentialism as an error of her former ways. She no longer believes that the criterion of good and bad actions is the consequentialist criterion, although her behavior happens to conform to this criterion. We are currently considering the most extreme form of sophisticated consequentialism, in which the sophisticated consequentialist has entirely suppressed her subjective consequentialist reasoning. It is noteworthy that none of the advocates of sophisticated consequentialism has gone this far. None has in fact abandoned consequentialist reasoning, such that he or she no longer, at any time, engages in consequentialist reasoning. Rather, advocates of sophisticated consequentialism publicly endorse consequentialist reasoning and use it in their writings. These same advocates, however, usually leave open the possibility that sometimes sophisticated consequentialism can lead to the complete suppression of consequentialist deliberations (Railton 1984, 155; Norcross 1997, 391–92). Under normal circumstances, however, such complete suppression is not necessary.6 Usually, sophisticated consequentialists are able and willing to revert to explicit consequentialist reasoning when necessary (Railton 1984, 158; Norcross 1997, 398). The question we raised earlier, then, still applies. How do they know when to revert to consequentialist reasoning? 2.4  Virtual Deliberations Perhaps they do so by a kind of instinct. Certain circumstances alert them, triggering consequentialist reasoning. Such instinctively triggered behavior appears in other realms as well. When sitting distractedly at a stoplight, we might suddenly recognize that it has been red far too long. We have not reasoned to this fact, but a kind of instinctive disposition has alerted us to

16 Alienation it. Similarly, when José plays tennis, he runs to the ball and places his feet precisely where they must be in order to intercept it. He does not reason the matter out, but by a kind of instinct he knows where to go. Similarly, sophisticated consequentialists do not have to figure out when to use consequentialist reasoning; the appropriate circumstances instinctively trigger their minds toward consequentialist reasoning (Pettit 1994, 15; Woodcock 2010, 17, note 35). The examples of the body anticipating certain things (when the light should turn green or where the ball will be) seem inadequate for the highly conscious activity of deliberation. Nevertheless, these instinctive behaviors find a parallel in a common experience of our deliberations. Consider Kenny, for instance, as he eats breakfast each morning. He does not question whether he should have his regular breakfast. He engages in no process of deliberation about whether to have breakfast, and his deliberations about the content of the breakfast may be minimal or absent. On the day of a scheduled surgery, however, he readily recognizes that he should forgo breakfast. Likewise, if he has planned a challenging day of hiking, he readily recognizes that he should augment his breakfast. These changes in circumstances “trigger” a change in Kenny’s reasoning. At the same time, other circumstances are readily ignored as irrelevant. If today Kenny plans to begin reading a new novel, he does not suppose for a moment that this change will have any effect upon his breakfast. At some prior time, of course, Kenny did deliberate over the breakfast. He determined that he should have a daily breakfast and he determined its general content and quantity. This deliberation, however, is long past, and he may be hard-pressed to identify when he first made it. Still, the force of the deliberation remains with him to the present. Similarly, the sophisticated Kirsten has previously deliberated—using subjective consequentialist standards—and determined that she should devote herself to her friends, for their own sake. This deliberation is long past and perhaps forgotten. Nevertheless, the force of it remains in her daily interactions with her friends. But even as Kenny can adjust his breakfast given the appropriate circumstances, so the sophisticated Kirsten can adjust her behavior when certain circumstances trigger consequentialist reasoning. Because our lives are highly patterned, we economize on deliberation, operating upon past deliberations, to which we do not explicitly advert. Following Philip Pettit (1994, 15; 2015, 219–22), we might say that these deliberations remain “virtual.” Nevertheless, when the pattern is broken, we are ready to introduce new considerations, which can modify our behavior. Our lives are so highly patterned that even many breaks in the pattern are largely predictable. The impact of beginning to read a new

Alienation 17 novel, for instance, is for the most part predictable. We readily recognize that it rarely affects our breakfast. With ease, then, we recognize changes in circumstances that might require us to refresh our deliberations, and we recognize other changes in circumstances that require no further deliberations. Some new circumstances, then, trigger further deliberation while others do not. The precise nature of virtual deliberations is clarified through a distinction made earlier. Recall the two ways in which José might push into the background his desire to win. On the one hand, while taking a shot he might simply focus upon the shot, not paying attention to its importance within the game or set. In this case, his motivation remains entirely to win. On the other hand, José might change his motivations while playing tennis, such that he plays more for enjoyment, for exercise, or for some such thing. He still plays to win, but other motives begin to take precedence. Virtual deliberations seem to fall into the first category: the reasons for doing an action are not adverted to at the moment it is performed, but the reasons remain the same. Kenny does not often think upon why he needs breakfast each morning, not even while he is eating it, but if asked, he is ready to supply the reason. This reason is the same as he used in his original deliberations. As Elinor Mason (1999, 255) puts it, an agent “need not refer to the background beliefs supporting approval.” Nevertheless, those background beliefs, and the motives that go with them, remain the same. As we have seen, when sophisticated consequentialism relies only upon the failure to advert to consequentialist reasoning, it does not eliminate alienation. The sophisticated Kirsten still acts only for the greater aggregate, even though she does not think upon this aggregate in the presence of Giuseppe. Her reasons for acting are submerged, but they remain the same. Likewise, the alienation remains. In order to eliminate the alienation, Kirsten must not only submerge her motives; she must change her motives. By themselves, then, virtual deliberations are an inadequate remedy for alienation. Nevertheless, they can be an important element of a remedy. Virtual deliberations can be combined with diverse motives and diverse modes of subjective deliberation. Such diversity of motivation often enters our revised deliberations. When Kenny has surgery, for instance, he might modify his daily breakfast based upon a new set of motives. Perhaps initially he had determined that he needed his daily breakfast in order to maintain focus on his work. On the day of surgery, however, his revised deliberations concentrate upon the goal of health. The circumstance of the surgery triggers a recognition that an important goal is at issue. Kenny now considers the two diverse goals—focus and health—and evaluates

18 Alienation them, determining that in this case health must take precedence over focus. He revises his breakfast plans accordingly. 2.5  Unified Deliberations Kenny’s deliberations are unified, it seems, because the diverse goods that he pursues can all be called “his.” It does not follow that he is an egoist. To call a good “his” simply means that he has identified with it, even if it is someone else’s good. Nor does it follow that he unifies his deliberation by always pursuing the “greatest” good, as if there were a single good by which the diverse goods are ranked. Rather, he unifies his deliberations by pursuing what is most important to him. Kenny recognizes that health is more important to him, at this time, than is the focus on his work. Similarly, when given a trigger by circumstances, the sophisticated Kirsten can compare diverse goods that she pursues, judging which is more important at the moment (Card 2004, 165–69; see also Mason 1999). While interacting with Giuseppe, for instance, Kirsten thinks only upon his good, and she acts for his sake. When triggered by certain circumstances, however, she can step back and compare Giuseppe’s agent relative good to the consequentialist agent neutral good. As a sophisticated consequentialist, she does not fall into the trap of supposing that she can compare these diverse goods only by way of some overarching agent neutral good (which might reduce any unified reasoning into subjective consequentialist reasoning). Rather, at the moment—given its urgency or magnitude in relation to her dispositions—pursuing the agent neutral good is more important to Kirsten than is the pursuit of Giuseppe’s good. Such comparisons of diverse goods are commonplace. Perhaps Kirsten is a devoted friend of Giuseppe, and she wishes to comfort him. As she is about to go to the hospital, however, she learns that her mother has just had a heart attack. This information triggers a modification in her behavior (on the other hand, learning of a heart attack of the Prime Minister would not likely trigger any modification in her behavior). At the moment, caring for her mother is more important to Kirsten than cheering up Giuseppe. Although neither of these goods—neither Giuseppe’s good nor the good of Kirsten’s mother—is an agent neutral consequentialist good, it does not follow that agent neutral goods should be any different. As a sophisticated consequentialist, for instance, Kirsten is significantly disposed to seek agent neutral goods. As such, when appropriate circumstances arise, she is ready to compare them with other goods that she pursues. The diversity of motives is unified and ranked by an individual’s dispositions. When José plays tennis solely to win, he is driven by an overriding ambition. As he modifies his dispositions, he encourages other motives that have so far remained latent. He focuses upon the enjoyment of spending

Alienation 19 time with his friends or the enjoyment of swinging a good shot. Over time, his dispositions for these other goods begin to increase, perhaps eventually eclipsing his desire to win. At the beginning of the process, victory is most important to José. Eventually, the interaction with his friends becomes more important. Likewise, Kenny unifies the diverse motives of focus and health based in part upon his dispositions toward these goods. He can easily modify his behavior when he recognizes that a change in circumstances affects a good that he finds important, that is, a good to which he has a strong disposition. A sophisticated Kirsten, as well, can modify her behavior in those circumstances that significantly affect the agent neutral good, toward which she has a strong disposition. This good, however, does not provide her sole motivation (Mason 1999, 257). For instance, she regularly seeks Giuseppe’s good for his sake. In some situations, however, pursuing his good significantly undermines the greater agent neutral good, to which she is also disposed. In those situations, she can step back and determine which good should be pursued based upon what is most important to her. Giuseppe would be unreasonable, it seems, to fault Kirsten for sometimes setting aside his good in order to pursue other goods, including the greater agent neutral good. She would not be an inadequate friend, for instance, if she failed to visit him in the hospital on account of her ailing mother. Why should the agent neutral good be any different? Cannot it also legitimately take precedence, at times, over Giuseppe’s good? 2.6 Schizophrenia The unfolding picture of the sophisticated Kirsten looks as follows. She begins with subjective consequentialist reasoning and concludes that she must often, or even for the most part, suppress such reasoning in order to attain the goal of this reasoning, which is the greater good or (expressed otherwise) the following of the objective consequentialist criterion. One reason she must suppress consequentialist deliberation is for the sake of friendship. When she uses explicit consequentialist deliberation, she undermines friendship and alienates her friends. Since friendship is an important good, without which the consequentialist objective could not be attained, it must be promoted; consequently, subjective consequentialist reasoning must be suppressed. In order to overcome alienation, Kirsten must do more than focus upon her friends while suppressing explicit thoughts of the consequentialist goal. Rather, she must encourage new goals, distinct from the consequentialist agent neutral good, goals such as the agent relative goods of friendship. At the same time, she must not completely abandon the agent neutral consequentialist goal or she will cease to be a consequentialist in

20 Alienation any meaningful sense. For the most part, her consequentialist reasoning will remain virtual, that is, she will operate upon past consequentialist reasoning to which she does not currently advert. Nevertheless, when she recognizes a change that might affect the consequentialist agent neutral good, she is ready to consider this good and its importance within the scheme of her various dispositions. We may still ask whether this sophisticated Kirsten remains a consequentialist. Among various other goods, she is disposed to pursue the agent neutral greater good. But how strong is this disposition? Suppose, for instance, that she places very little importance upon the greater good. For the most part, she is disposed to pursue other goods, such as the agent relative goods of friendship. Does she remain a consequentialist simply because she has a slight disposition—usually overridden by other dispositions—toward the greater good? It would seem not (Wilcox 1987). An adherent of a moral view, we typically suppose, places great weight upon the goals of that view. Moral reasons are often considered overriding reasons for acting. At the very least, then, we should expect a consequentialist, whether sophisticated or not, to place significant importance upon the greater good. Perhaps, even, we should expect that her strongest disposition should be to this good, even if she reserves room for other dispositions aimed at other goods. And for this reason, perhaps, advocates of sophisticated consequentialism have claimed that a sophisticated consequentialist has a “standing commitment” or an “overriding aim” to lead an objective consequentialist life (Railton 1984, 153; Norcross 1997, 394; Mason 1999, 256; Tedesco 2006, 568). It is unclear, however, whether typical depictions of sophisticated consequentialists truly embody this standing commitment. Sometimes, it seems, sophisticated consequentialists need place little weight, if any at all, upon the consequentialist good. We might grant this esoteric usage. Still, we might wonder, following Michael Stocker (1976), whether such “consequentialists” would suffer a kind of schizophrenia on account of the divide between their objective ethical criterion and their typical subjective goals and deliberations. Advocates of sophisticated consequentialism have been little disturbed by such worries. Indeed, the divide between objective criterion and subjective deliberations is touted as an asset. Consequentialism, so the argument goes, is such an adaptive view that it can recommend even the suppression of itself. Alastair Norcross (1997, 391–93) argues his case by telling the story of a divine elephant that deceives the world into thinking he is a divine donkey, and then Norcross shrugs his shoulders in disbelief that anyone could be worried about a divide between objective criterion and subjective deliberations. Similarly, Peter Railton (1984, 155) utilizes an evil demon who causes harm when people fail to use Kantian reasoning;

Alienation 21 Railton then cheerfully contends that consequentialism can adapt even to such a demon. The use of such scenarios should be a red flag. The outlook of consequentialists who can shrug aside such worries differs significantly from their detractors. All that matters, in their ethical view, is the result. In contrast, most others think that the existence of goods is not sufficient; in addition, the goods must be humanly attained. Part of attaining a good in a human manner is to pursue it precisely insofar as it is good. Dan, for instance, is a doctor who heals many people and thereby attains a great good, but suppose he pursues the healing only insofar as it brings him more money. We are apt to suppose that he does not truly attain the good; he merely produces it. As such, he misses the essence of the good. What is truly wonderful in human affairs is when Dan pursues the health of others insofar as their health is good for them, even if he is also pleased to get money from his activity. According to consequentialism, the good that should be driving our activities (but not necessarily our deliberations) is the agent neutral good. We can pursue it, however, in diverse ways. We might, for instance, pursue it precisely insofar as it is an agent neutral greater good, but then we would be using subjective consequentialist deliberations. We might also pursue it insofar as it happens to coincide with other goods, such as agent relative goods of friendship. We might also pursue it according to a standard imposed by an evil demon. In the latter two cases, we would produce the good, but we would not be attaining it in a human manner. The good would exist, but we would not be seeking it insofar as it is actually good. To the consequentialist, of course, the point is irrelevant. All that matters is the existence of the good. Consequentialists, failing to perceive any other outlook upon the good, are perplexed by the worries over schizophrenia of such an ethical theory. One wonders, then, whether they have failed to appreciate the agent relative goods they claim to promote by way of suppressing consequentialist reasoning. The introduction of evil demons and evil divine elephants highlights another feature of the discussion. For the most part, sophisticated consequentialists view the need for friendship—and the inferior subjective reasoning that goes with it—as necessary on account of some defect. The defect need not be so great as an evil demon; it might be as simple as our human tendency to focus on those who are close to us; it might be our tendency to get exhausted if we focus exclusively on the greater good. Railton (1984, 158) mentions, for example, that the human mind is capable of only so much self-regulation and refinement, and that it is liable to bias and error. Railton (1984, 154) also compares the sophisticated consequentialist to someone who must learn to deal with his

22 Alienation timidity, which is portrayed as a defect. Norcross (1997, 385) grants that it would be better if people could go without commitments, thereby producing more good. Of course, this feature is not essential to sophisticated consequentialism. Some brands of consequentialism might include friendship in a list of inherent goods (Card 2004, 154). Typically, however, examples of the need to suppress consequentialist reasoning point to some defect in human beings, that is, some insufficiency with regard to the greater good. One wonders, again, whether these sophisticated consequentialists have failed to grasp the agent relative goods they claim to promote. The emphasis upon defects lends some credence to the accusation of schizophrenia. After all, consequentialists seem to concede that the divide between objective standards and subjective deliberation is not ideal. Only because the world is not quite right—because of some insufficiency in human beings, for example—are consequentialists forced to use other modes of reasoning. Something is not quite right (consequentialists seem to think) in a world in which there is a divide between objective criterion and subjective reasoning. Looking at consequentialism from the outside, others think that something is not quite right with consequentialism. In either event, something is not quite right. One defect upon which the sophisticated consequentialist depends most essentially, it seems, is the lack of flexibility of human dispositions (Mason 1998, 389; Card 2004, 166). Because her dispositions are inflexible— described by Railton (1984, 157) as “sturdy”—the sophisticated Kirsten will often (but not always) pursue the good of her friend Giuseppe even when she could achieve a greater utility by abandoning him. She is so disposed to his good that she cannot always adjust her behavior when a greater utility arises. Perhaps the most dramatic instance of this lack of flexibility is Norcross’s example of the sophisticated utilitarian who has formed a disposition against killing innocent people. He is given the opportunity to manage a Nazi death camp. By doing so, he would be required to kill many innocent people, but he would be able to reduce the overall number of people killed. His utilitarian calculations, then, lead him to conclude that he should manage the death camp. Nevertheless, he has a strong aversion against it, so strong that perhaps he turns down the opportunity (Norcross 1997, 399–401). Human beings, of course, have many inflexible dispositions. Often, however, our dispositions prove quite flexible. Kenny has a disposition to eat a certain breakfast at a certain time, but he readily adjusts the breakfast when circumstances demand a change. Our most flexible dispositions, it seems, are those that are most formed by reason; when we understand the rationale behind a disposition, then we can readily adjust to circumstances

Alienation 23 (Jollimore 2001, 36–37). Kenny understands that he eats his breakfast in order to gain focus. As such, his disposition adjusts to circumstances in which focus is less important than other goods. On the other hand, our irrational dispositions tend to be less flexible. If Kenny is attached to a certain breakfast without understanding exactly how its good fits within his life, then the disposition is apt to control his behavior at times when reason recommends otherwise. Ironically, sophisticated consequentialists must encourage desires not founded upon reason. They must encourage friendship for its own sake, setting aside the understanding of how this good fits within the greater agent neutral good. Including the rational understanding of the (consequentialist) good destroys the very nature of friendship.7 Friendship is best, then, when not fully rational. Norcross (1997, 399–401) is forthright in his presentation of the man who refuses to manage the Nazi death camp on the grounds of his aversion (firmly rooted in his dispositions) to killing innocent people. Ultimately, thinks Norcross, his disposition is irrational. Nevertheless, given the inadequacy of human dispositions, his irrationality is the sort that we might want to encourage. The sophisticated consequentialist, then, must encourage less rational dispositions, which tend to be less flexible. In short, although flexible dispositions are available to human beings, the sophisticated consequentialist must encourage “defective” dispositions, which do not readily adapt to circumstances. Such dispositions are common enough in human affairs, but are they the most desirable? Consequentialism is supposed to be a most adaptive ethical theory because it can encourage its own suppression. It does so, however, only by making individuals less adaptive. Having encouraged less rational dispositions, individuals become unable to maintain the counterfactual conditional (that they will revert to consequentialist reasoning when necessary) by which they cling to their consequentialism. Consequentialism may be driven to exaggerate the inflexibility of human dispositions. Mason’s sophisticated consequentialist, for instance, cannot even adapt her behavior so as to reject particular friendships that prove harmful. Her only option, according to Mason (1998), is to reject the overall disposition to friendship in general. The supposedly adaptive consequentialist theory, then, must eliminate an adaptive behavior common in human affairs, namely, the rejection of particular friendships that are ultimately harmful. When presented with triggers, most people can recognize, perhaps after much soul-searching, that a friendship must be abandoned for the sake of some more important reason, whether it be the consequentialist greater good or some other moral standard. Mason’s sophisticated consequentialist, however, lacks this ability; with her limited abilities, she

24 Alienation recognizes only when the overall disposition for friendship must be abandoned for the sake of some greater good. Particular friendships must always be maintained, it seems, even when they are destructive. As Robert Card (2004, 164–67) points out, this lack of flexibility is both undesirable and unrealistic. 2.7  Primarily Instrumental With these thoughts in mind, let us return to the sophisticated Kirsten as she visits Giuseppe in the hospital. Let us consider only the realistic sophisticated consequentialist as described above and as embodied in Kirsten. Giuseppe has no reason to complain, as we have suggested above, if Kirsten should at times set aside the pursuit of his good in preference for some other good, including the agent neutral good. What if this setting aside becomes a regular pattern? What if it becomes absolute, that is, what if Kirsten decides that the greater good demands that she abandon the friendship altogether? Would Giuseppe have reason to complain in these cases? Some criticisms of sophisticated consequentialism have emphasized these more extreme cases, suggesting that anyone who is willing to abandon a friendship for the sake of the greater good is not truly a friend (Cocking and Oakley 1995). The focus upon abandoning friendship, however, loses sight of an important feature of the original objection against consequentialism.8 As a consequentialist, Kirsten might prove to be an inadequate friend because she fails to act in a friendly manner. More importantly, however, she might fail precisely because she tries to act in a friendly manner. On the one hand, Kirsten might fail to go to the hospital to cheer up Giuseppe. On the other hand, she might try to cheer him up in a manner that is not truly friendly. In the latter case, alienation remains in the very act of pursuing Giuseppe’s good. He might complain that Kirsten pursues his good in an unfitting manner, however sophisticated she has become. To understand his complaint let us consider Izzy the sophisticated moneygrubber. As Izzy grows in sophistication, does she remain a moneygrubber? Only if her disposition to seek money remains, for surely a moneygrubber must desire money. Indeed, her disposition to seek money must remain a dominant desire. If her desire for money becomes dwarfed by other desires, such as her love for Giuseppe, then she will repudiate money as insignificant, as a good that should not generally guide her behavior. She will come to see the overall pursuit of money as misguided. She will see her past, in which the desire for money dominated, as an unfortunate phase of her life. However sophisticated Izzy becomes, then, if she is really a sophisticated moneygrubber, then she will be disposed to cheer up Giuseppe for

Alienation 25 the sake of money. She may indeed, at the same time, seek to cheer up Giuseppe for his own sake. These multiple motives are certainly consistent. We often pursue goods—even inherent goods—for multiple reasons. José might pursue philosophical knowledge, for instance, because he enjoys it and finds it inherently good. At the same time, perhaps he makes some money from the knowledge he gains. He may, then, pursue philosophical knowledge for its own sake, as inherently good, and also for the sake of money. Likewise, Izzy pursues the good of Giuseppe for his own sake and also for the sake of money. In her sophistication, however, Izzy keeps the money in the background. Her thoughts of cheering up Giuseppe for the sake of money remain virtual. Just as Kenny rarely considers his reasons for eating breakfast, so Izzy rarely adverts to the goal of money, at least while in the presence of Giuseppe. Does Giuseppe have reason to complain about Izzy’s motives? If he discovers them, he might well feel alienated from Izzy. He might complain, perhaps, that he is second best to money. Izzy’s disposition toward money is greater than the disposition to love Giuseppe for his own sake. This diversity of importance between dispositions, however, does not quite capture Giuseppe’s complaint. It is not simply that Izzy loves some things more than Giuseppe, one of them being money. Giuseppe does not complain, for instance, upon discovering that Kirsten loves him (Giuseppe) less than she loves her own mother. To seek an end as inherently good, notes Railton (1984, 141), does not require that the end is overriding. And as Neera Badhwar (1991, 498, 500) observes, the claims of friendship are limited and may at times be overridden. The complaint, perhaps, focuses upon the duality of Izzy’s motives. Izzy loves Giuseppe’s good for two reasons, both for his sake and for the sake of money. First, Giuseppe’s good is good precisely insofar as it belongs to Giuseppe. Second, Giuseppe’s good is an instrumental good. As noted above, these two ways of loving a good can coincide. Furthermore, this coincidence is consistent with friendship. Anna, for instance, might love her friend Louis both for his own sake and because he has proved helpful, assisting her in her studies of mathematics. What, then, is Giuseppe’s complaint? The complaint is not simply that Izzy loves money more than Giuseppe; it is not simply that she loves his good for two reasons, one of which is instrumental. Rather, it is the combination of these two. She loves his good primarily as instrumental. However much she has learned to love Giuseppe for his own sake, she still loves him most of all insofar as he is useful for getting money. It does not help that this latter motive is usually virtual. Izzy may not consciously advert to the money while she is spending time with Giuseppe. Nevertheless, the reason remains, and it remains the primary reason. Making deliberations virtual does not remove the reasons for our actions;

26 Alienation it just means that we need not always waste time and energy thinking upon these reasons. Let us return to the sophisticated Kirsten. However sophisticated she becomes, Kirsten’s desire for the greater good must remain dominant. As part of a moral outlook, it takes the highest place among her diverse dispositions. When she cheers up Giuseppe, then, she does so for two motives, both for his own sake but most of all for the sake of the greater good (Badhwar 1991, 493). Mason (1999, 259) discounts the objection that the sophisticated consequentialist still has the agent neutral good as his or her motivating reason. She interprets the objection as claiming that the motivation has become unconscious. More accurately, however, the motivation is simply not often adverted to. It is accessible to the agent, however, and as such does not fit the label “unconscious.” Unlike Mason, Giuseppe recognizes Kirsten’s two motives. This duality of motives is not in itself adverse to Giuseppe, but it troubles him that between these two, Kirsten loves him more as instrumental toward some agent neutral good (Badhwar 1991, 503). The same cannot be said concerning her mother. Kirsten does not love Giuseppe as an instrument for the good of her mother. Rather, she loves the two separately, and she loves her mother more than Giuseppe. Giuseppe thinks that friendship cannot be seen primarily as a means to some independent end (Badhwar 1991, 483, 491). He is not persuaded by consequentialists, such as Robert Card (2004, 160) and Paul Gomberg (1989, 387–89), who claim that a friend is not being used just so long as consequentialism includes friendship itself in its list of goods. As far as Giuseppe is concerned, the neutral good of “friendship” is not his good; rather, his personal and relative good is an instrument for producing this neutral good. Within these versions of consequentialism, his good becomes desired, as Susan Wolf (1982, 429) describes it, “under the description ‘a contribution to the general happiness’.” Perhaps Kirsten can be saved by a difference between the two cases, that is, between the sophisticated moneygrubber and the sophisticated consequentialist. They differ because the moneygrubber is self-seeking while the consequentialist is disinterested. As a sophisticated consequentialist, Kirsten does not treat Giuseppe’s good as instrumental for herself; rather, it is instrumental for some greater overall good. This distinction, however, is not apt to comfort Giuseppe (Railton 1984, 136; Mason 1999, 249). In one way or another, his good is viewed as primarily instrumental. A sophisticated consequentialist who fails to grasp this point has probably failed to grasp the whole concern over alienation. She simply has not appreciated the friendship she purports to promote. After all, what matters to her, most of all, is the greater agent neutral good.

Alienation 27 It is only natural that she should be somewhat perplexed when others do not consider this good so elevated. Sophisticated consequentialism, then, does not seem to eliminate concerns over love and alienation. Rather, the worrisome treatment of the friend as an instrument remains; indeed, it remains dominant in the relationship. The instrumentality does usually remain virtual, such that the dominant reason for the relationship is not consciously adverted to. Nevertheless, the sophisticated consequentialist still acts primarily for the greater good, even when she is not consciously adverting to it. The sophisticated consequentialist might eliminate the concerns over alienation if she could reduce her disposition toward the greater good such that it no longer plays a dominant role in her motivational patterns. Typically, advocates of sophisticated consequentialism have remained vague concerning the degree to which the sophisticated consequentialist suppresses her subjective consequentialist reasons and motivations. These subjective factors, it may be implied, still have a significant role to play in the life of the sophisticated consequentialist; nevertheless, when necessary the subjective elements of consequentialism can be entirely suppressed. This possibility—together with the vague assertion of the possibility of consequentialist reasoning reasserting itself—leaves the illusion that sophisticated consequentialism can indeed meet the alienation objection. As we have seen, however, Kirsten the sophisticated consequentialist cannot entirely suppress consequentialist reasoning. By doing so, she ceases to be a consequentialist, except by some esoteric usage of the word. Indeed, even an individual who retains a slight disposition—or even a moderate disposition—to consequentialist reasoning is not apt to be called a consequentialist. This extreme version of sophisticated consequentialism, then, overcomes alienation only because the friend is convinced (correctly, it seems) that the sophisticated consequentialist is not in fact a consequentialist. Indeed, not only would Giuseppe be convinced that Kirsten is no longer a consequentialist; Kirsten would share the conviction. Many accounts of sophisticated consequentialism appear persuasive simply because they have left unanswered—usually with no effort at all— the question of how and when a sophisticated consequentialist might use consequentialist reasoning. When this question is addressed, a divide appears between the theoretical accounts of sophisticated consequentialism and the concrete examples given of sophisticated consequentialists. Detractors of consequentialism may sense that the sophisticated consequentialist has engaged in sleight-of-hand. The illusion, it seems, keeps our attention focused upon the virtual deliberations, distracting our view from the manner in which the sophisticated consequentialist keeps to the objective consequentialist standard.

28 Alienation This sleight-of-hand is needed, perhaps, because consequentialism is dealing with an incomplete deck. A fragmentation of ethical knowledge has left consequentialism with an agent neutral good detached from the person who is the subject of the good. If friendship is a casualty of a fragmentation of ethical knowledge, then the restoration of our knowledge may be well worth pursuing. The first step in that pursuit is to recognize the nature of the agent relative good, as opposed to the agent neutral good. Notes 1 Much of this chapter has been previously published in Jensen 2020. 2 The shift is most explicit in Cocking (Cocking and Oakley 1995) but may be seen as early as Neera Badhwar (1991), who focuses upon the willingness of the consequentialist to abandon a friend. It may be discovered even earlier in Wilcox (1987), who emphasizes (see 75) that sometimes sophisticated consequentialists will not act for their friends because they prefer the general good; he distinguishes between caring for someone, which would seem to correspond to particular actions, and being committed to someone, which seems to be concerned with the friendship itself. 3 The view is often attributed to Henry Sidgwick (1981, 413), but as Paul Gomberg (1989, 383) points out, Sidgwick may have had in mind an esoteric consequentialism rather than a sophisticated consequentialism, that is, a certain elite class of (subjective) consequentialists would socially encourage nonconsequentialist reasoning in the masses. 4 Objective consequentialism, of course, faces objections of its own concerning its ability to prescribe the correct action given an agent’s subjective knowledge (Jackson 1991, 462–472; Howard-Snyder 1997). 5 Alastair Norcross (1997, 385–87), for example, is happy to assert that the utilitarian need not have “one thought too many,” but the manner in which the extra thought is kept out of mind is left vague. Philip Pettit (1994, 15) provides a brief and inadequate account of triggers that bring consequentialist reasoning to the forefront. Elinor Mason (1998, 388, note 8) says that she will not address the complexities of the motivation of the sophisticated consequentialist. According to Peter Railton (1984, 156), the problem of when consequentialist reasoning should be used is a difficult empirical question, which he does not begin to answer. Scott Woodcock (2010) attempts something of an answer to this difficult empirical question. 6 Mason (1998, 393, note 18) seems to think that the complete suppression of consequentialism—at least in relation to particular friendships—is likely to be the norm. On the other hand, she claims that the consequentialist must have a background belief concerning consequentialist justification (258). Tedesco (2006, 572) goes so far as to claim that sophisticated consequentialism forbids scrutinizing friendships based upon utility. Robert F. Card (2004, 165–69), on the other hand, thinks that a sophisticated consequentialist must be able freely to utilize subjective consequentialist reasoning when necessary. 7 Candace Upton (2008) recognizes that we have more flexible dispositions, which she calls context dispositions. She fails to recognize that a flexible consequentialist disposition toward friendship includes the rationale of acting for the greater good, or if she recognizes this fact she is unable to perceive why anyone might object to it.

Alienation 29 8 Woodcock (2010) is concerned only with the question of a consequentialist abandoning a friend. Likewise, Upton (2008) is concerned with abandoning friendship; she does not perceive that someone might object to the character of an explicitly consequentialist friendship. Edmund Henden (2007, especially 186), as well, reduces the worry of explicit consequentialist reasoning to a question of abandoning friendship, although he does quickly raise, and dismiss, the issue of instrumentality itself, even apart from the risk of abandoning the friendship.

3

Goods: Relative and Neutral

The fragmentation of ethical knowledge undermines the fundamental human good of friendship. It fabricates a new kind of good, the agent neutral good, which is inimical to love (Jollimore 2001, 16). In order to restore ethical knowledge, we must come to understand how agent neutral goods differ from agent relative goods. This chapter will examine some fundamental features of agent relative goods, explaining how they differ from agent neutral goods (Sections 3.1–3.6). It will also rebut two attempts to minimize the divide between these two goods (Sections 3.7–3.10). According to these attempts, which are both associated with consequentialism, the agent neutral good is a natural outgrowth of our desires for agent relative goods. An agent neutral good is good by its mere existence. In contrast, an agent relative good is good in relation to a particular subject. Consequently, the agent relative good is good for a particular subject, while the agent neutral good, which is not for any particular subject, is good from every perspective. These rudimentary ideas of agent neutral goods and agent relative goods will be developed, but before we proceed, we should avert a possible confusion. The terms “agent relative” and “agent neutral” are used in a wide variety of contexts. They are applied not only to goods; indeed, they are more often applied to reasons, aims, or values (Parfit 1984; Pettit 1987; Korsgaard 1993). The treatment of agent neutrality and relativity that follows is a very particular treatment that will not necessarily correspond with other usages. It will not necessarily transfer to reasons or aims (Mack 1998, 61–62; Schroeder 2007, 277). Indeed, in what follows, I will use the terms agent neutral reasons and agent relative reasons in a very minimalist manner. Agent neutral reasons are those that apply to every agent; agent relative reasons are those that apply only to some subset of agents. 3.1  Good as Attributive The difference between the two kinds of goods may be clarified through the debate, initiated by Peter Geach (1956), concerning attributive and DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-3

Goods: Relative and Neutral 31 predicative usages of the word “good.” Geach noted that the precise content of the adjective “good,” like the adjective “small,” depends upon the noun it modifies.1 The characteristics of a good knife differ from the characteristics of a good doctor, which in turn differ from the characteristics of a good architect. Good knives, good doctors, and good architects do not share some common property “goodness” the way that a red car, a red flower, and a red bird share the color red. If Dan is both a doctor and an architect, and if he is a good doctor, it does not follow that he is a good architect. His being good cannot be detached from his being a doctor and then reattached to his being an architect. Geach divided adjectives into those that are “logically attributive,” the content of which is tied to the nouns they modify, and those that are “logically predicative,” the content of which remains the same for any noun they modify (Rind and Tillinghast 2008). “Small” is an example of an attributive adjective, while “red” is an example of a predicative adjective. In the description, “small elephant,” the precise content of the adjective “small” depends upon the typical characteristics of an elephant. A small elephant is not small in comparison to a large flea. In contrast, the content of “red” is the same whether it modifies a car, a flower, or a bird. Geach confined himself to one usage of the word “good,” in which we refer to something being good in its kind. A good knife is a good instance of the kind of thing called a knife; a good eye is a good instance of the kind of thing called an eye; and a good hygrometer is a good instance of hygrometers. This usage applies only to subjects that are in some manner functional or that have some potential that can be realized. We can speak of a good knife, which has the function of cutting, but it makes little sense to talk about a good pebble, which has no given function (although it can be used for various purposes) (Thomson 1994, 147). Sometimes we lack a word to capture the functional type, so we end up using other locutions (Thomson 1994, 147; 2008, 6). We might say, for instance, that Linda is good with children. No word easily captures the functional activity of spending time with children, engaging them, and so on. We do not say, then, that Linda is a good X, the way that we say a sharp knife is a good knife, for no noun can capture the content of X. Nevertheless, when we say that Linda is good with children, we mean that she is complete in a certain kind: in the kind of thing that spends time with children, engages children, and so on. Like any basic word, however, the usage of the word “good” is diverse. It does not always signify something complete in its kind. It is sometimes used predicatively, at least in its grammatical usage. Geach claimed that these grammatically predicative cases are not logically predicative. They always presuppose some substantive (Geach 1956, 34). In other words, in apparent predicative uses, the kind has been elided. We might say, “José is good,” for

32  Goods: Relative and Neutral instance, when we mean to say that he is a good tennis player. The substantive “tennis player” has been elided, being readily understood from the context. Geach’s claim, it seems, may be too strong. Not every usage of the word “good” fits neatly under “good in its kind.” Being sharp is good for a knife, for instance, and vitamin A is good for an eye. These cases do not imply a good instance of being sharp or a good instance of vitamin A. Similarly, when we say that protein is good to eat, we do not necessarily mean that it is a complete instance of protein or even a complete instance of food. Again, we might say that a waterfall is good to look at, but we do not necessarily mean that it is a waterfall complete in its kind. Judith Jarvis Thomson (1994, 146–47; 1997, 276; 2003, 92; 2008, 2–6), while defending Geach’s overall thesis, attempts to collect these multiple usages (and others not mentioned above) under the locution “good in a way” (see also Harman 2011). In no usage, she claims, is something good simply or absolutely. It is always good in relation to something or other. It is good in relation to looking, in relation to eating, in relation to a person, in relation to a knife, or in relation to an eye. While Geach focused narrowly upon one usage, Thomson considers multiple usages, which can all be loosely grouped under the rather vague description “good in a way.” Geach has the strength of clear usage; Thomson has the strength of breadth. In response to the claim that “good” is sometimes predicative or absolute (the opposite of “in a way”), Thomson (1994, 1997) responds, in parallel with Geach, that apparent absolute uses of the word always have some “way” that is implicit. The good is always spoken in relation to something or other, even when that other is left unmentioned. Given the broad and indefinite usage of “in a way,” it seems that Thomson can be rebutted only by dogged insistence: “No, I do not mean good in a way; I just mean good.” To this insistence, Thomson can retort that this meaning makes no sense. If it makes sense, then some “way” or other must be presupposed. This response, however, does not seem so much to be an argument against the claim that “good” has an absolute usage. Rather, it is simply an assertion that “good” has no absolute usage (Sturgeon 2010, 752). 3.2  Different Kinds of Good For Thomson, the good is always relative to something or other, perhaps something unidentified. For Geach, the good is always relative to some particular subject. Unfortunately, Geach fails to observe certain obvious uses of the word “good.” Some of these other uses, however, might have strengthened his case, for these diverse uses can plausibly fit within what might be called the “family” of the attributive good. Most important is the “good for” locution, which has two basic meanings (Kraut 2007, 6).2 First, something can be “good for” a subject, even as “being

Goods: Relative and Neutral 33 sharp” can be good for a knife. Second, something can be “good for” achieving a goal, even as medicine can be good for achieving the goal of health. The first usage, with its focus on the subject of the good, most clearly fits within the family of the attributive good (Kraut 2007, 1). Being sharp is not good just in itself; it is good only in relation to some particular thing, such as a knife; it is good for a hammer to be dull rather than sharp. Similarly, we might say that quick reflexes are good for a tennis player—they make for a complete tennis player—but they do not make a good cook. In general, we describe as good both the complete thing (such as, “a good tennis player”) and the attribute that serves to complete the thing (such as, “quick reflexes are good”). In either event, the adjective “good” is tied to a particular subject (a tennis player). When detached from the subject, the word loses its content. If José is a good tennis player and he is also a cook, it does not follow that he is a good cook. Furthermore, his quick reflexes make him a good tennis player, but they do not make him a good cook. In these cases, “good” cannot be detached from the kind of thing “a tennis player” and attached to the kind of thing “a cook.” As noted above, the phrase “good for” also refers to that which is productive of the good (Wolfsdorf 2019, 105–11). If the good produced is itself an attributive good, then this usage as well can fit within the family of the attributive good. Vitamin A is “good for” the eyes because it produces (or preserves) the completion of the eyes. A knife sharpener is “good for” a knife because it produces the completion of being sharp. Exercise is “good for” a tennis player because it maintains health and fitness, which serve to complete a tennis player. This meaning of “good,” like the other two, is tied to a particular subject. A knife sharpener is good for a knife, but it is not good for an eye. The family of attributive goods, then, includes three distinct but related meanings. What they have in common—and what distinguishes them from the (logically) predicative or absolute good—is a relation to some subject. What is good in its kind is itself the subject. What is good as a completion (the first meaning of “good for”) is always the completion of some subject. And what is good as useful or productive (the second meaning of “good for”) is good insofar as it is useful for some subject. The attributive good, then, might be identified as a relative good, that is, relative to some subject.3 Thomson’s phrase—“good in a way”—is less clear on this point. It seems to imply that the good is always relative in some way or other, but it does not necessarily pin that relativity to a subject of the good. Perhaps the good is merely relative to some other good. Her “good for” is clearly relative to the subject for whom it is good. Her “good at” and “good with” appear to be instances of good in a kind, but the identification is not clear (Thomson 1997, 276). On the other hand, her “good to” and “good for use in” might well be merely relative to some further good (Thomson

34  Goods: Relative and Neutral 1997, 276). Of course, useful goods are indeed relative to some further good. That point alone, however, will not exclude some absolute good at the end of a chain of goods, one relative to the next. 3.3 Functions Geach’s insight, then, is that the good is ultimately relative to some subject. Certain subjects can have goods and can be good, while others cannot. A knife, for instance, can have the good of being sharp and it can be a good knife. In contrast, we generally do not speak of good or bad pebbles, nor do we speak of something as good or bad for pebbles (Thomson 1994, 147; 2008, 21–22). Functional types—such as knives, eyes, and doctors— can all be good or bad and they can have things that are good for them. Thomson thinks the more universal claim—that only functional types can be good or bad—should be avoided. After all, we might speak of a good sunset. We do not mean that it fulfills its function well; rather, we mean it is good to look at. Rather than functional types, Thomson (2008, 19–24) prefers to speak of “goodness fixing kinds.” Like her “good in a way,” however, this phrase is unclear (Sturgeon 2010, 748–50). What exactly counts as a goodness fixing kind? These kinds, it seems, provide a standard of what counts as a good instance of the kind. And what kinds provide such a standard? Thomson’s (2008, 19–21) examples suggest two possibilities: (1) functional kinds and (2) what might be called exemplar kinds, that is, kinds for which there is an ideal. We have an ideal notion, for instance, of what kinds of sunsets are good to look at. In either event, it seems, a “goodness fixing kind” requires some end state—either the functional activity or the ideal—toward which it is directed. Thomson has not moved all that far from functional kinds. After all, we can view objects as having diverse purposes. A hammer has a function of pounding, but Bernardita might well say of her hammer that it makes a good doorstop. She is still using a functional concept. Similarly, if she says that a sunset is a good sunset because it is good to look at, then she is treating the sunset as if it has the function or purpose of being looked at. Some of Thomson’s goodness fixing kinds involve conscious goals, such as the sunset, but others involve what she calls “design functions.” The function of an eye, for instance, is to see. That which helps an eye to see, then, may be said to benefit the eye. Vitamin A is good for an eye—it benefits an eye—because it helps to complete the goal of an eye. Likewise, being sharp is good for a knife because, by being sharp, the knife completes its goal—its design function—of cutting. Thomson (1997, 293–95) is clear that nature can provide design functions, a point developed extensively by Philippa Foot (2001). Design

Goods: Relative and Neutral 35 functions in human beings need not be anything more profound than our capacities. The capacity to see, for instance, is fulfilled by the act of seeing, and the capacity to understand is directed to the act of understanding (Kraut 2007, 131–204). The resulting attributive goods of human beings need not be constituted simply by what human beings do often or for the most part, such as wage war (Turp 2016, 80). Human beings might often fail to fulfill their design functions. Like Thomson, David Wolfsdorf (2019, 93–104) recognizes both conscious goals (which he calls purposes) and biological or artificial purposes. Christine Korsgaard (2014, 412–24), as well, distinguishes two ways in which something might be “good for” someone. On the one hand, it might involve a functional kind. On the other hand, it might involve a conscious subject endorsing functional goods. As Korsgaard (2014, 417–19) notes, human beings (or animals for that matter) might be benefited in both manners, both through the fulfillment of a design function and through the fulfillment of a conscious goal. Deb might benefit Chris by making him healthy, which fulfills both the design function of nature and Chris’s own conscious desire. Even if Chris is suicidal and does not desire his own health, we still might say that Deb has benefited him because she has fulfilled at least his design function.4 Often, of course, our conscious desires seek the fulfillment of some design function. Chris seeks health, which fulfills the design function of his body; Anna seeks knowledge, which fulfills the design function of her mind; and Barb seeks pleasure, which seems to fulfill a kind of design function of her appetites. 3.4 Relativity Neither Thomson nor Geach, then, recognize a “property” of goodness. Rather, things are called good always by a relation to some subject, a subject that can in some manner be connected with a goal (Kraut 2007, 83–88). In this regard, the word “good” is like a positional term, such as being to the right or being to the left. A table that is to the right of Linda does not have the property of “being to the right”; after all, it is also to the left of Deb. Rather, the table is always to the right or to the left “in a way,” that is, in relation to this or that person. Nevertheless, the statement, “the table is to the left of Deb,” declares something true of the table. The table does have a certain property (its place) that places it in relation to Deb, but it is not a property of “being to the left.” Similarly, the act of cutting well does not have some property of goodness. It relates differently to the design function of a knife and to the design function of a hammer. It completes the purpose of the knife, but it does not complete the purpose of the hammer. The value term “good” describes the act of cutting precisely insofar as it completes some purpose. As such,

36  Goods: Relative and Neutral the term “good”—like “to the right” or “to the left”—is relative to some particular subject with its particular purpose. It must always be the good of this or that subject and not a good simply by itself.5 The precise content of the word “good,” then, depends upon the noun it modifies, but the meaning of the adjective is universally the same (Kraut 2007, 3–4). A small elephant and a small flea may both be described as having a lesser size than typical for members of their kind. Likewise, the precise content of a good knife differs from the content of a good doctor; nevertheless, both might be described as complete in their kind, or as realizing the potential or function of their kind. Similarly, being sharp is good for a knife while being dull is good for a hammer, but both are good insofar as they complete the subject for which they are good. For attributive adjectives, the single definition is realized differently in different objects. When the universal definition of “small” (“having a lesser size than typical for members of their kind”) is applied to an elephant, the resulting size would make for a very large flea. This relativity should not be confused with subjectivity. The attributive good has as much a claim to objectivity as does the predicative (Mack 1989b, 93–99; Pettit 2000, 176n1; Smith 2003, 583–85; Kraut 2011, 22; Badhwar 2014, 56–57). The difference between the two goods might be captured through an analogy with two visions of physics, either Newtonian or relativity. Newtonian physics provides an absolute frame of reference, by which motion can be objectively identified as holding for any particular frame of reference. In contrast, for relativity, no frame of reference has any priority over any other. As such, no absolute description of motion can be provided. An object is in motion (and with a certain vector) only from this or that particular frame of reference; from another frame of reference, it might be stationary (or it might be moving in a different direction). A lamp stationed on a moving train is in motion in relation to a bystander watching the train; it is stationary in relation to a passenger riding on the train. Similarly, the predicative good is good in a kind of absolute frame of reference. It is good with regard to any agent or to any thing. It is good from the point of view of the universe (Sidgwick 1981, 382; Hurka 1987, 71; Pigden 2012, 100; Lazari-Radek 2014). In contrast, for the attributive good, what counts as good depends upon the frame of reference; it depends upon the subject to which it is compared. For an eye—but not for an ear—keen vision is good. For a doctor—but not for an architect—skill in healing is good. The relativity of frames of reference does not prohibit an objective description of the good, as is clear in the last paragraph. As long as one speaks of “good for,” then the architect can recognize that skill in healing is—objectively—“good for” a doctor, even as the passenger on the train

Goods: Relative and Neutral 37 can recognize that the lamp is in motion for the bystander. Similarly, we can recognize that keen vision is “good for” an eye but not for an ear. 3.5  Evaluator Relativity It is no accident that this account of relative goods began with Peter Geach rather than with someone such as Michael Smith (1994, 2003; see also Portmore 2005, 2007, 2011). Smith, like Geach, gives an account of an objective good that is relative to each particular agent. We should not confuse Smith’s evaluator relative goods, however, with Geach’s attributive goods. The fragmentation of ethical knowledge will not be resolved through evaluator relative goods; rather, Geach’s attributive goods will provide a fresh perspective by which we can view morality in a new light. What is sometimes called agent relative consequentialism maintains that every agent should aim to produce the greatest good, but what counts as the greatest good differs from agent to agent. For Giuseppe, for instance, his own state of being cheered up might be a greater good than the state of Kirsten’s mother being cared for. The opposite might apply, however, to Kirsten’s mother. Within this scheme, the focus is less upon the identity of the good as it is upon how agents evaluate the good. Even Smith’s definition of the good relies upon agents’ evaluations of the good, or at least their hypothetical evaluations of it. He gives a dispositional account of the good, according to which something is good for agents if they would desire it based upon a psychological state that is free from all rational criticism. This definition has little to do with Geach’s account, which concerns the completion of some function or purpose (Kraut 2007, 92–99). Smith’s account applies only to agents that have some desire, possibly only to agents with desires capable of falling under rational criticism. Geach’s account, on the other hand, applies to anything with a function, including knives, tennis players, and eyes (Kraut 2007, 104–9). Geach gives a general account of the notion of the good; Smith gives an account that cannot explain many of our usages of the word “good,” such as our talk concerning what is good for an eye. Furthermore, Geach’s account maps onto the notion of “good for.” The good of being sharp is relative to a knife precisely because being sharp is good for a knife but not good for a hammer. In contrast, Smith’s account seems disconnected from this everyday notion of “good for” (Schroeder 2007, 272–73). On his account, an agent such as Chuck might desire (without rational criticism) many things that are not good for himself. Chuck might desire the good of Deb, although her good is not good for himself. Nevertheless, Deb’s good is (on Smith’s account) good “relative to” Chuck. In short, what is good relative to Chuck is not necessarily “good for” Chuck.

38  Goods: Relative and Neutral It follows that some goods that are not “good for” any particular agent might be good relative to Chuck. In other words, some “neutral” goods— such as the happiness of every agent—might be good relative to Chuck (Smith 2003, 585–90). It could be reasonable for Chuck to desire the happiness of any agent, independent of their relation to him. This neutral good, then, would also be an evaluator relative good in relation to Chuck. This “neutrality” does not necessarily line up with the neutral goods described above. Some goods turn out to be both neutral and relative. The happiness of every agent, for instance, is a neutral good that is also relative to Chuck. In contrast, for Geach, a good applies only to the subject it completes. The good of an eye is the good of an eye and does not become the relative good of anything else. No neutral good, then, can become the good of any particular subject, such as Chuck. Since Smith is so concerned (even in his definition of the good) with the evaluation of goods, his account might be portrayed (from the perspective of Geach) as an account of agent relative reasons rather than as an account of agent relative goods. Smith’s goods seem to be good by existing, but they do not provide a reason—or at least not the same reason—to every agent. The good of Chuck (on this account) is the existence of certain states of affairs. It turns out, however, that this good does not provide a reason to act for every agent. Perhaps it provides Chuck with a reason to act, and perhaps it provides Anna with a reason to act, but it does not provide Kenny with a reason to act. Or perhaps it provides for Chuck a stronger reason to act than it does for Anna. The good is good by existing, but it provides reasons only for some people. Perhaps the greatest difference between the two accounts concerns the manner in which the good is desired, a difference that will be expounded throughout this book. The desire for an attributive good follows upon the nature of the good. Something is good insofar as it relates to a subject in a certain way, that is, as completing it. Consequently, a subject that desires the good will desire to be related to the good in this manner. Chuck desires, for instance, to have or possess the good; he does not desire merely that the good exists; he wants to relate to the good as the one who has it, so that he is then completed by it. For these desires, Elizabeth Anscombe’s (1963, 68) dictum applies: “The primitive sign of wanting is trying to get.” These ordinary garden-variety desires, with which we are all familiar, might be called possession-based desires. The desire for a predicative good (or an agent neutral good) also follows upon the nature of the good. Something is good by its very existence. Consequently, someone who desires the good desires simply its existence (Nagel 1986, 153). If Deb desires health as an agent neutral good, then she wants it simply to exist. She has what might be called an existence-based

Goods: Relative and Neutral 39 desire, for which the primitive sign is not “wanting to get” or “wanting to possess”; rather, the primitive sign is “wanting to exist” or “wanting to bring into existence.”6 Since the consequences of an action are what come to exist by way of the action, agent neutral goods tend to give rise to consequentialist systems, in which an action is evaluated in terms of its consequences. A small clarification will forestall a potential objection to Geach’s account. Someone might worry that Geach’s agent relative goods can never give rise to a desire for the existence of something; they can give rise only to the desire to possess a good. This conclusion does not follow, however, because of the third category of attributive goods, those that are productive of some completion of the subject. An agent might desire simply the existence of these goods. For the sake of his vineyard, for instance, John might desire the existence of rain, which is productive of the good of grapes (and thereby belongs to the third category of attributive goods). The second category of attributive goods, those that complete a subject, gives rise to a desire for this completion. The third category gives rise to the desire for existence. Smith’s evaluator relative goods seem to give rise to a desire for existence. Although the good is relative to a particular agent, what the agent desires is simply the existence of the good. If Chuck desires his happiness, he desires that it be the case that he is actually happy. The relative good gives rise to an existence-based desire rather than a possessionbased desire. For our purposes, then, evaluator relative goods have more in common with agent neutral goods than they have with agent relative goods. The desire to which they give rise is in accord with agent neutral goods rather than agent relative goods. Attributive goods must be possessed, and they are desired precisely as possessed. This possession, no doubt, requires the existence of certain things, but the existence alone is not sufficient, not even the existence of a possession (Hurley 2019). When mere existence is desired, we are not dealing with an attributive good, except perhaps in the limited sense of that which is useful for producing an attributive good (the third category of attributive goods). Since Smith’s goods give rise to existence-based desires, they might be better described as agent neutral goods with relativity tagged on to them. This added relativity concerns the evaluation of the good, so it might better be described as a relativity of reasons rather than a relativity of goods. Given the manner in which evaluator relative goods are desired, it is no surprise that they give rise to consequentialist systems, such as those proposed by Douglas Portmore and Michael Smith. If mere existence is desired, then actions will be evaluated in terms of that which they cause to exist,

40  Goods: Relative and Neutral that is, their consequences. As we will see, attributive goods, with their possession-based desires, are rather inimical to consequentialist systems. 3.6  The Absolute Good For Einstein’s theory of relativity, the idea of something being in motion simply—as opposed to being in motion in relation to this or that frame of reference—is incoherent. Likewise, for the attributive good, the idea of something being “good simply”—as opposed to “good for”—is incoherent. Something is good always in relation to a subject. Newton affirmed an absolute space. Similarly, the friends of the predicative good assert absolute goods, things that are just good, in the manner that a car is red, a flower is red, and a bird is red. The content of the color red does not depend upon the subject in which it resides. Similarly, the content of the good, with this usage, is not tied to some particular subject. The friends of the absolute good insist that they themselves—and others as well—sometimes use the word predicatively (logically and not merely grammatically) (Pigden 1990, 131–33; Sinnott-Armstrong 2003, 86; Sturgeon 2010, 747, 751; Klocksiem 2011; Rowland 2016). Examples include the following: “pleasure is good,” “friendship is good,” “the defeat of Hitler was good,” “Hurricane Katrina was bad,” and “an ICBM is bad.” Also, they point out that we sometimes speak of “a good thing” or “a good state of affairs” or we simply say (concerning some event or thing), “that’s good.”7 Because of his narrow focus upon one attributive use of the good (good in a kind), Geach was not well prepared to handle this objection. The examples typically involve one of the two “good for” usages, which Geach failed to place within the family of the attributive good. Clearly, for instance, Hurricane Katrina was “bad for” certain people, and ICBMs are at least potentially “bad for” certain people; similarly, the defeat of Hitler was “good for” certain people. These examples use the second meaning of “good for”: that which produces a completion (or, for “evil” or “bad,” that which removes a completion). On the other hand, pleasure and friendship are both “good for” people according to the first meaning: that which completes a subject (Kraut 2007, 77–78; 2011, 50–53). It remains open to the friends of the absolute good to insist that these examples also include a predicative usage. Once the attributive usage has been pointed out, however, it is unclear what work the predicative usage is doing (Kraut 2011, 42–50). Friends of the attributive good, Geach included, have often stumbled over the idea of “a good thing” or “a good state of affairs.” “Thing” and “state of affairs,” it is said, are too generic to provide the basis of an attributive good. In that sense, they are like pebbles (Foot 1985b; Thomson

Goods: Relative and Neutral 41 1994, 150–51). We generally do not speak of good or bad pebbles, because pebbles—unlike knives and eyes—have no direction to any endpoint. Geach pointed out that “thing” might be a placeholder for something more particular that does have a direction to an end. If we find in a box, for instance, an excellent instance of a knife, a pen, and a hammer, we might say, “those are good things.” The word “thing” is too generic to include a direction to an end, but it can refer to more particular things that do have such a direction. Presumably, the same might be said of “state of affairs.” While certainly correct, Geach’s suggestion is unconvincing, chiefly because “good thing” and “good state of affairs” are not primarily used to refer to something good in its kind. Rather, they are more often used to refer to what is “good for” some subject. If someone says “pleasure is a good thing,” he is not pointing out a good instance of the kind of thing called pleasure. Rather, he is suggesting that pleasure, just considered in itself, is “good for” people. A particular instance of pleasure, if it has significant bad effects, might not be good overall. Nevertheless, the pleasure just by itself, considered apart from its consequences, is the sort of thing that does fulfill some goals of human beings (and of animals). The pleasure is good, then, relative to a particular kind of subject; pleasure is not good for a rock or for a tree. In order to understand the agent relative good and its opposite, the agent neutral good, it is not necessary to defend Geach’s strong claim, that “good” is always used attributively. Whether the agent neutral good in fact exists, it may be identified as a good that is not relative to some subject. It is good by itself and not in relation to some functional subject. Consequentialism, according to one common account most associated with G. E. Moore, directs agents to pursue agent neutral goods, which are good just by their existence. Agents pursue these goods with existencebased desires; they simply want these goods to exist. The reasons to promote these goods, since they apply to all human agents, may be described as agent neutral reasons; they apply to all agents and not just to some particular agents. Consequentialism, then, can be described as settling upon the first term in a series of three contrasting pairs: it concerns agent neutral goods rather than agent relative goods; it concerns existence-based desires rather than possession-based desires; and it concerns agent neutral reasons rather than agent relative reasons (although we have suggested that agent relative consequentialism differs on this third point). It is not difficult to see why this model of consequentialism poses difficulties for friendship. Its goal, its reasons, and its desires conflict with love, which does not aim at some absolute good but at a person. We love others by desiring their good—their agent relative good—for them. By aiming at the agent neutral good, consequentialism sidesteps love, potentially treating individuals as instrumental for a good that is alien to them.

42  Goods: Relative and Neutral In the last chapter, we suggested that alienation arises for Giuseppe because Kirsten wants his good more as useful for some alien good than she wants it for his own sake. While she is seeking to comfort Giuseppe, Kirsten pursues, most of all, the greatest good of the greatest number, which is a good alien to Giuseppe’s own good. The underlying cause of this alienation is found in the good that Kirsten pursues. She seeks a good alien to Giuseppe’s own good because she seeks an agent neutral good, which is a good that belongs to no one, neither to Giuseppe nor to anyone else. In short, alienation arises because consequentialists pursue the wrong good (Jollimore 2001, 16). This pursuit is most evident in the notion of the greatest good of the greatest number. The greatest good is alien from the individual’s good, however, precisely because it is neutral. It is a good that completes no one. Most essentially, then, alienation arises from neutrality, which follows naturally upon a greatest good that is not the good of any individual. 3.7  The Consistency Argument This diagnosis, which has implications for every aspect of the fragmentation of ethics, might be called into question by various attempts to place agent relative goods within consequentialism. In the identification of consequentialism above, we used three contrasting pairs, the first of which claims that consequentialism aims to achieve agent neutral goods rather than agent relative goods. From this supposition, we suggested that consequentialism gives birth to alienation. But what if the supposition is incorrect? What if consequentialism, or at least some version of it, aims to achieve agent relative goods—it just aims to achieve these goods insofar as they are accumulated together (Sturgeon 2010, 745). As a consequentialist, for instance, Linda seeks the good of Vince, the good of Gil, and the good of Pete. She thereby loves each of them. Since she loves them all, she also desires the good of all of them put together. The greater good that she seeks is not agent neutral but is simply the aggregation of many individual agent relative goods. Love is not lost; rather, Linda’s love is made universal, applying to everyone. We can test this attempt to disassociate consequentialism from agent neutral goods by examining one common argument in its favor; indeed, this argument is the most common in favor of any form of consequentialism. By beginning with self-love, the most familiar of loves, this argument attempts, by way of simple logical operations, to generate a universal love. This argument might be called the consistency argument or the universalizing argument. An agent is asked to begin by considering his or her own agent relative good. Matthew, for instance, is asked to compare his good to the good of others. Their good is not fundamentally different from

Goods: Relative and Neutral 43 his own good. Nothing about his own interests and goods makes them more important than the goods of others. Since Matthew thinks that it is worthwhile to pursue his own interests and goods, he should conclude (out of consistency) that the goods of others—which are not significantly different from his own—are also worth pursuing. Consequentialist altruism, then, seems to be an outgrowth of self-love. Matthew’s own self-love, together with the rational recognition that his own good does not differ significantly from the good of others, propels him to pursue the good of others. If he is universally consistent, he will pursue the goods of everyone; in short, he will act like a consequentialist. The exact claims and parameters of this argument have varied, but its essential characteristics are fairly constant (Pettit 1987, 2000; Marshall 1992). According to R. M. Hare (1981), the tendency of reason to universalize leads to consequentialism. If Matthew decides to reason morally, then he decides to reason universally, and this universal reasoning will lead him ineluctably to the consequentialist pursuit of the good of others. Thomas Nagel (1970) provided another variation of the consistency argument (which he later repudiated). When Matthew recognizes that he is one person among many, then he will be led to universal altruism. When he views himself as a person, he views his own good as worth pursuing. If others are also persons, then their good must be worth pursuing as well. If he resists this conclusion he is not exactly inconsistent, but he has a kind of personality disassociation. Peter Singer’s (1981, 93–108; 2002) argument is similar to Hare’s. Consequentialism does not follow necessarily from the application of reason’s tendency to universalize. Rather, it is simply the only palatable and nonarbitrary universal system. If we choose to reason universally, which is the human tendency (and the defining feature of morality), then we will recognize that the interests of others are not significantly different from our own. Since our own interests are worth pursuing, it follows that the interests of others must also be worth pursuing. If we treat our own interests as more important than the interests of others, then we must find some relevant difference that justifies the differential treatment. 3.8  Relative Universals The consistency argument hopes to retain agent relative goods, thereby retaining love of others. It is not clear, however, that the relative nature of the good can be retained. In the move from Matthew’s desire for his own agent relative good to the desire for the good of others, two major transformations take place. First, the agent relative good of individuals has been transformed into an agent neutral good; second, Matthew’s possession-based desire has been transformed into an existence-based desire.

44  Goods: Relative and Neutral The universalizing central to the consistency argument strips agent relative goods of their relativity. It confuses universality with impersonality, equating universal judgments with impersonal judgments (Gleeson 2005, 266–68). Matthew, for instance, recognizes that the fulfillment of his interests is valuable to himself. He also perceives that the fulfillment of Jane’s interests is of value to her (Williams 1985, 60–78). Universally, he can recognize that the fulfillment of an agent’s interests is valuable to that agent (Sturgeon 1974; Darwall 1983, 125–29). This universal judgment leaves out the identity of the individual. Matthew himself is not included in the universal judgment that each agent desires his or her own good. Nevertheless, the universal judgment includes a reference to the agent, for Matthew recognizes that each agent desires his or her own good (Reba 1974, 433). So far so good. But the consistency argument does not stop with this stripping of the identity of the individual. It proceeds to make a false universal. It concludes not only that each agent desires its own good; it further concludes that each agent desires the good of other agents (Pettit 2000, 185). If Bob is a miser and if Pat is a miser, then each desires money. We can reach the universal judgment that each of them desires money for himself. Consistency does not require Bob to desire that Pat should have money. Bob would readily recognize the error of the following argument: I, Bob, pursue money and Pat also pursues money; I can see no relevant difference between his money and my money; therefore, I should also pursue the existence of his money. The conclusion of this argument has a certain ambiguity. It might mean that Bob should seek to possess Pat’s money for himself, a conclusion that Bob might find amenable. He might be quite pleased to take Pat’s money so that he can possess it for himself. The consistency argument, however, requires another meaning for the conclusion. It requires that Bob should pursue the existence of Pat’s money just as such. He should seek the money simply as existing or as existing precisely as belonging to Pat. Consistency, or the “straightforward” nature of universalizing, does not reach this conclusion, as Philip Pettit (2000, 183) seems to think.8 Indeed, Bob would be inconsistent if he reached this conclusion. The point might be made in a slightly different manner. According to the consistency argument, the interest of the agent, such as Matthew, has no relevant difference from the interests of other agents. But what counts as relevant? Before we make the pursuit universal, we must carefully describe the pursuit. What is to be included within the description that becomes universal? Unfortunately, no clear guidelines are provided for this description (Milkman 1982; Chappell 2001; Southan 2017). The consistency argument, however, seems to presume that the agent—or the fact that the good belongs to the agent—is irrelevant.

Goods: Relative and Neutral 45 As far as the agent is concerned, however, nothing could be more relevant. Bob’s pursuit of money is a pursuit of his own good. That the money belongs to him is of paramount importance. The consistency argument suggests that there is no significant difference between the agent’s interests and the interests of others. But the agent’s interests are his own and the interests of others are not. What could be more significant? Why should the possession of the good be left out of the description that becomes universal? Bob pursues money and Pat pursues money. Is there any significant difference between these two pursuits? Yes, Bob pursues money for himself and Pat pursues money for himself. From the very start of the desire, this self-reference is taken to be significant. The suggestion that there is no significant difference, then, is nothing other than the removal of the person from the pursuit of his or her own good; it is the transformation of an agent relative good into an agent neutral good. The consistency argument also transforms a possession-based desire into an existence-based desire. It purports to begin with a garden-variety desire, namely, the desire for one’s own good found within self-love. It concludes to a universal altruistic desire. The initial desire, however, might not in fact be the garden-variety, for (the argument claims) the person himself is not a significant aspect of this desire. A kind of sleight-of-hand has taken place. The garden-variety desire, in which the person is very significant, has been replaced by another, by an impersonal desire in which a reference to the person himself is absent. The critique may be expressed in a different way. The consistency argument conflates universal predication with universal desire (Darwall 1974).9 We do make a true universal judgment that all animals pursue pleasure. It does not follow, however, that animals pursue pleasure universally. There is no general or universal pleasure pursued by all animals. The universal statement merely recognizes that Matthew pursues his pleasure and Jane pursues her pleasure, and that, in general, each animal pursues its own pleasure. Because both Matthew and Jane pursue pleasure, it does not follow that there is some one thing that they both pursue. Rather, each pursues a numerically distinct thing, but both of these things share the predication of “pleasure.” Singer (2011, 85) claims we should value all pleasure equally, as well as the avoidance of all pain. Otherwise, we forget that the interests of others have value. Matthew, for instance, might selfishly “focus only on [his] own personal concerns, forgetting that [the] personal concerns of others matter just as much to them” (Singer, Cannold, and Kuhse 2002, 173). Surely, however, Singer is wrong on this point. The interests of others do have value, but they have value to them. The interests of Jane may indeed matter just as much to her, but what does that matter to Matthew?

46  Goods: Relative and Neutral Jane seeks her good and he seeks his. A true universal recognizes that each agent seeks his or her own good. A false universal supposes that each agent seeks the good of others. The consistency argument appears to begin with an ordinary gardenvariety of desire, that is, with the possession-based desires of self-love. In reality, it seems, the consistency argument begins with an existence-based desire, which does not aim to possess a good but merely to bring the good into existence (Lemos 1994, 11–12). This kind of desire is not the first that comes to mind upon hearing that Matthew desires some good. When Matthew desires knowledge, for instance, he seeks to gain knowledge for himself. Despite initial appearances, then, the consistency argument has little to do with the agent relative goods of self-love. The person and his possession of the good have been left out in the name of impartiality. Such impartiality, it is sometimes claimed, is of the very essence of morality (Singer 1981, 118; 2011, 11). Perhaps, but perhaps not (Rogers 1997). Whatever may be the case for morality, partiality is essential for love. Self-love seeks the good for oneself, and love for a friend seeks the good for the friend. If this kind of impartiality is indeed essential to morality, then it seems that morality has little to do with love. The impersonality of the agent neutral good is not an outgrowth of self-love. Rather, it arises only by stripping self-love of its life breath. The agent neutral good, then, is not born of the agent relative good. 3.9  Adding Up Individual Goods The idea that consequentialism promotes the good of individuals, however, is hard to shake off (Arneson 2010, 736). The aggregate good at which it aims, it seems, is precisely the aggregate of several individual goods (Kagan 1989, 58–60). Linda does not aim at the existence of lots of goods. Rather, she aims at Vince having his good, Gil having his good, and Pete having his good. Indeed, she might aim at these goods precisely insofar as they complete these individuals. The agent neutral good at which she aims, then, is the combination of several agent relative goods. If love corresponds to agent relative goods, then it seems that Linda loves Vince, Gil, and Pete. The problem is that agent relative goods are good precisely as possessed, but aggregate goods are not possessed. No thing or person possesses, or has for its good, the sum total of all individual goods (Korsgaard 2014, 424). If Vince has $1000, Gil has $2000, and Pete has $5000, then who possesses the sum total of $8000? None of the individuals does. Nor do they possess it together. The greater good at which consequentialism aims, then, is the good of no one. The agent relative good of Vince, the agent relative good of Gil, and the agent relative good of Pete do not add up to an aggregate agent relative good.

Goods: Relative and Neutral 47 Conveniently, however, it seems that the agent neutral good rides piggyback upon the agent relative good of Vince and of Gil and of Pete. This convenient feature of the agent neutral good provides an illusion that consequentialism is concerned with our everyday desires for agent relative goods. In fact, it is concerned with existence-based desires for agent neutral goods that happen to be coterminous with agent relative goods. As Korsgaard (2014, 408–12) points out, the agent relative good is not simply an agent neutral good that is attached in some special way to an individual. It is not first of all good and then attached to some subject. Rather, its being good is intrinsically linked to this subject. In order to be good, it must be “good for” the subject. Linda, then, does not seek the agent relative good of Vince, Gil, and Pete. Rather, she seeks a good that is independent of them, but she seeks it as attached to them. The agent neutral good, Korsgaard (2013, 13) notes, seems to be doing the essential work of providing a unified standard by which the goods of individuals can be added together into an overall good. The agent relative good of Pete is good for him, but it is not necessarily good for Vince, who has his own agent relative good. The good of Pete, then, cannot be added onto the good of Gil, for there is no single thing—a good—that is common to both. We cannot take the good of a knife (being sharp) and add it onto the good of a hammer (being dull) to reach some kind of overall combined good. The good of the knife simply is not the same kind of thing as the good of the hammer. For this reason, when friends of the absolute good are looking for an example of this good, they often turn to aggregate goods. The defeat of Hitler was a good thing, an ICBM is a bad kind of thing, and Hurricane Katrina was overall bad (Pigden 1990, 131–33; Sinnott-Armstrong 2003, 86; Sturgeon 2010, 747, 751; Klocksiem 2011; Rowland 2016). Each of these examples of an absolute good or bad concerns an overall effect on many people. Hurricane Katrina, for instance, was detrimental for many people, despite some minor benefits; as such, it is considered a bad thing, absolutely speaking. The oddity of this example (which might be applied, mutatis mutandis, to the defeat of Hitler) is that it clearly refers to an instrumental disvalue. The real disvalue is the harm that people endure (Kraut 2007, 74–75). Presumably, if Hurricane Katrina had never made landfall and had harmed no one, then it would not be called, simply speaking, a bad thing. In other words, Hurricane Katrina seems to fit perfectly into the third category of the attributive family: it produces what is bad for particular subjects. The ICBM differs only in that it concerns a potential aggregation of goods: it is considered bad because of the damage it is able to do, even if it has not yet been used. Why are these examples—so obviously fitting within the productive “good for”—suggestive of an absolute good? Because the many subjects are lumped together, making a sum total of value and disvalue. The value, then, cannot be particular to any subject but must transcend all the subjects

48  Goods: Relative and Neutral (Sinnott-Armstrong 2003, 88; Stroud 2013, 463). Totaling the good of Gil and Pete would be like adding up motions from different frames of reference. The addition cannot be done in relativity, but it can be done from a Newtonian absolute space. The overall evil of Hurricane Katrina, then, implies the absolute space of a logically predicative good.10 This agent neutral good, however, is largely constituted by, or at least conveniently coterminous with, individual relative goods. One agent neutral good, for instance, is constituted by the relative good of Gil; another is constituted by the relative good of Pete; and so on. When Linda seeks the agent neutral good, then, she also seeks the agent relative good of Pete and of Gil. Consequentialism pursues the agent relative good found within the agent neutral good. We should not conclude too quickly, however, that consequentialism has been made compatible with love. We should not conclude too quickly that sophisticated consequentialism was a misguided attempt (by some needlessly worried consequentialists) to patch a problem that never existed (Kagan 1989, 367–68). The problem remains. Seeking the good of the subject is necessary for love, but it is not sufficient for love. What is still lacking may be gathered from the case of John, who tends his vineyard in order to make and enjoy wine. The enjoyment of the wine is good precisely insofar as it is his (attributive) good. Nevertheless, John does not seek only his own good; he also seeks the good of the grapes. John desires irrigation, sunlight, and freedom from pestilence all for the sake of the grapes. John desires the health and flourishing of the grapes precisely insofar as it is the health and flourishing of the grapes. We would never suppose, however, that John is a friend of the grapes, or that he loves the grapes (except insofar as love is used as parallel with desire). Seeking the attributive good of some subject, then, is not sufficient for love. The problem, it seems, is that John seeks the good of the grapes only as useful for his own good of enjoying wine. The good of the grapes is desirable only under the formality or aspect of being a utility for the good of John. Likewise, Izzy the moneygrubber desires the good of Giuseppe (that he be comforted) insofar as it is useful for money. Again, Linda desires the attributive good of Vince only insofar as it is useful for the absolute good, which belongs to no one. She desires the good of Vince, then, for the sake of a good alien to him, a good that is not his, nor anyone else’s. Her desire is not love. Linda’s case is somewhat different from that of John and Izzy. For John, the good of the grapes eventually produces his own good of enjoying wine. Similarly, for Izzy, Giuseppe’s being comforted produces her own good of attaining money. Linda, of course, is not concerned with her own good but with an absolute agent neutral good. That difference between the cases, however, is not the most interesting. More importantly, the good of Vince does not produce the agent neutral good; rather, it constitutes the agent

Goods: Relative and Neutral 49 neutral good. John can leave the good of the grapes behind once it has produced his own good, and Izzy can forget about Giuseppe once he has produced her money. Vince, it seems, cannot so readily be left behind, for if his good ceases, then so does the corresponding agent neutral good. Nevertheless, the agent relative good of Vince can be left behind. If harm to Vince creates a greater agent neutral good, then he may be—or must be—dispensed with. He may be killed, for instance, in order to save Gil and Pete. The essential point, common to all the cases, is that the good of one subject—the grapes, Giuseppe, or Vince—is sought for the sake of a good alien to the subject. The difference between production and constitution appears insignificant. Linda may indeed seek the good of Vince, but he feels alienated nevertheless. For Linda, his good must be brought about only so that another good, alien to his own, might exist. He might be pleased that his good has been produced, but he will not feel loved. 3.10  A Common Good The agent neutral good, then, remains inimical to love. Nevertheless, the neutral good appears difficult to shake off. Without the agent neutral good, each person’s agent relative good must remain isolated, or so it seems. Linda cannot combine the love for Vince’s agent relative good with the love for Gil’s agent relative good. She cannot even compare the good of one to the other, for they are entirely distinct goods, good only in relation to the particular subject. Without the agent neutral good, it seems, she can seek no good common to both. Part of the allure of the absolute good of consequentialism, then, arises from a seemingly incontrovertible idea: somehow or other we must be able to add up individual goods. In some way—contrary to Korsgaard (2011, 386; 2013, 13)—we can add up goods between individuals. Furthermore, this addition of goods appears to depend upon an absolute good. Consequentialism quickly tumbles forth from the simple idea that we must be able to add up individual goods. “Consequentialism in some form,” says Philippa Foot (1985b, 209), “follows from the premiss that morality is a device for achieving a certain shared end.” If Foot is correct, then we are faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, we can side with the shared good of consequentialism, which in fact is not the good of anyone. In that case, we will alienate our friends because we seek their good mostly as useful for the common good, which is alien to their own. On the other hand, we can side with the agent relative good. This good allows for self-love, but it seems to exclude a shared good. Matthew must seek his agent relative good and Jane must seek her agent relative good. Between the two of them, no common good can be found. If we attempt to make it common or shared, then it becomes agent neutral.

50  Goods: Relative and Neutral Focusing only upon agent relativity, then, leaves each agent seeking only his or her own good. But is Foot correct? Is the shared good necessarily a consequentialist good? Is it an agent neutral good? Or can we find an agent relative good that is also a shared good? As has already been suggested, only by way of a shared agent relative good will the relativity of goods ever extend beyond the focus of self-love. Only by way of a shared agent relative good will the new perspective, which abandons all neutrality, begin to look something like morality. Notes 1 This discussion is concerned with what David Conan Wolfsdorf (2019, 10–44) calls the evaluative use of the word, as opposed to the quantitative and operational uses. 2 These two meanings do not correspond exactly with the distinction of Christine Korsgaard (2014, 412–17) between “final good for” and “motherly (or functional) good for.” 3 This use of “relative” should not be confused with popular notions of a relativistic ethics, according to which what is good for an individual depends upon what he or she happens to think or desire. Relative goods, as used here, are relational goods; they must always be related to some subject. It does not follow that the good differs based upon belief, nor even that it differs dramatically from individual to individual, as long as the individuals are of the same kind. The good of one eye is much the same as the good of another eye. 4 As Rogers (1997, 5) notes, the existence of any noble desires demands a good that is not simply the fulfillment of one’s desires. 5 Richard Arneson (2010, 737) tries to get around this aspect of the good by claiming that some things are good no matter the kind of thing, as long as an appropriate condition is added. It is good, for instance, for a cat to learn quantum mechanics. Of course, a cat cannot learn quantum mechanics, but (thinks Arneson) it would be good for the cat, if it could. 6 A similar distinction in desires is made by Howard Nye, Plunkett, and Ku (2015, 15). 7 Authors also suggest that Geach’s (or Thomson’s) positive argument for his (or her) own position is weak (MacKay 1970; Pigden 1990). This attack upon Geach, however, provides no positive argument for a predicative good. 8 Nor should we characterize Bob as being “anxious” that people should promote the general possession of goods (Pettit 1987, 77). Rather, in consistency, Bob recognizes that Pat will be anxious about Pat’s possessions. Neither is anxious about people, in general, getting their possessions. 9 Pettit (2000) makes this move by introducing the notion of a “normative reason,” which includes a preference that any agent whatsoever acts in a certain way. 10 Richard Kraut is not convinced by this reasoning. It suffices, he thinks (2013, 486), to have each individual good relative to some subject (see also Thomson 2010, 761). Kraut, however, may have too quickly dismissed such examples. To what subject do the united attributive goods refer?

4

Getting beyond Oneself

Agent relative goods appear to be a poor candidate for restoring our ethical knowledge for precisely the reason that Pettit (2000, 175) suggests: they are isolating. They seem, by their nature, to be self-interested. By pursuing his own agent relative good, Matthew does not get beyond himself. After all, he seeks his own completion; he seeks a good that is necessarily attached to himself as a subject. How, then, can he seek the good of Jane? Even if some account can be given of this altruistic pursuit, its own agent relative character proves to be isolating. If Matthew is seeking Jane’s good, then he is not seeking his own good, nor is he seeking Jerry’s good. By seeking one agent relative good, Matthew is doing precisely that: seeking the relative good of one person. It must be so, or so it seems. Whatever agent relative good he pursues is attached to a particular singular subject. In contrast, the agent neutral good has no such limitation. Linda seeks more than one individual good. She seeks the good of Vince, Gil, and Pete, or at least she seeks the agent neutral good that rides piggyback on their goods. She is not bound to seek the completion of some particular subject. While Matthew is limited to one person at a time, Linda is not. Apparently, Matthew can escape from the isolating influence of agent relative goods only by turning them into agent neutral goods (Nagel 1970, 84–98). He must recognize that his desires are not that much different from the desires of Jane, so that he then seeks to fulfill not only his own desires but hers as well. The isolating effect of agent relative goods tends toward egoism. If we seek to possess an agent relative good, then it seems that we are typically seeking to possess our own good. People seek to possess a good for which they themselves are the subject; they engage with other subjects only so that it might come back to them. Perhaps Kirsten, for instance, seeks the good of Giuseppe, but only because she has learned to find satisfaction in his friendship. Our diagnosis of the ills of modern ethics has placed us in this bind. We wish now, however, to get beyond this diagnosis. We wish to begin painting the picture of what the world looks like from an entirely agent relative

DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-4

52  Getting beyond Oneself perspective. If we abandon neutrality, then must the world look like a collection of egoists? In this chapter, we begin an alternate portrayal. 4.1  Agents United in the Good Ethics can be restored—by way of agent relative goods at any rate—only if the isolating confinements of these goods can be removed. We must be able to get beyond the individual without the aid of agent neutral goods. Since agent relative goods are linked to a particular subject, it seems that the subject must be reconceived. It need not be a singular individual. It might be what Margaret Gilbert (1992, 2000) calls a plural subject (see also Helm 2008). Distinct agents have distinct completions, but the union of many agents can share a united completion. As a cellist, for instance, Clare is completed by playing the cello. Likewise, as a pianist, Louis is completed by playing the piano. Their completions are distinct, but if they unite in order to play a single musical piece, Clare on the cello and Louis on the piano, then they form a united agency, for which the completion—the single united completion—is an act of playing together. This action—of playing the musical piece together—is not just the completion of Clare, nor is it the completion only of Louis. It is the completion of both of them. Furthermore, it completes them not separately but only insofar as they form a united agency (Rovane 1998, 136–66; Bratman 1999, 93–161; 2014; Gilbert 2000; Roth 2004; Tuomela 2006). Discussions of united agency agree that some plural subject is needed, but the exact nature of that subject is disputed (Searle 1990; Sugden 1993, 21; Rovane 1998, 127–244; Bratman 1999, 142–61; 2014, 121–31; Kutz 2000; Tuomela 2006; Gold and Sugden 2007; Petersson 2007; Schmid 2018). On a minimalist account—as presented by Michael Bratman (1999, 142–61)—the union is nothing other than the coordination of individual actions. On a more substantial account, the union involves a joint direction to the action. In either event, there seems no need for a mysterious tertium quid, a new entity called “we” that performs the joint action (Searle 1990, 404, 406; Bratman 1999, 111). Rather, separate individuals unite their actions into a joint action. The “we” that these individuals form is not a new entity but several individuals united in some fashion. The dispute over the different requirements for this union need not detain us. We need not determine the general requirements for any united agent, if there are such requirements, for we are not concerned with just any union of agents. We are concerned with a particular kind of union, namely, a union centering around an agent relative good. This union will have its own particular requirements, perhaps more stringent than the overall requirements for a union in general.

Getting beyond Oneself 53 For an attributive good, the union of individuals apparently has some new function or capacity, giving rise to a new good that belongs to the united subject. Just as a knife is directed to cutting and is completed by the activity of cutting, so now the united agent of Clare and Louis is directed to playing this musical piece. This new agency is tied to a new agent relative good, which corresponds to a new subject. The agent relative good is the playing of the musical piece, and the new subject is Clare and Louis united. This new good completes not just Clare and not just Louis; it completes the two of them together. Multiple attitudes seem to be available to the individuals within united agents. On the one hand, they might view the union as merely useful. Plausibly, a band of thieves fits this pattern. They unite in the agency of robbing a bank since each member of the band is limited and cannot alone achieve the goal of robbing the bank. Their united agency is a shared means to achieve a goal that each is unable to achieve without the others. Ultimately, they desire this means for a further goal, which is not shared but is only an individual or private good. Each desires, for instance, to attain his or her own money (Korsgaard 2009, 193–94). In this case, then, the shared good is a shared means. The good, and the sharing of it, is not perceived as an inherent good. The new good that can be identified as belonging to the new subject is only a useful good, at least as far as the members are concerned. These useful unions provide the basis of much human interaction. Clare and Louis might take a similar attitude toward one another. They unite because they cannot individually play this musical piece. What Clare desires out of the musical piece, however, is only her own completion, her part within the whole; she wishes to attain greater musical mastery by being able to play with others. Louis, as well, might view the union as only useful for his own completion. Or perhaps they both play in the group only to make money. Louis and Clare need not be limited to these self-interested desires. They can seek to play together for more than a merely useful good. They can desire the playing as good to share just in itself. Clare can want to play the musical piece not only as something good for herself but as something that is good for Louis as well. She and Louis can seek their activity together as a good that completes them both together; they need not seek the united activity only as useful for their separate and individual goods (Helm 2008, 20). Clare, then, seeks the good for Louis, but she does not seek it as distinct from her own good. They have, between them, a single good (Korsgaard 2009, 188–89). This deeper union will be the focus of the remainder of this book. We might call it the union of friendship, for friends certainly unite in this manner. They seek a shared life that is inherently good for the two of them together. This union, however, is not limited to friendship. It often arises at a

54  Getting beyond Oneself quite casual level. In the airport, for instance, Kenny bumps into Krystyna, whom he has never met before. A quick exchange of pleasantries reveals that they both grew up in the small town of Dickinson. Immediately, they feel a connection, and they wish to share experiences of their childhood. Kenny and Krystyna perceive that they are already united, just by being from the same town. Given this union, they now want to possess the good together, which they can do through conversation. Their union is nothing useful, nor need it be egoistic. They genuinely want the good together. Sometimes we can unite even with those we never meet. Anna, for instance, is in an organization that combats human trafficking. She devotes much of her life to it, and she sees the activity as more than useful for those victims she saves. The activity is itself part of her own completion. Furthermore, it is not an isolated completion; rather, it is a completion in union with those others who are also members of the organization. She desires this good with those who work with her. Most evidently, she seeks to share it with those who work with her at the local level, but her desire does not stop there. She sees herself as attaining a good together even with those she has never met. These many diverse unions—friendship, casual interactions, and membership in groups—all share something in common, or at least they can. The members can seek more than a useful union; they can seek to possess the good together with others, as a good that completes them together as united (Helm 2008, 40). When referring to this union in an agent relative good, then, we will not use the term “friendship,” which is only one particular instance of it. Rather, we will call this union “solidarity.” It involves more than a union of activity (which belongs even to the band of robbers); it includes also a union of desire for the good as shared. This union, which will be essential to all that follows, might be mistaken for two other views. On the one hand, it might be mistaken for egoism, because within solidarity Clare is still seeking her own good (Sections 4.2 and 4.3). She does not seek Louis’s good just by itself; she seeks it only insofar as it is also her good. On the other hand, it might be mistaken for consequentialism because Clare seeks Louis’s good only insofar as he is a member of the group, only insofar as he is united with her (Sections 4.4– 4.8). In a sense, then, Louis is subordinate to the greater whole. His good has no independent status. As with consequentialism, his good has value only within the whole. Let us consider each of these possibilities in turn. 4.2 Egoism Solidarity might appear to be a version of egoism. Suppose that Chris, for instance, is an egoist, who finds his life more fulfilling when he thinks about others and not merely about himself. The good of these others constitutes part of his own good, so that by seeking their good, he is really

Getting beyond Oneself 55 seeking his own. As a sophisticated egoist, Chris truly seeks the good of others but only insofar as their good is included within his own (Smith 2005, 265). Clare’s motivation within solidarity, it might seem, is fundamentally no different. Her solidarity reduces to some form of “egoistic altruism” (Cialdini, Brown, and Lewis 1997). This accusation may in fact be fundamentally correct, depending upon the exact nature of Chris’s concern for others. We should not be distracted by the singular possessive pronouns used to describe egoistic desires. Chris, for instance, seeks his own good. Possessives such as “mine” or “yours” or “his” or “hers,” however, do not have a single meaning. They are sometimes used exclusively, at other times inclusively. Suzie can speak (exclusively) of “my” piece of cake, in contrast to Tony’s piece of cake, but she can also speak (inclusively) of “my” family, which is not in contrast to Tony’s family, who is her brother. She says that the family is “mine” not because the family belongs to her but because she belongs to the family. When Chris seeks the good of others, he seeks his own good, but Clare also seeks her own good. For Clare, “her own good” is inclusive, for it is the good of both her and Louis, as united. Perhaps the same can be said for Chris (Smith 2005). On one meaning of “egoism,” however, Chris must always seek his own good exclusively. His good by definition is separate from the good of others. By this usage, which is certainly the more popular meaning, solidarity is not a version of egoism. If Chris’s good includes the good of others, then it seems better to describe his desires as “self-interested” rather than as “egoistic,” for the latter term has a negative connotation not necessarily associated (or less strongly associated) with the former. Whatever we call Chris, his motivation still might be distinct from Clare’s. To keep the musical illustration, suppose that Chris is Deb’s instructor for the piano. Chris wants Deb to grow in her skill, which is a certain good for Deb, but he wants it only because Deb, as his student, is a kind of extension of himself. Deb’s excellence is an extension of Chris’s own excellence. Chris, it seems, does indeed seek the good of Deb and not merely as a utility. He wants her to be completed not because the completion is useful to Chris; rather, the completion is also his own. Chris is a kind of greater whole. He includes Deb within himself almost like a part. Chris does have a genuine interest in Deb’s good, an interest that is not merely useful. He wants it precisely because it is her good. He modifies his behavior, perhaps even making some sacrifices, in order to further her inherent good. Just as Clare finds her own completion not only in herself but also in Louis, so also Chris finds his completion in Deb. Still, Clare differs from an egoist, even in this extended sense. Clare perceives her relation with Louis as mutual. Her completion is found in Louis,

56  Getting beyond Oneself but Louis’s completion is also found in her. In contrast, Chris perceives Deb as an extension of himself but he is not, likewise, an extension of Deb. The difference between the two can be portrayed through two different visions of a greater whole. For Chris, he himself is the whole that includes Deb within it. Consequently, her good does complete Chris, as the good of a part completes the whole. Clare has a different vision of the whole. She is not a greater whole that somehow encompasses Louis. Rather, she and Louis unite to form a greater whole. Chris himself is the whole that includes Deb as a part. In contrast, Clare perceives herself as a part and Louis also as a part. She is not the whole. Rather, the whole is the union of the two. Louis’s good is not a lesser part of Clare’s. Rather, his particular good (playing the piano) and her particular good (playing the cello) are both lesser parts of a greater good (playing the musical piece). Clare does not entirely merge with Louis; she perceives herself always as separate from him (May 2011, 32–37). Clare is a lesser part of a greater whole, to which she gives herself and her good. Louis’s good is also her good but not because he is merely a part of her; rather, she is a part of the union of the two. Clare and her good belong to the whole, to which Louis also belongs. In contrast, Deb and her good belong to Chris. The difference can also be portrayed through two different kinds of united agents. When Roy writes with a pen, there is a kind of united agency. Both he and the pen write, and they do so together. In this case, however, Roy is the dominant agent who moves the pen to its activity. Similarly, Chris is a dominant agent that moves Deb to her good. On the other hand, in the united agency of Clare and Louis, Clare does not move Louis to his action, nor does Louis move Clare. Similarly, when two individuals lift a heavy object, each contributes his or her own action, without one contribution depending upon the other. The pen has no such independence. The good of Louis is not subordinate to Clare; rather, her good is subordinate to “our” good. She seeks “her” good because she seeks “our” good. She does not seek the shared good so that she can have her part. Rather, she seeks her part, so that “we” can have the shared good. Louis’s good is not simply ordered to her good; just as much, her good is ordered to his. More accurately, the good of each is ordered to the good of both. This united good is Clare’s in the same way that the family is Suzie’s. Suzie belongs to her family (not the other way around) and Clare belongs to her duet (not the other way around). In contrast, Deb belongs to Chris (or so he perceives it). In Clare’s resulting “altruism,” which might be better called solidarity, Clare seeks the good of others with whom she identifies (Badhwar 1993, 99; May 2011, 35–36). For Clare, the good of Louis is not entirely separate from her own; the same may be said for Chris in relation to Deb. For Clare, however, Louis’s particular good is indeed separate from her own particular good. His good

Getting beyond Oneself 57 is not separate from “our” good, but it is separate from Clare’s particular good. Since Clare belongs to the union, so that the union is “hers,” she can say that Louis’s good is also her good. His good belongs to her, however, not because he belongs to her but because she belongs to him; more precisely, she belongs to the union that includes both her and Louis. Louis’s particular good is separate from Clare’s. Nevertheless, she would not desire his good if it were not “hers,” if she did not belong to the union that includes him. Perhaps Clare is still an egoist. After all, Louis’s good completes Clare. By herself, she cannot attain the completion of playing the musical piece. Louis’s good of playing the piano, then, helps her attain this greater completion. Clare is limited and her limitation is completed through Louis. As a result, it looks as if Louis is simply a means to fill up what is lacking in Clare. Her desire, it seems, is egoistic. In response to this objection, it must be reiterated that the relation between Clare and Louis is mutual. Clare does receive something from Louis, but she also gives something. She takes what is full or complete in herself (her playing the cello) and directs it beyond herself. She directs it to fill up the union of her and Louis. She receives a good from Louis, but she also gives her own good to Louis. She wants her good not merely as her own; she wants it also as belonging to Louis. Clare does not seek a greater completion in herself. Rather, she seeks it outside herself, in a subject that includes herself but is greater than herself. As Richard Kraut (2007, 83–88) notes, the good does not reside simply in a singular subject. Louis, then, is not a means to the completion of Clare. The united subject, which is completed, includes Louis as well. Clare does not want merely her personal good, nor does she desire merely her own possession of the good. She desires that “we” possess the good together. She seeks a united possession. If Clare’s desire were entirely self-centered, then she would desire the greater possession entirely as her own. Rather, she seeks to possess the good more completely by seeking it also as Louis’s good. 4.3 Self-Sacrifice Another attempt to paint Clare as an egoist suggests that she cannot make any true sacrifices, in which she gives up her own good for the good of Louis (Monroe 2002, 107). Clare, it seems, does not have sacrificial love. When she pursues Louis’s good, she always promotes her own good. She never has to give up her own good for the sake of Louis, for she never seeks his good just by itself; she always seeks “our” good. But surely at least sometimes love demands self-sacrifice, in which we give up our own good for the sake of the beloved. In two ways, however, Clare’s love for a shared good can involve selfsacrifice. First, she might have to sacrifice other goods in order to pursue

58  Getting beyond Oneself the shared good. In order to play music with Louis, for instance, Clare must give up some of her own time for the sake of practice. She could have used this time to pursue her own private goods, such as reading novels, which she greatly enjoys. She must sacrifice one good, then, in order to attain Louis’s good. Second, even the pursuit of a single shared good involves a kind of selfsacrifice. For Clare, sharing the good with Louis is a kind of diminishing of herself. She must be willing to accept a small part rather than the selfsufficiency of a complete whole. The idea might be better conveyed by focusing upon Louis. When he plays together with Clare, the cello gets pride of place and the piano is simply an accompaniment. Within the shared good, Louis might hope for a bigger part. For the sake of “our” good, however, he plays his lesser part. Ultimately, of course, he still attains a good that is his own. Unlike Chris, however, he must learn to accept that he is merely a part, and this acceptance is a kind of sacrifice. Indeed, to a greater or lesser extent, self-sacrifice belongs to the very nature of the love for a shared good. Playing a part is always limited. It always demands that my good is not only my good but is also the good of others. As such, others will define its boundaries. Even Clare, although she has the greater part in the duet, still plays only a part. This self-sacrifice is not entirely negative. Rather, it is overall positive. When the shared good is sought together with others, self-sacrifice will itself be fulfilling, for the good of the individual is found in the other (Badhwar 1993). For this reason, those who think of others, forgetting their private good, are typically the happiest individuals. Solidarity can sometimes demand great sacrifice. Gil, for instance, might risk his life in order to save Vince from a threat. While Gil is focusing on the good for Vince, he does not leave himself entirely out of the picture. He is most true to himself, argues Neera Badwhar, by giving himself to Vince, with whom he identifies (Badhwar 1993). Likewise, Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics III, 9, 1117b10–15) argues that the courageous man who risks his life still finds fulfillment in his moment of sacrifice. 4.4 Consequentialism If solidarity is not a version of egoism, then it seems to be a relative of consequentialism, in which the good of the individual is a mere means to the accomplishment of some greater good. Above, Linda was faulted for seeking Vince’s good only as a means to the overall agent neutral good. Likewise, perhaps Clare should be faulted for treating both herself and Louis as mere means to the greater shared good. Like consequentialism, it seems, solidarity subjects the individual to the greater whole.

Getting beyond Oneself 59 Both consequentialism and solidarity do indeed have a greater good to which the individual is directed. Nevertheless, the two differ profoundly. Most essentially, they differ as do the agent relative good and the agent neutral good. Consequentialism aims at an agent neutral good, a good that belongs to no one. In contrast, solidarity aims at an agent relative good, which always belongs to some subject. When the agent relative good is shared, then it belongs to many individuals insofar as they are united into a single subject. Linda, then, aims at a good that belongs neither to Vince, to Gil, nor to Pete; in contrast, Clare aims at a good that belongs to both herself and Louis. Linda seeks the good of Vince for the sake of a good alien to him. Clare seeks a greater good that is in fact also Louis’s good. Linda treats Vince much the same as John treats his grapes. John seeks health and other goods for the grapes, but he does so only for a good that is completely alien to the grapes, namely, his own enjoyment. Likewise, Linda seeks Vince’s good, but she directs it to the agent neutral good, which is alien to Vince’s own good. In contrast, Clare desires Louis to play his part of the music insofar as it is ordered to the good of the whole (Clare and Louis). This greater good, however, is not alien to Louis’s good. Indeed, it is his own. Consequentialism, then, alienates not so much because it seeks the greater good; rather, it alienates because it seeks an agent neutral good (Jollimore 2001, 76). Even apart from aggregation—even if realized in only a single individual—the agent neutral good still alienates. Whether singular or aggregate, it belongs to no one. In contrast, the agent relative good belongs to the subject for whom it is good. 4.5  For the Sake of This difference between consequentialism and solidarity, someone might object, does not save solidarity from the accusation of treating others merely as a means to the greater good. Even if the good does in fact belong to Louis, Clare still desires his good only for the sake of a greater whole. She does not, it seems, desire his good for his own sake. This objection rests upon a particular understanding of the phrase “for his own sake.” What is pursued for its own sake—on this meaning—cannot be for the sake of anything further. But Clare does seek Louis’s good for the sake of something further, namely, for the sake of the greater whole and its good. Consequently, it seems as if Clare is no different from John, who treats his grapes as a subject of the good but only as useful for the attainment of his own enjoyment. This objection, however, presumes that the phrase “for his (or her) own sake” or “for its own sake” designates a final stopping point. In fact, the

60  Getting beyond Oneself phrase need not have this strict meaning. Sometimes people pursue a good for its own sake and also for the sake of something further. Kenny, for instance, wants health as a means (to go on vacation, to do his work, and so on) but he also wants it for its own sake (just because health is good to have). Those who wish to associate “for its own sake” with a final stopping point are not stymied by this example and others like it. In this case, Kenny has two pursuits. With one, he treats health as a final stopping point; with the other, he treats health as a means. Kenny’s pursuit of health (for its own sake), then, does not depend upon some further goal, even if it allows the additional pursuit of some further goal (such as vacation). Kenny can desire his health as a full stopping point. At the same time, with another desire, he seeks health as a means. According to this restrictive meaning, then, the phrase “for its own sake” most fundamentally excludes the pursuit of a goal that is necessarily dependent upon something further. Kenny’s pursuit of health can be for the sake of further goals, but these further goals are not essential. His pursuit of health can stand on its own. The same cannot be said for Clare with regard to Louis. Not only does Clare direct Louis to something further (the good of the whole); her pursuit essentially depends upon this further direction. If Louis and his good were cut off from the whole, then Clare would not pursue it. Consequently, she does not (so the argument goes) pursue his good for his own sake. If solidarity is to be defended against this objection, then the phrase “for its own sake” must have some other meaning. Clare must be able to pursue Louis’s good for his own sake, even though she essentially seeks it as part of a greater whole. At the same time, this meaning of the phrase cannot be available to the consequentialist. Otherwise, Clare and the consequentialist are once again equated. The defense of solidarity, then, demands a fine balance. We can begin by noting that the phrase “for the sake of” (with or without the addition of “own”) has two fundamentally different uses (Velleman 1999, 355–57; Helm 2008). Sometimes, this phrase concerns an end or goal; at other times, it concerns the subject of a good. Kenny, for instance, seeks one good for the sake of another, such as surgery for the sake of health; on the other hand, John seeks a good for the sake of a subject, such as flourishing for the sake of the grapes. This duality corresponds to the duality within agent relative goods, which are never goods by themselves but are always goods for some subject. In the domain of agent relative goods, then, a complete reason for acting includes both the good and the subject for which it is good. Since we act “for the sake of” reasons, this phrase can correspond either to the good or to the subject. This duality persists with the addition of the word “own.” Kenny seeks health for its own sake and John seeks his enjoyment for his own sake.

Getting beyond Oneself 61 What does the addition of the word “own” indicate? According to the objection posed above, it indicates that the reason (whether a good or a subject) is final; the reason can stand on its own and does not essentially depend upon a direction to something further.1 This account, however, appears to fall into an error exposed by Korsgaard. Intrinsic value, she notes, does not always refer to final value (Korsgaard 1983). Neither should we suppose that the word “own” necessarily implies finality. 4.6  The Overall Good Consider, first, the good (rather than the subject of the good). Consider the variety of desires that Anna has throughout the day. She desires to learn something about horses; she desires to enjoy her food; she desires to improve her health by jogging. She desires to understand some philosophy; and so on. These diverse goods can all be grouped together into a greater good, of which each is a part, for each belongs to “her good.” Anna desires knowledge of horses insofar as this knowledge is part of her good. Likewise, she pursues pleasure and health as part of her good. The multiple goods constitute a kind of greater good by which she can unify her deliberations. She can decide, for instance, that it is time to set aside the book about horses, take a break, and eat a meal. The knowledge of horses fits within a greater good—her overall good—which includes other goods such as nourishment and enjoyment of food (Annas 1993, 38). Even goods that Anna considers inherently good, such as knowledge of horses, she still desires only insofar as they fit into her overall good. If a good interferes with her overall good, then she must set it aside. Despite this subordination to a greater good, Anna still desires the knowledge of horses for its own sake. In other words, this case provides a counterexample to the restrictive meaning (given in the objection above) to the phrase “for its own sake.” Anna’s desire for the knowledge of horses is essentially dependent upon the further goal of her overall good. Nevertheless, she desires the knowledge for its own sake. Both Anna’s desire for surgery and her desire for the knowledge of horses depend upon the desire for some further good. Surgery is desired for health, and knowledge is desired for Anna’s overall good. Our use of the term “means,” however, reveals a fundamental difference between the two. The surgery is aptly described as a “means” to health, but the knowledge of horses is awkwardly (but possibly) described as a means to her overall good (Audi 2016, 18). Not everything directed to some further goal, then, is comfortably described as a means. The difference between the two is clear. The surgery produces the health as an effect separate from itself. In contrast, the knowledge does not strictly produce Anna’s overall good, and it itself is

62  Getting beyond Oneself not separate from her overall good; rather, it partially constitutes her overall good.2 The surgery belongs to Anna’s good only through its effect. The knowledge belongs to her good through what it is in itself, through what is its own. As such, it can be desired for its own sake. The addition of “its own” (to the phrase “for the sake of”), then, need not exclude goods that are essentially dependent upon some further goal. In such cases, the addition of “own” indicates that something becomes a reason for acting through what it has in itself, through its own attributes. Surgery is a reason for acting (for example, for driving to the hospital) only through the health that is separate from it. In contrast, the knowledge of horses is a reason for acting through the overall good that is not entirely separate from it. 4.7  Inherent Goods If inherent goods—signaled by the word “own”—were essentially nonrelational, then no attributive good could be intrinsically good (which we will use synonymously with inherently good) (Champlin 1987; Kraut 2011, 34–37). What might be called the isolationist interpretation of intrinsic value claims that every intrinsic good must be nonrelational (Lemos 1994, 3–4; Zimmerman 2001; for a criticism see Champlin 1987, 36–47). A good has intrinsic value only if it has value even when it is isolated from everything else, even when it alone exists (Moore 1903, 187; Ross 1930, 75). As Christine Korsgaard (1983) and Shelly Kagan (1998) have shown, however, this meaning is overly restrictive. Intrinsic goods can sometimes be relational (see also Rabinowicz and Ronnow-Rasmussen 2000). Linda’s skill in cooking, for instance, is good through its relation to the activity of cooking; nevertheless, it can be inherently good (Kagan 1998, 283–84). The term “intrinsic value,” as Korsgaard and Kagan suggest, has two prominent uses. On the one hand, an object is intrinsically good if it is sought as an end (rather than as a means); on the other hand, an object is intrinsically good if it has its goodness from what it has in itself. Both Korsgaard and Kagan may be speaking about absolute or neutral goods, but what they say can apply as well to attributive goods. Indeed, as Kraut (2011, 34–37) suggests, the attributive good can readily incorporate a reasonable version of the second usage of “intrinsic value.” As always, it will be intrinsically valuable for a certain subject (Jeske and Fumerton 1997, 144). Something has intrinsic value for a subject if it itself—whether by way of some relation or otherwise—completes the subject. If it does not complete the subject but rather produces something that does, then its value is extrinsic. On this account, the quality of being sharp will be intrinsically valuable for a knife. This quality is good for a knife only insofar as it is directed

Getting beyond Oneself 63 beyond itself, to the activity of cutting. Nevertheless, this quality itself completes a knife. In contrast, a knife sharpener is extrinsically valuable; it itself does not complete the knife but it does produce a completion of the knife. Within the domain of attributive goods, then, the contrast between intrinsic and extrinsic goods is a contrast between that which in itself completes a subject (intrinsic value) and that which completes a subject from something other than itself, primarily from its effects (extrinsic value). Some things that are intrinsically valuable, such as being sharp for a knife, will not be sought as a final end, for the knife is directed ultimately to the activity of cutting and not simply to the state of being sharp. Surgery is part of Anna’s overall good only through the health that is extrinsic to it. In contrast, the knowledge of horses is part of her overall good through what it has in itself, because through itself, and not (merely) through what it produces, it completes Anna. Consequently, she can desire the knowledge for its own sake, even while she must also desire it for the sake of her overall good. The realm of shared goods is parallel. Ultimately, a good is possessed together by some joint activity or by some activity of giving the good. Clare and Louis, for instance, form a united agent directed to the end of playing a musical piece together. We should not conclude that this united activity, because it is ultimate, is the only inherent good for the two of them. Clare’s skill at playing the cello is inherently good for the united agency of Clare and Louis, as is Louis’s skill at playing the piano. Even apart from the united activity, then, Clare and Louis can share the good. Clare’s good belongs to Louis and Louis’s good belongs to Clare. Even when the two are not playing together, Louis’s skill at the piano also belongs to Clare, for she is ordered to Louis, through her desire, as toward a subject of their shared good. 4.8  Constitutive Parts Parallel reasoning applies to the subject of the good. Knowledge is part of the greater whole of Anna’s overall good; likewise, Louis is, for Clare, part of a greater whole, namely, the united subject of Clare and Louis. He is a part not simply from some effect separate from himself but from that which he has in himself. Within himself, he has the capacity to play the musical piece in union with Clare. We can imagine other “parts” that are more distant, parts that belong to the whole only through their effects and not by being a subject of the good. Within an orchestra, for instance, each member of the orchestra is a part on account of his or her own capacity to play the symphonic music. Each can say, in union with the others, that he or she is playing symphonic music. As David Copp (1979) argues, the activity of the whole orchestra

64  Getting beyond Oneself is constituted by the actions of its members (see also Tuomela 2006). In contrast, members of the stage crew can be called parts in an extended sense. They are parts not by sharing in the united agency but only by producing certain effects that are useful for the united agency.3 Members of the stage crew cannot say, as they set out the chairs, that they are playing symphonic music. The constitutive parts—as opposed to the merely productive parts— are parts of the subject of the good. As such, the good can be desired for the parts’ own sake. Anna desires knowledge for its own sake and also for the sake of her overall good since the knowledge and the overall good are not entirely distinct. Similarly, Clare desires the good of playing the musical piece for Louis’s own sake and also for the greater whole (the union of Louis and Clare) because Louis is not entirely distinct from this greater subject. In both cases—both for the good and for the subject of the good— constitutive parts belong to the whole through what they have in themselves and not merely by way of some effect. The desire for the whole is not entirely separate from the desire for the part. Indeed, the whole cannot be desired without desiring its constitutive parts. As such, these parts are desired for their own sake, while at the same time they are desired for the sake of the whole. An inherent good is desired for its own sake and for the overall good of the subject. Likewise, a good is desired for the sake of the whole subject and for the sake of the members of the whole. Clare desires the good for Louis’s own sake and for the greater subject of which Louis is a part. Can the same be said of the consequentialist aggregate? Is Linda like Clare? Can she seek the good of Vince for his own sake, even while he and his good are essentially ordered to the agent neutral good? Or is Linda like John, who pursues flourishing for the sake of the grapes but not for their own sakes? The grapes do not form a united subject with John. He desires their good ultimately only for a good alien to them. Two factors place Linda together with John rather than with Clare. First, the agent neutral good is a separate good from the agent relative good of Vince. It may ride piggyback upon Vince’s good, but it is not the same good. In contrast, the good of Louis is to play the musical piece, which is not separate from the good of the united whole; the two are one and the same good, as belonging to the part and to the whole. Second, the good of the whole belongs to Louis, but the agent neutral good belongs to no one. Consequently, Linda cannot seek the greater good for the sake of Vince (whether or not the term “own” is added). In contrast, Clare can seek the greater good for the sake of Louis, for it belongs to him. Linda desires the goods of Vince, Gil, and Pete for the sake of a separate good. Since it is agent neutral, this separate good has

Getting beyond Oneself 65 no subject for which it is good. It does not belong to Vince, Gil, and Pete. Ultimately, then, their good is useful for a distinct good, which is not their own. 4.9  Possessing the Good Together Shared goods require a united possession. They require some possession of the good because they are agent relative, to which correspond possessionbased desires. They require a united possession because they are shared. We cannot understand shared goods, then, without some understanding of how a good can be possessed together. In one way, a united possession is realized through the coordination of individual actions into a united agency. As Abraham Roth (2004) suggests, two (or more) individuals must intend a united execution of an activity (see also Bratman 2014, 48–52; Gilbert 2014, 7). Roth ties this union to joint responsibilities; here, we are tying it to a joint possession of the good. Clare and Louis, for instance, coordinate their individual acts of playing music into a united act of playing music. Likewise, Anna shares the good with others in her charitable organization by coordinating her contribution with theirs. Kenny and Krystyna, who are both from the same small town, seem to possess the good together in a different manner. They do not unite their individual agencies into a united activity, at least not in any obvious way. Their sharing might be described, most straightforwardly, as a mutual giving. Kenny already possesses the good (of having grown up in Dickinson) and Krystyna does as well. These separate possessions are brought together by Kenny taking the good that he has and giving it to Krystyna; she likewise gives the good that she has to Kenny. The giving is by way of conversation. Kenny gives Krystyna his experience of growing up, as best he can, by telling her about it. This sharing by way of giving, in which there is no greater activity of the combined members, is widespread. Furthermore, the giving often takes place, as with Kenny and Krystyna, by way of conversation. Consider, for instance, Linda and Norbert, two history scholars who exchange their thoughts on World War II. Conversation (written or spoken) is essential. Knowledge or ideas seem to be goods that are especially fit for sharing by way of conversation. In the case of Kenny and Krystyna, the good is given by way of conversation, but what results might be called a virtual possession of the actual good. Krystyna does not take on Kenny’s actual childhood in Dickinson; rather, she takes on the awareness of it. Since Linda and Norbert begin with awareness of some sort or other, the subsequent awareness, caused by conversation, leads to the same kind of possession in both.

66  Getting beyond Oneself Not every giving is by way of conversation. Kirsten might share her wealth with Giuseppe, for instance, by giving him money when he is in need. Dan might give his good of medical skill by performing surgery upon Traci. Anna might share her good of freedom by raising money to buy the freedom of slaves. The possibilities are multifarious. At the same time, however, conversation is ubiquitous, finding its way into almost every instance of giving the good to someone else. It finds its way, as well, into the shared possessions by way of coordinated activity. Clare and Louis, for instance, discuss the manner in which they will play the duet. The conversation is central to the coordination. They share their thoughts before they share their ability to play music. The two manners of possessing the good together, either by coordinated activity or by giving the good, seem to overlap. When Clare and Louis coordinate their activity into a united agency, for instance, we might say that Clare gives her agency to the whole and Louis gives his agency to the whole. Clare, then, is giving her good to Louis just as Kenny gives his good to Krystyna. The two cases still differ, however, for most properly Clare gives her good to the whole, only thereby giving it to Louis; in contrast, Kenny gives his good directly to Krystyna. The difference is more evident in larger groups. Within an orchestra, for instance, Clare does not give her musical good to any particular member; she gives it to the whole, thereby sharing it with all the members. Suppose, on the other hand, that Chris and Deb belong to a group of friends with mutual philosophical interests. They get together on a regular basis for breakfast and talk about their ideas. When Chris tells Deb one of his philosophical ideas, he is (unlike Clare in the orchestra) giving his good directly to Deb. He gives it only indirectly to the others, insofar as they also are united with Deb. 4.10 Similarity Similarity seems to play an important role in shared possession. Kenny and Krystyna, for instance, are similar in having grown up in the same town; Chris and Deb have similar philosophical interests; and Clare and Louis are similar in having a capacity to play music. The examples might be multiplied. Ariel and Anna meet and discover that they both have a passion for horses; they now want to share this passion through discussion and by riding together. Tony and Suzie discover that they have both lost a child to cancer; they begin to commiserate with one another. Wherever we look, it seems, solidarity is grounded in similarity. The examples fit a common pattern. The individuals discover that they are similar in some way or other; the similarity provides the basis for a sense of union; and the sense of union propels them to share the good.

Getting beyond Oneself 67 In all but the last case (in which the pair share the loss of a child to cancer), we presume that the union involves a similarity in something good. This presumption, however, is not essential. In the first case, for instance, both Kenny and Krystyna might have despised growing up in Dickinson. Precisely on this basis, they feel united. Division would arise only if they took opposite attitudes. If Kenny loved Dickinson but Krystyna hated it, then Kenny is likely to feel separation rather than union. Similarly, if Tony took a callous attitude toward the loss of his child, then Suzie might feel separation rather than union. Even when the similarity involves something bad, however, the individuals seek to share what they perceive as good. If Kenny and Krystyna both hate Dickinson, then they share many bad stories about it. What is being shared, however, seems to be a joint attack upon something bad (Dickinson), and attacking what is bad is perceived as good. Similarly, Tony and Suzie may share their sorrows about something bad, namely, the death of their children. Nevertheless, the sorrow is perceived as an appropriate response, and to that degree it is good. They might also share in order to help heal the pain. Again, this countering of an evil is perceived as good. When we feel united with someone, we do not really want to share what is truly evil, as if, for instance, Suzie would want Tony to undergo her own pain just so that he might have pain. If she wants to share her pain, it is so that together they might better deal with their misfortune. In short, all of these cases seem to involve a shared good. Why does similarity call forth solidarity? It seems that we want to share the good we already possess with those who also possess it. We already possess the good, but we possess it individually; we now want to possess it together. If two individuals are not already similar, then it seems that they must make each other similar. Perhaps, for instance, Ariel has already been engrossed in horses for years, while Anna has only recently been introduced to them and has shown some initial interest. Ariel already possesses the good (although individually), but Anna might be said, more properly, to have the capacity to possess it. If Ariel really wishes to share the good with Anna, then she must make Anna like herself; she must make Anna have a passion for horses. Ariel wants her own good in a certain way—that is, as also belonging to Anna—but it can belong to her only if Anna is like Ariel. Ariel’s budding desire for union with Anna not only causes a similarity; it also seems to be founded upon a similarity, for the two have at least the lesser similarity of being able to possess the good. The activity of giving is simply the activity of causing the good one already possesses to exist in the other, although perhaps the new existence might be only virtual, even as Kenny’s childhood comes to exist in Krystyna. Coordinated activity, on the other hand, does not cause the

68  Getting beyond Oneself good to exist in the other, but it does make the good that already exists into a part of a greater whole. Clare’s musical good, for instance, becomes part of a united activity, which is a united possession with Louis. 4.11 Limitations The need for a united activity depends, in part, upon the limited nature of the individual possession. Clare does possess musical talent, but it is limited. Her talent does not allow her to play this musical piece, which requires the simultaneous playing of both the cello and the piano. By herself, she cannot attain this particular musical good. Through coordinated activity, however, she can possess it together with Louis. Sharing the good is one more way for Clare to possess the good. In this case, it is a more complete possession. This manner of speaking, however, might revive worries that Clare is nothing other than a sophisticated egoist. She seems to use Louis to overcome her own inadequacy. Louis is a means by which she can more completely possess the good that she desires. These worries, however, should not detain us (Jollimore 2011, 129–30). Of course, Clare might view Louis merely as a means to her own private possession of the good; she might view her union as useful, much like a band of thieves. If she really wishes for a more complete possession, however, then she must get beyond her private possession. What she possesses privately, even when playing together with Louis, is not the musical piece; she possesses only her part of it. Only the two of them together possess the whole musical piece. If she really wants the more complete possession, then, she must seek to possess the good as a part within a whole. She must, then, seek the good not only as her own but also as belonging to Louis. With her possession-based desire, Clare desires to possess the good for herself. When she unites with Louis, through solidarity, she still desires to possess the good, but ultimately she desires that “we” possess the good. The complete good is not only her own. Her limitation brings her to Louis, but he is not a means to her goal. Rather, he is a constitutive subject of the whole that attains the goal. Clare’s limitation—the limitation that leads her to Louis—is not merely a limitation as a producing agent. Rather, Clare is limited as a possessing agent. She can fully possess the good only by becoming part of a greater subject. Even Kenny and Krystyna might unite on account of their limitations. Kenny possesses only part of what it means to grow up in Dickinson; Krystyna possesses another part. The two of them together can more fully possess this good. They do so not by a united agency but by giving their part of the good to the other. What is Kenny’s is also Krystyna’s, and what is Krystyna’s is also Kenny’s.

Getting beyond Oneself 69 We can come full circle by returning to Chris the sophisticated egoist. Even he might be said to have a certain “limitation.” While he views himself as completely possessing the good of his musical talent, he recognizes that his own good can also be possessed by others, such as Deb. The fullness of his completion can be extended to others. It is not so much that he is limited; rather, he is expansive. He is limited only in the sense that his completion gives him the potential for more. What he has can also belong to others. If he adopts this attitude, Chris ceases to be an egoist. He does not seek Deb in order to complete himself, for he views himself as wholly self-sufficient. Rather, he seeks Deb merely so that she might also have his good together with him. Chris wants his own good in a certain way, namely, as belonging to Deb. For Kenny and Krystyna, as well as for Clare, Louis, Ariel, and Anna, the limitation is real; they are not self-sufficient. Their possession of the good is not complete in itself. They do possess the good but only partially. They possess the good more fully together with others. Still, when they share the good they must have something of Chris’s attitude. They must want their own fullness—the part that they do have—to belong not only to themselves; they must want it for others as well. For them, of course, the movement is mutual. Not only do they want their fullness to belong to others; they want the fullness of others to belong to them. Such relations, of course, can be uneven, one of the parties being more in the role of the giver and the other more in the role of the receiver. Ariel, for instance, might be most of all giving her fullness of the possession of horses to Anna, whose possession is much more limited. Ariel becomes much more like Chris and Anna more like Deb. Still, even Ariel’s possession of the good is limited and can be filled in. The same can be said for Chris, even if he himself does not acknowledge it. The giving of the good to others, then, is also a kind of coordination for a greater possession. The limited possession of Kenny is united with a limited possession of Krystyna to form a more complete possession of the good. Similarly, the limited knowledge of Linda concerning World War II is united with the limited knowledge of Norbert to form, between the two of them, a more complete possession of the good. 4.12 Solidarity Similarity in the good, then, leads to a new possibility, the possibility of possessing the good together with others. Similarity opens the door to solidarity. It does not coerce one to go through the door. After all, something might count against the union. Given her pursuit of other goods, for instance, Ariel may not have enough time to spend with Anna. While Ariel would like to possess the good with Anna, other priorities prevent it.

70  Getting beyond Oneself At the very least, however, Ariel is enticed by the union with Anna. After all, she can better possess the good together with Anna. Anna extends the possession of the good so that it is possessed not only individually but also as shared. The subsequent solidarity need not have any special “moral” character. Nor is it necessarily connected to a deep or profound friendship. It might involve little more than a pleasant exchange between strangers at an airport. It can be a minimal love that we have for a multitude of individuals, to whom we feel united in some small matter; it can also be the intimate love of lifetime friends. Sometimes the similarity can be quite generic, leading to something like an “altruistic” love. When examining the behavior of those who helped save Jews from the Nazis, for instance, Kristen Monroe (2002, 109; 1990, 118) emphasizes the importance of a shared humanity (see also Badhwar 1993). The altruism that she describes, then, seems to be a form of solidarity. The similarity between the individuals is far from specific. Two individuals might be similar in nothing else than their humanity. No doubt other similarities typically come into play, but the similarity of a shared humanity may be sufficient to give rise to a solidarity looking toward a shared good. This sharing can conform with the previous discussion, it seems, on the supposition that individuals have, by way of humanity, the potential to attain some good, which can then be shared, even as Anna has the potential to love horses. Perhaps the human mental capacity, with its ability to communicate, is a potential for a wide array of goods that can be possessed together. Notes 1 This assumption seems to underlie the definition of altruism presented by Daniel Batson (2002, 90–91). Yannig Luthra (2015) argues against it. 2 Luthra (2015, 433) argues that actions are desirable for their own sake, or as constitutive of living a good life, even if they are also essentially directed to something else. 3 Badhwar (1993, 100) notes that those who fail to seek the good of others often view themselves as passive with regard to the group, having no capacity to change the action of the group itself.

5

Sharing by Desire

The outlines of a world without neutrality, a world in which agent relativity has been adopted without reservation, are beginning to take shape. An agent relative world is not necessarily an isolating world. To the contrary, it can be filled with a desire to possess the good together with others. Just as the function of an eye is realized through activity, so also this united possession—this united having of the good—is primarily by way of activity, through coordinated activity or through the activity of giving. On a minimalist account, such as that provided by Bratman (1999, 142–61), united agency involves nothing more than coordinated activity. Thicker accounts, such as that provided by Margaret Gilbert (1992; 2000; 2014), include significant commitments and desires within the united agents (see also Searle 1990, 404, 406; Bratman 1999, 111). Whether every united agency requires such commitments is a question we need not answer. What matters is the particular kind of united agency called solidarity, which does require significant commitments and desires. For solidarity, the union in external actions, whether by giving or by coordination, is only part of what is needed to share the good. Indeed, it is the lesser part. More important is an internal element found in desire. Possessing the good, whether singly or in union with others, involves an affective element. The element of desire, examined in this chapter, will have far-reaching implications for the structure of solidarity. On account of desire, and only with this element of desire, solidarity will take on (in a limited domain) some aspects of common sense morality. Even in this chapter, it will become evident that solidarity lays emphasis upon partiality toward those who are close to us. In subsequent chapters, we will see the (negative) importance of using others, as well as the significance of an internal element (perhaps identical with intention) for identifying cases of using others. Even something like punishment will follow upon the desire within a shared possession. Before these aspects of agent relativity become evident, however, the element of desire must be examined. DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-5

72  Sharing by Desire 5.1  The Need for Desire The need for desire within solidarity is evident from the case of Greedy Izzy. Although Izzy goes through the external activities that could be an act of sharing the good, Giuseppe is nevertheless offended by her action (Jollimore 2001, 21). He does not think that she in fact is sharing the good. Yet the very same actions, if they had been done from a desire to comfort Giuseppe for his own sake, would be actions of sharing the good. Desire can add what might be called a formality of goodness—or lack thereof—to an action. This phenomenon can be observed not only in shared goods but even in individual goods. Suppose that Dan is an excellent doctor. This excellence is a completion of him, but he does not desire it insofar as it completes him. Rather, he desires to be an excellent doctor only because he can thereby make lots of money. In his desires, then, the excellence is only an instrumental good. While he possesses the excellence, he does not possess it as an inherent good; rather, he possesses it only as a useful good. In order to possess this excellence (or any good) as an inherent good, he must desire it precisely as completing himself. Bennett Helm (2008) distinguishes between mere intentional systems, which act to achieve some end, and robust agents, which care about the ends they achieve. In particular, robust agents can care about certain ends simply for their own sakes, as having importance in themselves. Being a robust agent requires more than activity; it requires certain kinds of desires. Only robust agents, it seems, can really possess a good. A knife might have the good of being sharp, which helps it to fulfill its function, but it does not care about being sharp or about anything else. It does not possess the good, then, precisely insofar as it is a good. The role of desire is readily applied to the shared good. Mere joint activity does not necessarily lead to a shared possession. The thieves have the joint activity of robbing the bank, but they desire no inherent good together. They have only the convenience of a shared means (Helm 2008, 20). Similarly, Izzy’s sharing activity, without the desire, gives rise to no shared possession (Korsgaard 2009, 188–91). What is shared by external activity is not necessarily shared as a good that belongs to both parties. For an attributive good, the good of any subject depends upon an order to an end. A pen, unlike a hammer, is directed to the end of writing; consequently, its good is found in writing and not in the act of pounding. Since doctors, unlike architects, are directed to the end of healing, they are good by way of healing but not by way of building. For human beings, desire seems to play a role in the direction we take on. On account of her desires, Izzy is directed to the goal of making money but she is not directed to Giuseppe’s good as part of her inherent good. His good, then, does not complete her, at least not as something possessed together with him.

Sharing by Desire 73 A shared possession, then, seems to have two elements: a joint activity and desire. Between these two, desire seems to be the more important (Pettit 2015, 25). Consider the following two cases. Jogging Kirsten: Kirsten decides to go jogging rather than visit Giuseppe. Ailing Kirsten: Kirsten desires and plans to visit Giuseppe (for his own sake), but then she falls ill and cannot do so. In both cases, Giuseppe does not get what he wants (a visit from Kirsten). In both cases, he is disappointed to some extent. His disappointment, however, is much greater in Jogging Kirsten. In that case, he feels that Kirsten did not really want to visit him, while in Ailing Kirsten, he is comforted at least by her desire. Indeed, Ailing Kirsten compares favorably to Consequentialist Kirsten. In the latter case, Giuseppe does get the external activity but he does not get the desire; Kirsten visits him not for his own sake but only to contribute to the greater agent neutral good. The desire without the action, then, is better than the action without the desire. 5.2  Desires and Plans The nature of the desire integral to sharing a good involves a plan to act and not merely an idle wish (Jollimore 2001, 16–21; Helm 2008, 22). In Jogging Kirsten, Kirsten may have had a passing thought that it might be nice to visit Giuseppe, but then she set it aside because she thought she would rather go jogging. This idle wish is a weak desire that lacks commitment (Mele 2003, 27–30). It does not comfort Giuseppe. He wants Kirsten to be committed to his good. Giuseppe’s judgments can be expressed in terms of what Michael Bratman (1987, 4, 15–18) has analyzed as settled plans of action, most especially the plans that Bratman identifies as “policies.” Plans aim at action but they are not always, at any given moment, put into action. Kirsten, for instance, might plan on visiting Giuseppe later this evening, but at the moment she is working. Although she is not now acting on her plan, her desire is not an idle wish. She has set herself to share the good with him. She is committed to visiting him; she intends to visit him. Kirsten’s state of having a plan remains while she is engaged in other activities, such as reading, exercising, and brushing her teeth. She has directed herself to certain activities and to certain goods. Although she has formed the plan, she does not immediately act on it but engages in other activities instead (Bratman 1987, 16). The presence of the plan reveals itself when Kirsten attempts to work around it (Bratman 1987, 31). If Brett calls Kirsten, asking to play a game of chess, she replies that she cannot

74  Sharing by Desire play tonight because she is visiting Giuseppe. She takes the activity of visiting Giuseppe as a given reality, although it is yet a future event. Of course, Kirsten can change her plans (Bratman 1987, 60–75). Perhaps she will decide that she would rather play chess with Brett than visit Giuseppe. Despite the possibility of changing her plan, Kirsten’s plan is not merely an idle wish. It remains in place and can be changed only by actively removing it, typically on account of new information that was not available when the plan was first formed (including, possibly, the new information that something already considered has more importance than was initially attributed to it) (Bratman 1987, 16). In some instances, Kirsten will merely modify her plan, without abandoning it. She will visit Giuseppe an hour earlier and then return home to play chess with Brett. In that case, she keeps the more general plan to visit Giuseppe and abandons only the precise plan to visit him at 7 PM. In some situations, Giuseppe might be pleased with a very general plan on Kirsten’s part, a plan that does not get specified into a precise visit to the hospital. Consider the following situation. Kirsten’s Mother: Kirsten plans to visit Giuseppe at some point, but then discovers that her mother has fallen deathly ill. She sets aside all other plans in order to visit her mother. Giuseppe is likely to take much the same attitude in this situation as he does in Ailing Kirsten, a situation in which Kirsten abandons her plan to visit Giuseppe because she is physically unable to carry it out. In both cases, Giuseppe is convinced that Kirsten maintains a commitment in relation to his good. She does not plan specifically to share the good by visiting him, but she still plans to share the good with him insofar as she is able (Pettit 2015, 14–17). In Ailing Kirsten, she is physically unable to visit him in the hospital. In Kirsten’s Mother, she is technically able to visit Giuseppe, but Giuseppe is likely to say that she was “unable” to visit him. Speaking of an “inability” based upon conflicting plans is commonplace. In precisely this manner, Kirsten might turn down Brett’s request to play chess. “I am unable to play tonight because I am visiting Giuseppe.” Strictly speaking, she is able to play; she has the physical capability. The inability is based upon the presence of a conflicting plan. In the same manner, then, Giuseppe thinks that Kirsten is unable to visit when she has the conflicting plan of taking care of her mother. When we speak of ability or inability, then, we might distinguish between two levels. First, we have physical ability when it is actually possible to do something, and we have physical inability when, on account of our limitations, we cannot accomplish the task. Second, we have ability within the context of our plans. This ability requires not only the physical

Sharing by Desire 75 possibility but also the absence of conflicting plans. The inability arising from conflicting plans is, like the first inability, based upon our limitations: we cannot carry out two conflicting plans. Technically, however, we have the ability (in the first sense), since we could change our plans. In Jogging Kirsten, however, Giuseppe is not likely to be comforted by the following excuse: “I really wanted to visit you, but I was unable to because I had planned to go jogging instead.” Giuseppe is inclined to think that she should have changed her plans. In Kirsten’s Mother, however, Giuseppe has no similar inclination. He understands why Kirsten must act on the plan to take care of her mother, setting aside (or never forming) the specific plan to visit Giuseppe. Giuseppe might even say, for Jogging Kirsten, that she really could have visited him, while for Kirsten’s Mother, he might say that she could not have visited him. Realistically, however, the two cases are parallel. In both, Kirsten is physically able to visit Giuseppe; in both, she is unable, given a conflicting plan. Why, then, does Giuseppe take such opposite attitudes to the two cases? It seems to be a matter of priorities. Giuseppe understands why Kirsten’s mother should take priority over his need for comfort in the hospital; he does not understand why jogging should get priority. Kirsten changes her plans, or fails to change them, on account of priorities. When Brett calls asking to play chess, Kirsten may change the planned time of her visit to Giuseppe because she places a high priority on getting together with Brett. If playing chess with Brett has a lower priority, she might not modify her plans but simply tell Brett that maybe they can play some other time. In Kirsten’s Mother, she changes her plans precisely because her mother has a higher priority than Giuseppe. The problem with Jogging Kirsten, thinks Giuseppe, is that jogging should not take priority over his comfort in the hospital. By choosing to go jogging, Kirsten has done more than forgo a plan to visit him in the hospital. She has forgone something else besides. She has forgone a deeper plan with regard to Giuseppe. She has forgone, he thinks, even the general plan to share the good with him. Giuseppe is thinking of the kind of plan that Bratman (1987, 87–91) calls a policy, which is a sort of general plan concerning a whole series of actions. Daniela, for instance, has a policy to exercise. She has set herself to the activity of exercising not just once but indefinitely. She has settled upon three times a week, but the precise times can fluctuate from week to week, depending upon her schedule. Because human plans are partial, Daniela can set herself to the activity of exercising without yet determining the precise time, or even the precise kind of exercise, whether it might be biking, running, or swimming, for example (Bratman 1987, 29). Giuseppe wants just such a “policy” in Kirsten’s heart (Pettit 2015, 22–25). He wants his good to belong to Kirsten in her settled desires, and

76  Sharing by Desire not just in her passing wishes. He wants to be important enough in her desires so that she settles upon sharing the good with him. The precise instances of sharing might be left open. Nevertheless, Giuseppe expects the policy to be put into action when it is fitting and when it is possible. 5.3 Worth He expects the plan to be put into action depending, in part, upon his importance in relation to Kirsten. He recognizes that Kirsten also has other policies, such as a policy to share the good with her mother or a policy to go jogging. Where exactly he fits within these policies (and others besides) is far from clear. Nevertheless, when she chooses to go jogging, Kirsten does not live up to his expectations, and he is saddened. His place in her heart was not sufficient. He does not have a similar problem when Kirsten chooses to visit her mother. He recognizes that her mother plays a bigger part (than he does) within Kirsten’s overall good. Giuseppe, then, wants more than an idle desire. He is sometimes satisfied, however, with what Alfred Mele (2003, 30–33) calls a standing desire. Kirsten retains her desire to share the good with Giuseppe even while she is not acting upon it, even while she is doing other things, such as visiting her mother. Identifying the priority that Giuseppe takes in Kirsten’s heart is no easy matter. If Kirsten’s plans involve agent relative goods, then they must be evaluated in terms of both the good and the subject of the good. For possession-based desires, a complete reason for acting includes not only the good but also the subject for whom it is good. Our deliberations, then, involve both the person and the good. We often overlook the person, since deliberations sometimes involve only a person’s own private good, in which case no comparison of persons is necessary. As Kirsten deliberates about whether she should jog, listen to music, or read a book, she evaluates the pros and cons of each good and settles upon that which is best. Although it appears that the person does not enter the equation, it turns out that the person—Kirsten herself—is simply factored out because she is the same for each good. The evaluation of the person is most evident when the goods themselves are more equivalent. In Kirsten’s Mother, for instance, the goods in the two options available to Kirsten (visiting Giuseppe and visiting her mother) might be fundamentally the same. Nevertheless, Kirsten also evaluates the person for whom she desires the good. When Kirsten decides to visit her mother rather than Giuseppe, she does not claim that a greater good is achieved. Rather, she claims that her mother is more important to her than is Giuseppe.

Sharing by Desire 77 For agent relative goods, not only are the goods themselves relative to a particular subject; so also the importance of a given person is relative. Consider the following case. Paul’s visit: Paul is a good friend of Giuseppe and plans on visiting Giuseppe in the hospital. He then discovers that Kirsten’s mother has fallen deathly ill. He hardly knows Kirsten, however, so he retains his plan to visit Giuseppe. Giuseppe’s worth, then, varies from person to person. For Kirsten, Giuseppe has less worth than her mother. For Paul, Giuseppe has a greater worth than does Kirsten’s mother. Giuseppe treats this relativity of worth as an objective feature of the connection. Objectively, a dog is smaller than an elephant but larger than a flea. Similarly, Giuseppe can judge—objectively—that Kirsten is more united with her mother than she is with himself. The importance of the connection does not depend upon the whim of Kirsten. It depends upon objective features of the relationship. The worth of an individual, within solidarity, depends upon the union of subjects pursuing a shared good. Where that union is greater, we also expect the sharing to be greater. What exactly makes one union greater than another, however, is not always clear. The duration of the connection is often important (Hurka 2006, 235). If Kirsten has known Brett a long time, while she has met Giuseppe only recently, then she might well place greater weight upon her connection with Brett. This factor of duration typically involves the duration of actually sharing goods. Perhaps Kirsten has known Brett for a long time but has rarely shared a good with him. On the other hand, she has known Giuseppe only a short time, but she has shared goods with him a fair amount. Another factor is the importance of the good that is shared. If Anna considers the good of horses to be central to her self-perception, then she might perceive a greater connection with Ariel, who also has a passion for horses, than she has with Vince, with whom she shares a lesser good. The number of shared goods might also increase a connection. In addition to the passion for horses, Anna and Ariel both volunteer at the same charitable organization; they also sometimes play chess together; and so on. The greater the number of shared goods, the greater the connection. This factor applies most especially—but not exclusively—to the actual sharing of goods, as was indicated above with regard to duration. Another factor difficult to characterize might be captured by the word “intimacy.” It is not only which goods are shared and how long they have been shared; it is also how “deeply” they have been shared. We seem to

78  Sharing by Desire place greater weight upon certain acts of sharing rather than upon others. Anna might consider, for instance, the act of riding horseback with Ariel as more significant—as an act of sharing the good—than the act of simply talking about horses. As suggested by the scare quotes, this factor is difficult to pinpoint, and perhaps it largely reduces to other factors. Certainly, it is difficult to imagine having an “intimate” sharing of a good that we consider to be insignificant. These factors do not change our judgment of how important a good is. Rather, they change how important we think it—for us—to pursue this good with this person. It may often be more important to pursue lesser goods with people with whom we have a greater connection. Consider the standard example in which a mother chooses to buy a bike for her son rather than to use the money for charity to help a poor person she has never met. She need not judge that the bike is a greater good. Rather, she judges that the connection with her son makes it more important to pursue this good, even though it is a lesser good than charity to the needy. Discussions of agent relative reasons—and so-called agent-centered prerogatives—place great emphasis upon the special weight we give to our own personal goals and projects (Williams 1973, 108–18; Nagel 1986, 164–88; Scheffler 1994, 41–79). Tom, for instance, gives special weight to his own desire to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. On account of his devotion to this project, he sets aside projects, such as charitable activity, that might produce greater goods. From where does this special weight arise? This importance does not derive—at least not solely—from the good itself. Rather, it derives from the connection with the person. Tom gives more weight to his own personal projects because he is more immediately connected with himself than with anyone else. Since we give greater importance to those more connected with us, Tom gives more importance to himself than to others (taken individually, at any rate). Such judgments need not involve morality (although they could). The special weight we give to persons, and not just goods, is an observable feature of our deliberations. Whether morally acceptable or not, this partiality is simply the manner in which we deliberate concerning shared agent relative goods. We consider not only the importance of the good involved; we also consider the connection we have with the person who is the subject of the good. Perhaps morality is different. Perhaps in morality we consider only goods and exclude the connection between persons. Whatever may be the case concerning morality, judgments concerning shared agent relative goods give weight both to the good and to the connections between people. We not only deliberate in this manner; we also pass judgments upon our friendships using both the goods involved and the connection we have with our friends. When Giuseppe passes judgment upon Kirsten and her acts of friendship (or lack thereof), he includes his own importance, based upon

Sharing by Desire 79 the extent of his union with Kirsten. In Jogging Kirsten, he is hurt because he thinks that she has treated him as less important than the measure their closeness demands. His good (of comfort) was not important enough to her precisely because he was not important enough to her. He acknowledges that his good has been slighted, but what hurts is that, therein, he himself has been slighted. In Kirsten’s Mother, on the other hand, he is comforted by the thought that Kirsten would have visited him if she had not had something (genuinely) more important to do. He thinks that Kirsten’s mother is indeed more important (to Kirsten) than he himself is. In order to capture this idea of the importance of connections, we will use the word “worth.” Kirsten’s mother has more worth—to Kirsten— than does Giuseppe. This terminology should not be confused with a worth that is sometimes attributed to human beings in general. For this general worth, we will reserve the word “dignity.” 5.4 Dignity Giuseppe’s concern over being sufficiently important within Kirsten’s desires suggests a parallel with the deontological idea of human dignity. It will become evident, however, that the two ideas differ in significant respects. According to deontic dignity, human beings—or rational beings, or autonomous beings—are ends in themselves (Velleman 1999, 357–58; Kerstein 2013, 30–32). As such, they must always be treated as an end, and never merely as a means (Wood 1999, 111–55). Rational beings who have dignity provide the ultimate reason for acting. If Sarah pays for Kenny’s surgery in order that he might be healthy, then we can say that Kenny’s health is a reason for her action. More fundamental than the good of health, however, is Kenny himself, who is the ultimate reason for Sarah’s action. The good of health, by itself, would not motivate her. When John seeks the flourishing of the grapes, he seeks their good, but ultimately they are merely useful for his own good. They are not an end of his action but the means. In contrast, Sarah acts for Kenny’s own sake, so that he is more than a means; he is an end, the reason itself for her action (Korsgaard 2009, 192). According to this deontic account, then, the world is filled with a variety of subjects with their own attributive goods. Kenny has goods and Sarah has goods; so also do grapes and beetles have goods. Not all of these diverse goods, however, provide us with reasons to act. Sarah has a reason to act for her own goods, but she has no reason to act for the good of beetles. John has a reason to act for his own good, and he also has a reason to act for the good of the grapes. In the latter case, the grapes provide John with a reason to act only because they are a useful good. John acts for his own good, however, not because he himself is a useful good. Rather, he is an end.

80  Sharing by Desire Someone who is an end in himself is sometimes called a “person.” A person (on this deontic account) is a subject of the good who provides the ultimate reason for seeking the good (Korsgaard 1993, 49). The grapes are not persons. They are a subject of the good, but they provide no reason, just in themselves, for John to seek their good. John himself, on the other hand, is a person. We can seek the good of a nonperson, as John seeks the good of the grapes, but we must always do so for some further reason. In contrast, a person provides his or her own reason. These deontic persons are reasons for acting but they themselves are not goods. More precisely, they are neither agent neutral goods nor agent relative goods. If they are goods, then they must be a third kind of good, a good that provides a fundamental reason for acting. Persons, then, might be said to have dignity, which means that they are ends in themselves; they provide the ultimate ground for acting (Korsgaard 1993, 51; Velleman 1999, 364). Any deontic account must be able to distinguish between persons and nonpersons. A beetle does not count as a person, but Kenny does. A grape does not count as a person, but John does. Typically, deontic accounts have identified persons by the capacity of reasoning, practical reasoning in particular (Gert 1998, 137–140; Velleman 1999, 365). Personhood does not depend upon some physical features such as eye color. Rather, it depends upon being a certain kind of agent, a rational agent. Since persons provide an ultimate reason for acting, they should themselves act according to reasons (Korsgaard 1983, 181–83; 1996b). A beetle performs actions, such as scurrying across the floor; it acts, however, simply out of impulse or desire, with no deliberation or understanding of the reasons for acting. In contrast, Kenny acts with deliberation and understanding. This conclusion is reinforced by a common test for acceptable actions, which takes the form of asking the question, “How would you like it if some other person did the same to you?” (Korsgaard 1993, 48–49) If Anna is thinking of vandalizing Vince’s car, then she might ask herself, “Would I like it if Vince vandalized my car?” Presumably, the answer is no. Out of consistency, then, Anna should not vandalize Vince’s car. She herself wants to be treated as a person, so she should treat others, like herself, as persons. Suppose Sarah is about to step on a beetle. Then she asks herself “Would I like it if a giant beetle stepped on me?” Presumably not. This case is different, however. The beetle stepping on Sarah is much like a rock falling upon Sarah. Of course, Sarah would not want a rock to fall upon her, but she does not suppose that the rock acts for reasons. Likewise, the beetle does not act with understanding of reasons. It cannot “step on” her in the same way in which she “steps on” a beetle. The falling rock might “kill” Sarah but it does so without practical agency, so it does not “kill” in the

Sharing by Desire 81 same way in which an assassin might kill Sarah. Neither does the beetle “step on” in the same way as does Sarah. These cases suggest that what is at issue is more than results. Sarah would not like it if the rock fell upon her because of the resulting injury. Certainly, Anna, as well, would not like Vince to vandalize her car because of the resulting damage. This case, however, has something more: she does not want to be treated in a certain way. If a hailstorm damages Anna’s car, then she has suffered a loss. If the same damage is inflicted by Vince, then she has suffered the same loss. In this case, however, she has suffered something more: she has been treated as insignificant. The hail does not treat her one way or another, because it does not act for reasons. In contrast, Vince treats her with contempt, because he does act with reasons. The question (“How would you like it if…?”), then, is not asking simply whether you want some result from an action; it is asking whether you want to be treated in a certain way.1 As such, it concerns those who can act with reasons. It applies, for Anna, in the case of Vince, but it does not apply, for Sarah, in the case of the beetle. The beetle cannot treat Sarah with contempt or disrespect, because it cannot treat her one way or the other; it does not act with understanding of reasons. Having blonde hair and blue eyes, then, cannot be a sufficient ground for personhood. Reasoning, freedom, or autonomy, however, might serve as the basis for personhood, since these imply the kind of agency from which respect or disrespect might arise, namely, the ability to act with deliberation and understanding of reasons. 5.5  A Fourth Attributive Good This deontic dignity differs in many ways from the worth that Giuseppe thinks should be reflected in Kirsten’s desires. Most obviously, dignity is absolute while the worth of solidarity is relative in multiple ways, corresponding to the agent relative good that gives rise to it. Unlike Giuseppe’s deontic dignity, his worth might vary from person to person (Velleman 1999, 370; Kerstein 2013, 32). He might have greater worth to Kirsten, for instance, than he does to Paul. Furthermore, he might have less worth, in relation to Kirsten, than does Kirsten’s mother. Indeed, that Giuseppe should have any worth at all is relative to some shared good. Giuseppe has worth to Kirsten only because the two share in some good. This latter point indicates a profound difference in the foundations of dignity and worth. Dignity is found in John because of the kind of thing that he is; he has dignity because he has a rational nature (Velleman 1999, 365). By his autonomous nature, John is a reason for acting, an end in himself. In contrast, Giuseppe’s worth arises because he and Kirsten share a good. Giuseppe’s type—what he is—is not irrelevant, for as we have

82  Sharing by Desire seen, he must be similar to Kirsten and he must be able to share the good with her. Nevertheless, type is not definitive. What matters is the concrete Giuseppe who shares this concrete good with Kirsten. Within this good, we have seen, Giuseppe is not a final stopping point. Rather, he is part of the subject of the good; he is part of a stopping point. This relative worth is a fourth member of the family of attributive goods. In a way, Giuseppe wants his very self to be a good for Kirsten. He is not, however, any of the three kinds of agent relative goods so far discussed. First, he is not something good in its kind, as a doctor is a good doctor or a bad doctor; second, he is not “good for” Kirsten as something that completes her, the way that being sharp is good for a knife; third, he is not (at least not merely) “good for” Kirsten because he produces her completion, the way that vitamin A is good for an eye. If Giuseppe is himself a good, he must be a new kind of good, a fourth member of the attributive family of goods. This fourth member will fill a lacuna concerning the typical objection to Geach’s thesis that all goods are attributive. This objection points to examples of what appear to be predicative goods. As we have seen, these purported counterexamples can usually find a place within the three-member family of attributive goods. Some of the examples, however, do not fit neatly within these three kinds of goods. Geach focused upon something good in its kind, but sometimes it seems that the kind itself is good or bad (DuncanJones 1966; Drum 1999, 253; Haines 2010, 151). A good thief, for instance, is good in his kind, but he is not a good kind of thing. Similarly, a good ICBM, says Charles Pigden (1990, 131–33), is not a good kind of thing. On the other hand, a doctor, even a bad doctor, is a good kind of thing. If the family of attributive goods is distinctive in that the good is always in relation to some subject, then this new kind of good—a good kind of thing, as opposed to a thing good in its kind—does not seem, at first glance, to be a family relation. The kind of thing “being a thief” is not bad in relation to thieves; it is simply bad, in relation to no particular subject. Geach might push back, in line with a suggestion of Kraut (2007, 72– 77), by insisting that “good kinds of things” fit squarely within the category of productive “good for.” Thieves are called bad kinds of things because they produce what is bad for a particular kind of subject, namely, human beings. Thieves are not bad kinds of things for trees or for cats. Similarly, doctors are good kinds of things because they produce health, which is good for a particular kind of subject. This response might be supplemented by recognizing that good (or bad) kinds of things can fit within the family of attributive goods as a fourth member. This fourth member arises only for shared goods. In that case, the parts of the whole may be described as “good kinds of things” in relation to the whole. Within an orchestra, for instance, a violinist, a percussionist,

Sharing by Desire 83 and a cellist are all good kinds of things. Even bad violinists are good kinds of things, because their function (of playing the violin) is directed to the goal of the whole. Similarly, within a good shared by human beings, a thief might well be a bad kind of thing. Even good thieves (that is, those who are good at thieving) are nevertheless bad kinds of things because their function counters the function of the whole. Conversely, a doctor (even a bad doctor) might be a good kind of thing within some shared good, because the function of a doctor promotes the good of the whole. As befits the attributive good, however, all of these “good kinds of things” are good (or bad) always in relation to some particular good. They are not good or bad absolutely speaking. A violinist is a good kind of thing only in relation to the shared good of the whole orchestra. A thief is a bad kind of thing in relation to some shared human good. A piston is a good kind of thing in relation to the good of an engine. And so on. Even the right kind of thing is not really good for the shared good until it becomes a part of the whole. A cellist is a good kind of thing for an orchestra, but she becomes good for this orchestra only by becoming a member. For solidarity, instances of a kind are not good across the board. They are good for some particular good and only as parts of some particular whole. The worth that Giuseppe perceives, then, is not an absolute dignity. Rather, it is the worth of being a part. It is the worth of being united with Kirsten in her good. Absolutely speaking, he is not a “good kind of thing.” Rather, only in relation to this particular united subject is he a good kind of thing. 5.6  The Complete Reason for Acting Giuseppe’s worth and deontic dignity, then, are quite distinct. Nevertheless, they also have much in common. Both of them, for instance, are less concerned with results and more concerned with attitudes. Deontic dignity is not concerned with results but with being treated in a certain way, with something like respect. Similarly, Giuseppe is not as much concerned with the results of Kirsten’s behavior as he is concerned with the attitude toward him that he finds reflected in her behavior. For both views, this attitude need not always be realized in action; it might be present only by disposition, or in a plan. Robert Audi (2016, 22–23), for instance, claims that if individuals fail to treat others as an end, it does not follow that they treat them merely as a means. Others— such as Thomas Cavanaugh (1999, 182)—have suggested that we can treat someone as an end positively (by acting upon the appropriate attitude) or merely negatively (by not excluding the disposition to treat as an end).

84  Sharing by Desire Likewise, we have seen, Giuseppe is sometimes pleased merely with the desire to share the good with him, a desire that resides in a plan even when it is not consciously adverted to. Both dignity and worth, as well, are concerned with individuals being a reason for acting. Someone with dignity is an end in himself; by his very nature, he is a reason for acting. Likewise, Giuseppe can be called something of a reason for Kirsten’s behavior. Every reason for acting—for possession-based desires—is twofold, including both a good and the subject of the good. Kirsten does not seek simply the existence of some good; she wants the good for some person. The good by itself, without the person (possibly herself), would provide no reason for acting. When John seeks his own enjoyment with possession-based desires, we say that the good of enjoyment is the reason he acts. This good, however, is in fact good only insofar as it completes John. John’s desire, then, is not simply a desire for the existence of enjoyment; it is a desire to possess the good of wine for himself. When expressed most fully, then, his reason for acting must include himself. Enjoyment is his reason for acting, but not just any enjoyment. He seeks enjoyment under a certain formality or aspect, that is, as fulfilling himself. From this perspective, the agent neutral good of consequentialism and the dignity of deontology have each taken part of a reason, leaving behind the other part. The agent neutral good has latched on to the good but has left behind the agent for whom it is good. Dignity has latched on to the agent, making her a reason in herself even apart from the good (Velleman 1999, 354). In the possession-based desires of the agent relative good, however, the good and the agent form a unit, not to be separated. We cannot seek the existence of the good by itself; we can seek it only as the completion of some agent. Nor can we treat agents as ends in themselves apart from a good we desire. We seek goods, and we seek them for some agent. In possessionbased desires, we do not seek goods by themselves, nor do agents provide us with reasons for acting apart from the good. Both consequentialism and deontology, it seems, provide maimed versions of possession-based desire. Giuseppe, then, wants to be part of the reason for Kirsten’s behavior. He wants to be the subject for whom she desires the good. He does not claim to be a final stopping point; he does not claim to be the sole subject of Kirsten’s good. He is only part of the subject (which in turn is part of the reason for her action). At the very least, Kirsten must be another part, for the good is shared between Kirsten and himself. Perhaps it is shared with others as well. Giuseppe recognizes, then, that Kirsten’s good also belongs to others, such as her mother. In Jogging Kirsten, Giuseppe senses that Kirsten—even if she has retained her plan to share the good with him—has nevertheless held back something of the good that belongs to him. She has kept it for herself.

Sharing by Desire 85 Consequently, she has held back herself. She has not made herself a subject of Giuseppe’s good as completely as she should; she has not made Giuseppe sufficiently a subject of her good. It may not be that Kirsten has given Giuseppe no worth as the subject of her good. He complains, however, that she has given him insufficient worth. Giuseppe’s complaint has a striking feature: it arises most of all from Giuseppe’s most disinterested desires. Giuseppe loves his own good, but he wants it to be not only his own but also to be Kirsten’s. Both the good that he already has and the good that he has yet to get (or, more precisely, part of the good that he already has and part of the good that he has yet to get, since, presumably, Giuseppe does not share all of his good with Kirsten), Giuseppe wishes to belong to Kirsten. Even the comfort he hopes to gain— which is a good that he does not yet have—he desires not simply as his own; he wants it to belong to Kirsten as well. Giuseppe desires his own good, but he desires it in a certain way, namely, as belonging to Kirsten. Precisely this disinterested desire has given rise to his hurt, for he senses that Kirsten does not want his good to be her own, or at least she does not want it to be her own very much. Giuseppe wants his own good as belonging to Kirsten, but it can belong to Kirsten only if she desires it as her own. By going jogging, she has decided that she does not want it as her own, or at least this particular good (of comfort) is not her own. By failing to visit, she has refused to share her own good and has thereby rejected Giuseppe’s offer of his good. She has, thereby, rejected Giuseppe. He wanted to be a part of her good, the kind of thing to which she belongs, but she did not want him. This rejection is what most pains Giuseppe. The loss of the joint activity, no doubt, causes him some sorrow, as it does in Ailing Kirsten. But in that case at least his good belongs to Kirsten, because she does desire his good as her own. In Jogging Kirsten, what hurts most of all is that his good does not belong to Kirsten; his good is not her good. Giuseppe’s loss includes other elements as well. As we have seen, Giuseppe is not a self-sufficient Chris (the sophisticated egoist), who only gives and does not receive. Giuseppe is limited. The good that he has, which he also wants to belong to Kirsten, can itself be filled in by Kirsten’s own good. The exchange of goods between Kirsten and Giuseppe is mutual. When Kirsten rejects him, then, he has two losses. First and foremost, his own good remains only his own and does not belong to Kirsten, as he wished it to. Second, he loses Kirsten’s good as well. Giuseppe might be described as a limited subject of the good. He is made complete—as a subject of the good—by uniting with others. When Kirsten rejects this union, Giuseppe loses Kirsten as someone who can complete him. He loses not only the joint activity. He loses Kirsten as well. Giuseppe wants to have his good with Kirsten. Now he has it only by himself. He is alone in the good.

86  Sharing by Desire This manner of speaking—of Giuseppe being completed through Kirsten—should be used with caution, for it might lead to confusion over two different members of the fourfold family of attributive goods. First, something is good in its kind, as a knife that cuts well is a good knife. Second, something is good that completes a functional kind, as being sharp is good for a knife. Third, something is good that produces the second kind of good, as a knife sharpener is good for a knife. Finally, within a shared good each member of the good is a part that makes up the whole, so that each member can be called good as a partial subject of the good. Since the parts make up the whole, we might also say that the parts serve to complete the whole. Kirsten and Giuseppe both serve to complete the whole of which each is a part. Consequently, Kirsten completes Giuseppe, for without her he is an incomplete part. The terminology of completion has been used for both the second and the fourth members of the family of goods. Being sharp completes a knife, and Kirsten completes Giuseppe. The use of the same word, however, does not suggest the same meaning. The second kind of good is an attribute that completes the function of the subject. The fourth kind of good is itself a subject of the good, or at least a partial subject. Precisely because it is a part, it is incomplete by itself; it is made complete by the other parts. Because the wall is made up of bricks, we might say that together the bricks “complete” the wall. Because a brick is by its nature a part, it is made complete by being within the whole; consequently, we could also say that one brick “completes” another brick, when the two are placed together within the wall. Only in this more extended sense can we say that Kirsten completes Giuseppe. 5.7  Sharing and Desire The importance of desire for the shared good, then, can be stated as follows. The good is not possessed as shared unless it is desired as shared, through a joint desire or a joint commitment (Gilbert 2000, 3–8, 20–22, 25–26, 50–70). The desire cannot be merely an idle wish but must be a set plan to share the good. The desire is more important than the joint activity by which individuals possess the good together. While the activity without the desire provides nothing of the shared good, the desire without the activity can, at least sometimes, provide what is most essential for the shared good. That essential feature is the union of the subjects, the union of the individuals as directed toward the good. Giuseppe wants his own good to be not only his; he wants it to belong to Kirsten as well. It will belong to Kirsten as long as she desires it as her own. The two will have the good together most completely through a joint activity, but if they have only desire, they will still be united in the good.

Sharing by Desire 87 The good that Giuseppe has will also be Kirsten’s. Even the good that he does not yet have but only hopes to have will also be Kirsten’s, that is, it will, when possessed, complete her as well. For this very reason, Kirsten herself strives to bring it about. She wants the good that she has to belong also to Giuseppe. She wants to give her good to him. The role of desire in the shared good can be clarified by considering different ways in which two individuals can have the same good. First, they can have the same good in kind but not in number. Both Kenny and Anna desire the same kind of car, but Kenny wants, for himself, a numerically distinct car than the one that Anna has. Second, they can have the same good in number but not in possession. Kenny and Anna desire numerically one and the same car, but Kenny wants to have it for himself and Anna wants to have it for herself. Third, they can have the same good in number as belonging to both of them united. Kenny and Anna want to have this car together. When Giuseppe wants his own good to belong to Kirsten as well, he does not want the two of them merely to have the same kind of good. Nor does he want his own good to belong to Kirsten but for her to have it separately from himself. Rather, he wants the same good in the third way. He wants his own good to belong to Kirsten as a good that is ours, as a good that belongs to both of them together. This kind of union is realized in her desires. She must want his good as her own. She must want it as her own not by herself but as together with Giuseppe. Then the good that Giuseppe has is also Kirsten’s. Through desire, Giuseppe’s good belongs also to Kirsten. His good, however, can be possessed in a yet more united way. It can be possessed through a kind of united activity, through a united possession. Most completely, then, Giuseppe desires the united possession with Kirsten. Already through her desire, however, his good belongs to her. He possesses his good, and she is united to him through her desires, so she also possesses his good. Even when she must be doing other things, so that they cannot have the united activity, his good still belongs to her, at least as long as she retains her desire. Giuseppe’s good can belong to Kirsten in multiple ways. Most completely, she and Giuseppe possess the good together through a joint agency. In a lesser way, Giuseppe can have a good, such as health, that also belongs to Kirsten by way of desire; the health that completes Giuseppe also completes her, since the two form a united subject of the good. In this manner, even a good that Giuseppe does not yet possess (but only hopes to possess), such as the health that he has not yet attained, can also belong to Kirsten. When he attains this good, she will be made more complete. This mutual sharing of the good through desire is the heart of friendship. As we have suggested, however, solidarity is broader than friendship.

88  Sharing by Desire It not only includes friendship but also includes lesser relationships, even casual acquaintances. We want our good to belong to others even on a small scale. It belongs, most essentially, by desire. 5.8  Analogs with Morality When speaking of Giuseppe’s worth, we discovered an analog between solidarity and common sense morality, at least as it is exemplified in deontology. Morality has dignity, but solidarity has worth. Both attribute some value to the subject who has the good. As we have seen, however, the similarity is accompanied by many differences as well. In the remainder of this book, we will examine other analogs between morality and solidarity. We will focus, in particular, upon what might be called the morality of harming others. Within common sense morality, for instance, it seems inappropriate to treat others merely as a means to an end. A similar stricture against harmful using will appear within solidarity (Chapter 6). A closely related point concerns the difference between harming someone intentionally and foreseeing harm to another. It is reprehensible for Deb to drown Chris deliberately, but it might be acceptable for her to save Tom, foreseeing that, in the meantime, Chris will drown. The precise parameters of the difference between these two manners of harming are hotly disputed, but within morality, it is not uncommon to acknowledge some difference between the two. A similar difference will appear within solidarity (Chapter 7). These similarities will not be without differences. Most dramatically, morality applies to all human beings while solidarity applies only to those with whom we share the good. Morality says that Izzy must never use any human being (or perhaps any person) merely as a means to an end. Within solidarity, Izzy should not treat those with whom she shares the good as a means to a further end, for they are the (partial) subject of her own good. Solidarity says nothing, however, concerning those who fall outside Izzy’s shared good. Perhaps they may be used as a means to an end. A similar restrictive application applies to the distinction between the two manners of harming. Other differences will also be found. Within solidarity, for instance, speaking about treating a person as an end is rather awkward. Its meaning is unclear, bordering on the incoherent, for we speak of goods as ends but we do not typically speak of the subjects of these goods as ends. Cutting is the end of a knife, for instance, but the knife itself is not an end. These differences suggest a yet more fundamental difference. The ultimate rationale for these norms of behavior is one thing for deontology; it is something else entirely for solidarity. Deontology is concerned with the dignity of persons and with our duties. Solidarity is concerned with shared goods and with fulfilling our role within a united subject.

Sharing by Desire 89 Subsequent chapters will attempt to spell out these similarities and differences. Chapter 6 will focus upon using as a means; Chapter 7 will focus upon foreseeing harm; and Chapter 8 will try to spell out the difference between these two more precisely. Chapter 9 will examine the possibility of acceptable harm—or even beneficial harm—in the form of punitive activity. Chapter 10 will take a break from the topic of the morality of harm and shift our attention to one of the defining features of morality, namely, impartiality. Chapter 11 will return to the question of harm, focusing upon the partiality of harm involved in so-called agent centered restrictions. Chapter 12 will examine the extent to which solidarity can meet three defining features of morality: impartiality, universality, and the overriding nature of morality. We are trying to see what the world looks like when neutrality has been abandoned and agent relativity has been adopted wholeheartedly. We are trying to see in what way relativity might help to explain the fragmentation of modern ethics. The emerging picture of relativity will suggest answers to several questions. Why is morality, for instance, concerned with the act of treating others as a means? Why do agent neutral goods seem to undermine this concern? This discussion will unavoidably involve a consideration of human actions. After all, treating somebody as a means to an end involves action. Furthermore, action is central to the shared good, which is attained through united activity. Note 1 Judith Jarvis Thomson (1990, 229, 233; 1991, 287, 300, 302) provides a strongly contrasting “deontic” account that focuses upon mere physical activities and their effects. According to Thompson, a man who falls (through no choice of his own) upon a bystander, thereby killing her, has violated her right not to be killed.

6

Harmful Using

Immanuel Kant’s dictum that we should treat others as an end and not  merely as a means resonates with common intuitions. Perhaps these intuitions have been formed by two centuries of Kantian or deontological indoctrination. Experience, however, would suggest otherwise, for these intuitions do not necessarily concern some universal moral principle. Often they concern our immediate interactions with friends or associates. Often they concern not a universal principle but our desires for agent relative goods. Giuseppe is hurt by greedy Izzy, for instance, not because he thinks she has broken some universal norm. Rather, the good he desires for himself is in some manner wounded or undermined by Izzy’s action of using him as a means to an end. This sense of injury to our personal good is augmented when the using goes a step beyond Izzy. She does indeed use Giuseppe, but her action is at least consistent with Giuseppe’s good, and in some manner promotes it. Many cases of using, however, do not promote our good; instead, they harm our good. Consider the following situation. Vandalized Car: Vince vandalizes Anna’s car with a baseball bat, smashing the windshield and putting many dents in the body of the car. He does so in order to fulfill the rite of initiation into organized crime. Anna feels violated. She has a sense that Vince has personally attacked her good. Her case is stronger than that of Giuseppe. When Vince uses Anna, he does not do any good for her (as Izzy does for Giuseppe); to the contrary, he does her harm. Vince exhibits more clearly than Izzy, then, the idea of “treating someone as a means.” Vince treats Anna merely as a means. Izzy, on the other hand, might leave out the “merely,” for while she treats Giuseppe as a means, she might at the same time seek his good for his own sake, that is, she might treat him “as an end.” DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-6

Harmful Using 91 These examples suggest that our intuitions resonate with Kant more on account of an agent relative good than on account of some universal moral principle. We perceive the act of using, especially the act of harmful using, as undermining our agent relative goods. We might expect to find within solidarity, then, the reason for our intuitions. We might expect to find a link between actions of using and damage to our shared goods. This chapter aims to make evident the manner of this damage. It does so in two broad strokes. First (in Sections 6.1–6.4), it identifies which actions count as acts of using someone as a means. Second, once these actions can be identified, it proceeds (in Sections 6.5–6.7) to examine how actions of using undermine the shared good. 6.1  Treating As a Means We regularly describe actions as means to an end, but we also describe the subject acted upon as a means. For Kenny, for instance, the action of taking medicine is a means to the end of health. We also say, however, that the medicine itself is a means to health. The action has a certain priority. The medicine is not a means except by way of the action. Still, both the action and the medicine are means. The medicine has a causal efficacy that helps to produce the desired goal. Likewise, John treats the grapes as a means to his own enjoyment, since the causal efficacy of the grapes produces the wine, which John enjoys. In each case, the agent brings about a change in the subject, and this change is helpful to achieve the desired goal (Kerstein 2009, 166). Kenny changes the medicine by ingesting it, which helps to bring about health. John brings about a change in the grapes (by turning them into grape juice and then into wine), which helps to bring about his enjoyment. This pattern also fits those cases in which the change is itself beneficial to a person. Izzy brings about a change in Giuseppe (by cheering him up), which is helpful for her to get the money promised to her by the billionaire. In order to use some subject as a means, however, it is not absolutely necessary to change it, at least not directly. Its causal efficacy must in some manner be harnessed to achieve the goal of the agent. Most often, this harnessing is achieved by introducing some change into the subject. Less often, the subject is not literally changed, but its activity is directed to the desired result through what is sometimes called a Cambridge change. If a campfire is already burning, for instance, and Don places a marshmallow close to it, then he uses the fire although he does not change it. Rather he changes the location of the marshmallow, thereby directing the activity of the fire upon the marshmallow. Similarly, on a hot day, Gil might decide to move into the shade of a building. He then uses the building as a means to gain shade. He has not in fact intrinsically changed the building. Rather, he has changed himself (his place), and thereby he

92  Harmful Using has changed the manner in which the building relates to him. As Thomas Scanlon (2008, 112) notes, causal efficacy is the key element in the act of using. The causal efficacy of the building (of casting shade) now acts upon Gil, whereas before it did not. In this case, an even less significant “change” might suffice for use (Kerstein 2013, 58). Perhaps Gil was about to move elsewhere, but he decides to remain in the shade of the building in order to keep cool. We might say that he is using the building for its shade. He has introduced a very subtle change into himself, namely, he has stopped himself from bringing about the change that would have occurred (moving elsewhere). Thereby, he has directed the activity of the building upon himself. Again, Pete might look at a clock in order to tell the time. He has then used the clock for the goal of determining the time, but he has not in fact changed the clock. Rather, he has changed himself by changing where he is looking and what he is thinking. He has thereby directed the causal activity of the clock upon himself, and further directed his own thoughts to a judgment about the time (Pallikkathayil 2010, 127). This lack of any real change in the clock might lead us to say that Pete does not use the clock but merely finds it useful. A similar distinction might apply to the following situation. Don uses fire to heat water if he changes the fire to direct its activity onto the water. He might do so either by moving the fire under the water or by moving the water over the fire, but in either event, he directs the activity of the fire toward the water. On the other hand, Don finds the fire useful but does not himself use the fire, if the fire happens already to be under the water that Don wants to be heated. He does nothing to change the fire; he in no way directs its causality upon the water. Consequently, he lacks an essential aspect of using. Instead of using, he finds the fire useful. Unlike Don, Pete at least directs the causality of the clock, even if this direction involves no real change in the clock itself. In his case, then, Pete does seem to use the clock. Another intuitive factor for evaluating cases of using concerns consensual exchange, in which individuals agree to be useful to one another. Some cases of consensual exchange might fit better with Don (who finds the water useful) than with Pete (who uses the clock). Consensual exchanges seem to lack the most essential aspect of using, namely, directing the causality of the object used. As a doctor, for instance, Dan heals Linda, and as a patient Linda pays Dan. Both get a useful benefit from the other person; nevertheless, as Derek Parfit (2011, 213) suggests, neither seems to be using the other. They find each other useful, but they do not use each other. The element of change—or directing the causality—is lacking. Linda does not change Dan so as to direct his causality upon her; rather, Dan directs himself. Perhaps Linda entices Dan to heal by offering him money, but nevertheless, we suppose that Dan is the one who directs his own activity.

Harmful Using 93 On the other hand, perhaps the two do use each other, but their use is made acceptable by way of consent. As Scanlon (2008, 107) notes, consent often seems to remove what is objectionable about using (see also Kerstein 2013, 56). Our intuitions, then, might be clouded by a “moral” usage of the phrase “to use as a means.” Linda does use Dan, but she does not merely use Dan. Cases of consent, then, allow for two possible explanations. On the one hand, they are not instances of using, because the people who consent are not changed by another but change themselves, directing their own causality. On the other hand, they are instances of using but not instances of “moral” using. Using an object seems to have a further qualification: the result aimed at (for which the object’s causality is enlisted) is outside the object used. Consider two similar situations. Humiliating Speech: Allex entices Brenda into giving a speech, at which he knows she will fail miserably; he does so with the goal of humiliating her (Davis 1984b, 393). Bruce’s Promotion: Bruce entices Brenda into giving a speech, at which he knows she will succeed; he does so (unbeknownst to Brenda) only because it will help him get a promotion. In both cases, Brenda consents to give a speech, but in neither does she consent to the further goal achieved thereby. Nevertheless, only Bruce seems to use Brenda. The two cases differ because Bruce directs Brenda’s causality toward an effect that is outside herself. In contrast, Allex directs her causality toward a result within Brenda herself. The same applies outside the domain of using human beings. If Krystyna moves a potted plant into a sunny area in order that it might grow and flower, then she changes it (moves it) to bring about another change that is within the plant itself. As such, she does not use the plant, although she uses the sun, which brings about a change outside itself. On the other hand, if Krystyna moves the plant in order to provide shade for another plant, then she does use the first plant since its causality is directed to an effect outside itself. Whenever we use some object or person, then, we bring about some change, however minimal. Usually, we change the object itself. Sometimes, we change other things, in order to direct the activity of the object upon these other things. Every using involves directing the activity of the object to some result, a result that is outside the object itself. Even when there is no real change to the object (as with the clock), this direction of causality can be considered a sort of change. Every using, then, changes the object used, at least with a Cambridge change.

94  Harmful Using Absent this change, we might desire an object as useful, but we do not use it. Perhaps Kenny wants Christine to bring him some chocolates (as she sometimes does). He then desires her as a means to the chocolates, but he does not use her, for he does not himself direct her activity. Again, Barb might want her uncle Scott to die, so that she can then gain the inheritance, but if she in no way changes him or in no way directs his activity, then she does not treat him as a means. When using an object, then, the agent must act.1 Desiring as useful is insufficient. The converse is also true. That is, the agent’s activity without desire is also insufficient. Mere physical activity is not using. A means is a means to some end, and an end is a goal for action. Mere physical activity, apart from motive, cannot be the same as treating someone as a means (Cavanaugh 1999, 184). Consider the following case. Accidental Damage: Vince has no desire for initiation into organized crime; he does not plan to damage Anna’s car. Rather, he is carelessly swinging a bat and on account of a misjudgment he shatters Anna’s windshield. Vince may be to blame for his carelessness, but he has not treated Anna as a means. His physical action is harmful to Anna’s good, but he does not direct the harm to achieve any goal or end. As Scanlon (2008, 115–118) expresses the idea—contrary to Judith Jarvis Thomson (1990, 229, 233; 1991, 287, 300, 302)—it is not the physical action that matters so much as the meaning behind the action, that is, the direction given the action by desire. 6.2  Rational Agency Treating as a means, then, involves both action and desire. These two can be united in a more restrictive usage of the word “action,” in which the word applies to rational agency and not merely to the physical aspects of our actions. Consider the following case, adapted from Donald Davidson (1980a, 4). Alerted Thief: Daniela enters her house and turns on the light by flicking the switch. Consequently, a thief is alerted to her presence. We might focus simply upon the physical movements of Daniela’s hand. It has multiple effects. A light switch moves, a light turns on, and a thief becomes aware of her presence. Because we often describe actions in terms of their consequences, we might describe Daniela’s action as moving her hand, flipping the light switch, turning on the light, illuminating the room,

Harmful Using 95 and alerting the thief. In relation to Daniela, however, not all these physical descriptions are equal (Davidson 1980a; Anscombe 1981a). What she does, as a rational agent, is turn on the light and illuminate the room; she does not alert the thief. In her rational agency, she directs herself to move the switch, to turn on the lights, and to illumine the room, but she does not direct herself to alert the thief. Someone might think that the thief and his actions have something to do with the boundary of Daniela’s action; her action ends where his action (of being alerted) begins. The boundary of Daniela’s action remains, however, even when there are only mechanical forces at work, with no additional agent involved. Consider the following case. Trapdoor: Daniela enters her house and turns on the light by flicking the switch. A light sensor, unknown to Daniela, opens a trapdoor, also unknown to Daniela, so that Daniela falls into the cellar. Her action can now be described as setting off a sensor, opening a trapdoor, and sending herself into a cellar. In her rational agency, however, she directs herself to none of these. Illuminating the room is what Daniela herself plans on doing. She does not plan on setting off the sensor, opening the trapdoor, or sending herself into the cellar. Her rational agency, then, terminates with her plans. In some sense, of course, Daniela does alert the thief. This description is not excluded from her action. Nevertheless, it falls outside the domain of her rational agency. If we look at physical activity, all descriptions are equal. If we look at her rational agency, some descriptions are proper while others fall outside rational action. Not all physical activity can be equally described as rational activity (Chappell 2002, 213–32). For Daniela, some descriptions fall outside her plan because she is entirely unaware of them. She was not aware of the thief; she was not aware of the sensor, the trapdoor, and the cellar. Sometimes, however, even when agents are aware of a physical description, it can fall outside their plan, or at least outside the essence of the plan. Consider, for instance, Kenny’s action of building a shed. He moves his arm, which moves a hammer, which moves nails into the wood; consequently, we might describe his action as moving his arm, moving a hammer, pounding nails, and building a shed. All of these descriptions fall within his plan. At the same time, however, he is making a noise, and this noise frightens a flock of nearby crows, who then fly away. His action, then, might also be described as making a noise or as frightening away some crows. These effects are not unforeseen by Kenny. He is fully aware that pounding makes noise, and he foresees that the crows will likely be frightened away.

96  Harmful Using Although foreseen, these descriptions do not fall directly within his plan. In some sense, of course, Kenny plans on frightening the crows, since he plans on pounding, and he knows full well that pounding will frighten the crows. Nevertheless, he does not direct himself to frighten the crows the way that he aims at pounding. He foresees the frightening but does not aim at it. We might say that frightening the crows is part of his plan, but that he does not “plan to” frighten the crows. Rather, he plans to pound nails. If we asked Kenny what he plans to do, he would not reply that he plans to frighten crows. Still, he might concede that frightening crows falls within his plan. The pounding of the nails, as we will see, falls within his plan as a means; the frightening of the crows falls within his plan in another way, perhaps as a consequence.2 This difference is reflected in our judgments upon the success or failure of a plan. If the crows happen not to be frightened away, we do not say that Kenny has failed in his plan. On the other hand, if the nail does not go into the wood, then Kenny has failed at his plan of pounding. Likewise, if (per impossibile), the pounding made no noise, we would not say that Kenny had failed in his plan, but if the shed never gets built, then Kenny has failed in his plan. If Kenny’s plans change, then our judgment also changes, even if the physical activity remains the same. Perhaps Kenny is irritated with the chattering of the crows, so he begins to pound with the plan of making a noise in order to frighten the crows. If the crows remain unperturbed, then we can say that Kenny has failed in his plan, or that he is doing a poor job of frightening the crows. With regard to failure, then, what matters is his rational agency. The physical activity remains the same, but the plan has changed (or a new plan has been added onto the original). The difference between that which we plan to do and that which falls within our plan is also revealed, as Bratman (1987, 140–43) notes, in the way our plans guide our actions and deliberations. The goals we set guide our further deliberations. Once Kenny plans to build a shed, then he must determine how to get the materials, how to put them together, when he will do it, and so on. His recognition that he might frighten some crows by pounding, however, in no way poses a problem for further deliberations. He does not have to determine how to frighten the crows unless that is indeed his goal. Similarly, the building of the shed guides his current behavior but the frightening of the crows does not. He decides which nail to pound, where to pound it, and at what time to pound it, based upon the goal of building the shed. The effect of frightening the crows has no bearing upon these decisions, unless, of course, Kenny decides that he does want to frighten the crows. Then he might pound louder or pound in excess, beyond what he needs for the sake of the shed.

Harmful Using 97 In his physical activity, then, Kenny moves a hammer, pounds nails, makes a noise, frightens birds, irritates the neighbor, and so on. His rational agency, however, is more restrictive. Most properly, he does what he plans to do. In a secondary sense, he does other things outside his plan. This priority is reflected in the way we ask and answer questions about actions. Suppose that Kenny’s neighbor Sarah asks what he is doing. He presumes that she is asking what he is rationally doing—in his plans—so he replies, “I am pounding nails.” If she then says, “but I thought you were making a noise,” he is likely to protest that of course he was making a noise, but that was not what he was about; it is not what he had set himself to do. 6.3  Means and Ends The difference between Kenny’s physical activity and his rational agency applies immediately to the question of what he treats as a means. If he does not plan to frighten the birds, then the noise he makes is not a means to some end. He moves the hammer as a means to pound nails, and he pounds nails as a means to build the shed, but he does not make a noise as a means to anything. Consider the standard examples of the terror bomber and the strategic bomber. Terror Bomber:

A terror bomber bombs a suburban neighborhood in order to kill the innocent civilians, thereby terrorizing the population. He hopes that the enemy will be demoralized and surrender. Strategic Bomber: A strategic bomber bombs an enemy munitions factory that is located in a suburban neighborhood. He foresees that he will kill innocent civilians living in the neighborhood, but he does not plan to kill them. Both kill innocent civilians, at least as part of their physical activity. The two differ, however, in their rational agency. The terror bomber aims to end the war by demoralizing the enemy, which he hopes to accomplish by killing innocent civilians. He uses the innocent civilians, then, as a means to accomplish his goal of shortening the war. In contrast, the strategic bomber aims to end the war by eliminating the military power of the enemy, which he hopes to accomplish by destroying military sites, such as a munitions factory. Just as Kenny does not direct himself to make a noise, although he foresees it, so also the strategic bomber does not direct himself to kill civilians, although he foresees it. And just as Kenny does not use the noise as a means to anything, so also the strategic bomber does not use the innocent civilians as a means to his goals.

98  Harmful Using We can also distinguish these cases based upon success or failure of action. If the terror bomber does not kill innocent civilians, then we can say that he fails in his rational action, but if the strategic bomber does not kill innocent civilians, then he does not fail in his action. Jonathan Bennett (1995, 210–11) claims that the terror bomber need not direct himself to kill the innocent civilians. In order to accomplish his goal, he need only make the civilians appear dead long enough for the enemy to be demoralized. As such, he need not use the civilians as a means to his goal. Bennett’s objection highlights the need for clarification. The boundaries of rational agency, we have suggested, follow the contours of an agent’s plan, but those contours are not always clear. Must the terror bomber include within his plan the killing of innocent civilians? Bennett thinks not, but his criterion for the means to an end seems to be overly stringent. An agent’s plans include not only his remote goals; they also include his more proximate goals, that is, the means at which he aims in order to achieve his ends. Daniela plans on illuminating the room. Moving her hand, moving the switch, and turning on the light are all means to this end. They are also part of her plan. Likewise, Kenny plans on building a shed. Securing nails in the wood and moving a hammer are means to this end; they are also part of his plan. Even making a noise is part of his plan, but in a secondary sense. While he aims to secure nails in the wood, he does not aim to make a noise. The noise is not central to his plan but something that comes along with it. The means to an end need not be necessary; sometimes they are dispensable but form a part of the plan nevertheless. Kenny could have decided to make his shed entirely with screws, never pounding any nails. The pounding of nails, therefore, is something that Kenny could have chosen to do without (and he would then have done without the accompanying noise). Nevertheless, Kenny did not choose to make his shed with screws. He chose to make it with nails. As such, he aims directly to pound nails. For this reason, we can say that he does a good job or a poor job at pounding nails, even though this means was optional. Bennett thinks that killing the civilians is not necessary for the terror bomber to achieve his end of terrorizing the enemy; it suffices to make the civilians appear dead. Perhaps Bennett is correct, although it is difficult to imagine how the terror bomber can achieve his goal of making the civilians appear dead except by the means of killing them. Perhaps for this reason most people do not hesitate to judge this “sophisticated” terror bomber as guilty in the same manner as the straightforward terror bomber (Nelkin and Rickless 2015, 380). Even if we grant that the terror bomber has available some means, short of actually killing them, by which he can make the civilians appear dead,

Harmful Using 99 he is still in the same position as Kenny. He can make his shed without pounding, using only screws instead. Despite the lack of necessity, however, Kenny has indeed chosen to use the nails (through the act of pounding) as a means to build the shed. Similarly, even if we suppose that the terror bomber has some option by which he can make the civilians merely appear dead (without actually killing them), he has nevertheless chosen to use the means of killing the civilians (in order that they might appear dead, in order to terrorize the enemy) (Cavanaugh 2006, 115; Hills 2007, 269; Smith 2007, 352–53; Delaney 2008, 337–38). Dana Nelkin and Samuel Rickless (2015, 387) think that this sophisticated terror bomber need choose only to bomb civilians in order to make them appear dead. This claim, however, seems to skip over an important means to the end. If bombing did not kill the civilians, then it would not make them appear dead. The bombing, then, is a means to make the civilians appear dead only because it is a means to kill them. As the bomber reasons backward from his goal, which is to end the war, he first reasons back to the means of terrorizing the enemy population. He then reasons back to the means of making civilians appear dead. He does not then immediately skip to the means of bombing the civilians. Rather, he first reasons that he must make the civilians actually dead so that they might appear dead. He then reasons that he should bomb the civilians in order to make them dead. The point becomes clearer if we give the terror bomber another option (as we gave Kenny the option of building the shed with screws). Suppose that the bomber can drop canisters of a gas that will put the civilians into a deep coma, or rather a state of deep hibernation, so that they appear to be dead. The effects of this gas, however, will wear off in two weeks (sufficient time, we suppose, to gain a surrender from the enemy), at which time the civilians will revive, harmed only minimally. The bomber now has two means to achieve his goal of making the civilians appear dead. He might either bomb them or gas them. He decides, however, to bomb them. Can he claim that he plans only to make the civilians appear dead and that he does not plan actually to kill them? It seems not. If he wanted them only to appear dead, then he would have chosen the gas. If he wanted them to appear dead by way of being dead, then he would choose the bombs. The deaths are not a mere foreseen consequence of the bombs, for which the planned consequence is the appearance of death. Rather, the deaths are precisely the way to achieve the planned consequence of the appearance. As a result, we can say that the bomber succeeds or fails in killing innocent civilians. He might fail at this more proximate goal even if he succeeds in his larger plans. Perhaps he fails to kill many civilians, but the sound and the appearance of the bombs terrorize the population nevertheless, thereby leading to a quick end to the war. In that case, the terror bomber

100  Harmful Using might not be disappointed in his failure to kill the civilians; indeed, he might even be pleased, since he would prefer to spare the civilians, if he can (Bennett 1995, 216). Nevertheless, he fails in his proximate plan. Killing a multitude of civilians was something that he set out to do, but he did not accomplish it (Chappell 2002, 231). It is no surprise that we can be pleased at the failure of some merely useful plan, as long as the ultimate goal is achieved. Consider the following situation. Poisoned Wine: Roy plans to kill Teresa by poisoning her wine. At dinner, she accidentally spills her glass of wine, so she is  not poisoned. Roy is initially disappointed, but later that evening Teresa dies of a heart attack. In the end, Roy is not disappointed in his failure to poison Teresa; rather, he is pleased with it (for it has saved him the risk of getting caught). Despite his satisfaction, however, he did fail at his plan. From the beginning, then, Roy did direct himself to poison; it was what he planned to do. We need not make Bennett’s (1995, 216–18) mistake of supposing that something falls outside intention when the agent would be pleased if it had not happened (Bennett 1995, 216–18; Chappell 2002, 231). Actual success or failure, as far as solidarity is concerned, has no bearing on whether we treat a person as a means. What really matters are the means and ends within our plans, whether or not those plans succeed. If Barb aims to kill Scott by shooting him in the heart, but she wildly misfires and he escapes, then she has still treated him as a means, even though she has failed in her action. We might distinguish, then, between using someone in plan and successfully using someone. Within solidarity, the special hurt felt in cases of using attaches to the plan, with or without success. For this reason, deviant causal chains will also have little impact upon the pain of being used (Davidson 1980b, 78–81; Bishop 1989, 125–75; Mele 1992, 197–203; 2003, 51–63; Schlosser 2007). Consider the following situation. Deadly Misfire: Barb aims to kill Scott by shooting him in the heart but she wildly misfires. The bullet happens to hit an unstable shelf, which then falls upon Scott and kills him. Barb has succeeded in her action (of killing) in a way that she had not planned. In spite of the deviation from her plan, she has still treated him as a means. We may wonder whether she truly succeeded—in her rational agency—in killing Scott. Perhaps she performed a failed act of killing that

Harmful Using 101 had success as an unusual consequence. In any event, she has used him as a means, at least in her plan. We might distinguish between the action that is planned and the action that is carried out. Roy plans on killing Teresa by poisoning; he actually carries out a failed attempt to poison. Likewise, Barb plans on performing an act of killing Scott by shooting him; she actually carries out an act of misfire that fortuitously (as far as she is concerned) brings about his death. What matters for using others as a means is the action planned. The plan, of course, is directed to be carried out in action, but for various reasons the action carried out—in failures or in deviant causal chains—might not live up to the action planned. 6.4  Beginning with the End We have seen that Bennett overlooks optional causes that are chosen as means. In fact, most of the means we settle upon are not necessary; they are only one possible cause of several available to us. Bennett also exhibits (without explicitly endorsing) a contrary confusion. He supposes that whatever is necessary is a means. This supposition is revealed in Bennett’s complaint that the strategic bomber is difficult to distinguish from the terror bomber. It is impossible (the strategic bomber calculates) to avoid killing innocent civilians entirely. Killing some civilians, then, is necessary if he is to achieve his proximate goal of destroying the munitions factory. If the means include whatever is necessary, then he—like the terror bomber—kills the civilians as a means to achieve his goal (Hills 2007, 265). Bennett’s confusion rests upon his (failed) search for the “act itself,” as if mere physical activity has some essential order to it. In fact, the order of our actions is found in rational agency, not merely in physical activity. The order, then, is found in our plans. These plans do not begin by staring at physical activity, with its necessary or contingent causality. Rather, our plans begin with the end. They begin with some goal that we want to achieve. Beginning with the end, we then move backward to the means. We cast about, looking for various causes by which we might bring about our goal. Barb, for instance, begins with the goal of bringing about Scott’s death. In searching for causes, she discovers shooting, poisoning, strangling, suffocating, and so on. She considers the merits and demerits of these various options, and she settles upon shooting him. Her deliberations, however, are not yet complete, for she must determine how she will shoot him. Here again, she searches for causes. She will have to find a time and place to carry out the action; she will need to get a gun and ammunition. She begins with the end and moves backward to the means. She then moves backward yet again to more precision on the means.

102  Harmful Using If Barb discovers some obstacle, then she might retrace her steps. Perhaps acquiring a gun is too difficult. She then reconsiders poisoning. Now she must consider by what causes she can poison. How will she acquire the poison? How will she get it into his food? The process continues until Barb settles upon some first action—some first means—that she must perform in order to attain her goal. The means, then, are those causes upon which the agent settles while deliberating. The strategic bomber begins with the goal of ending the war and reasons backward to the means of destroying military sites. He reasons further to the destruction of this particular munitions factory (or perhaps his military superiors have done this reasoning). He reasons backward, again, to the means of dropping bombs upon the munitions factory. Nowhere in this backward reasoning does he settle upon the killing of the civilians as a cause. The death of the civilians does not cause the destruction of the munitions factory. Rather, the bombs do. A means must in some way causally bring about that which benefits the agent (Scanlon 2008, 112). The deaths of the civilians, then, cannot be a means for the strategic bomber. Nevertheless, they fall within his deliberations, for the means he does choose—dropping the bombs—does not simply destroy the munitions factory. They do much else, including killing innocent civilians. When the strategic bomber recognizes this last point, he has shifted the direction of his thoughts. Rather than beginning with an end and moving backward to the causes, he has looked at the cause and moved forward to other effects. These forward movements can be crucially important for deliberation. It does not follow that they identify means. As Kenny reasons backward from his goal of building a shed, he comes to the cause of pounding nails into the wood. He then moves forward and recognizes the effect of noise, which will then disturb his neighbor Sarah. This effect might lead him to modify his plans. He decides not to build the shed at 7 AM on Saturday; he will wait until later in the day. Similarly, the strategic bomber might change his mind. When he looks forward from his chosen means of bombing and sees the resulting death of civilians, he might reconsider his plans. These forward movements, despite their importance, are not concerned with new means but with aspects of the means already under consideration.3 The noise is not itself a cause of the shed. Rather, it is an aspect of one of the causes (pounding). Such aspects enter deliberations because they can make a cause better or worse in the eyes of the person deliberating. The deaths of the civilians do not cause the destruction of the munitions factory, but they might make the means of bombing less desirable. These forward-looking effects can also have moral significance. Although the noise is not a means to Kenny’s goal, he does foresee that his rackety pounding will irritate his neighbor Sarah. If Kenny moves forward

Harmful Using 103 with his plan to build the shed at 7 AM on a Saturday morning, then he may be responsible for ruining Sarah’s morning. He is responsible not only for the means he chooses but also for the effects that he foresees will result from those means. 6.5  Two Inconsistent Choices Does the act of treating someone as a means have some special moral significance? Or rather, setting morality aside, does the act of treating someone as a means have special significance within solidarity? When Kirsten fails to visit Giuseppe, he feels that she does not sufficiently desire his good. When Vince vandalizes Anna’s car, it seems there is something additional. Vince does not merely fail to desire her good; he positively desires to remove her good. The removal of her good is a means—that is, a useful good—to his goals. Anna has lost a good (the integrity of her car) that she previously had. This loss, however, does not sufficiently explain her sense of injury. She could have similar damage done to her car through a violent hailstorm, but in that case she would not feel that she herself had been demeaned or held in contempt. In Vandalized Car, she is bothered by the way she has been treated, not (or at least not solely) by the effects of her treatment. The pain felt by Anna can be linked to a shared good, a good that Anna hopes to possess together with Vince. As Vince pursues various shared goods, he must make a choice concerning how Anna will fit into his goods. Either he will treat Anna as a subject of his good (seeking his good as belonging to her) or he will treat her as a means, which excludes her from being a subject of his good. In either event, Anna plays a part within his shared good, either as a possessing part or as a producing part. The musicians are possessing parts of the orchestra because the good of playing symphonic music belongs to each. The members of the stage crew are producing parts because they do not actually possess the good of playing music; they merely produce something that helps others possess the good. When Vince vandalizes Anna’s car, she becomes like the stage crew. She becomes a producing part of his good. She is not a subject that shares in his good; she does not possess the good together with him. As Warren Quinn (1989b, 348–51) suggests, then, the focus in these kinds of offenses should be more upon the person being used rather than upon the good that is undermined. Vince’s choice may be compared with the following choice of Kenny. Kenny plans to go to a concert at 8 PM, but this choice is inconsistent with the choice to go to a basketball game at 7 PM. If he adopts the latter, then he must give up the former. The two choices are inconsistent on account of

104  Harmful Using two incompatible goods. Kenny cannot possess both the good of going to the concert and the good of going to the basketball game. The inconsistency depends, in part, upon the unity of the subject. Both the good of going to the concert and the good of going to the basketball game have a single subject, namely, Kenny himself. If the subject were different, then the inconsistency would disappear. If Kenny is the subject of going to the concert but Sarah is the subject of going to the basketball game, then the two choices have no inconsistency. Vince’s choice also involves an inconsistency, but the source of the inconsistency is inverted. His choice does not involve a single subject with inconsistent goods. Rather, it involves a single good with inconsistent subjects. The single good is the harm of vandalizing the car, which Vince seeks as a useful good for himself. This good, however, may be considered in relation to different subjects. On the one hand, there is the subject of Vince in union with Anna (and possibly others); on the other hand, there is the subject of Vince in separation from Anna. This latter subject could involve a union with others besides Anna (such as others in organized crime), but it excludes a union with Anna. The good that Vince seeks (vandalizing Anna’s car) is in fact good for only the latter of these two subjects. It cannot be good for the first subject, which includes Anna as part of the subject. Vince, then, must be seeking this good for the second subject, the subject that excludes Anna. If Kenny decides to go to the basketball game, then he must abandon his plan to go to the concert. Similarly, if Vince vandalizes Anna’s car, then he must abandon any plan to possess the good together with Anna. The case of Vince, however, has something more. Not only does he abandon the good of Anna; he actually takes the good of Anna and transforms it. She and her good are now producing parts for his personal good. He has taken her good, which belongs to her, and he has made it belong to himself as a useful good. Anna has been changed from being a subject of the good—a possessing part—and has been transformed into a producing part. 6.6  Autonomous Agents The injury of being used, however, is more subtle than this initial description implies. This subtlety can be teased out through the case of Izzy, who uses Giuseppe (in order to make money) but does not harm Giuseppe; to the contrary, she benefits him by cheering him up. Nevertheless, Giuseppe might feel hurt by Izzy (Jollimore 2001, 21). Giuseppe’s discomfort is found in Izzy’s attitude: “She treats me as if I exist not for myself but for her.” Within solidarity, this manner of speaking must be interpreted with care. It should not be interpreted in terms of a Kantian “end.” As we have seen, solidarity has no room for “treating as an end.” Within solidarity,

Harmful Using 105 we do not treat people as full stopping points; rather, we treat them as partial subjects of our good, which is a shared good. When Giuseppe wants to be treated as if he exists for himself, then, he wants (within solidarity) to be a subject of Izzy’s good; he wants to be what we have called a constitutive part of the subject of her good. In this manner, he becomes part of the reason for Izzy’s action. Her full reason for action includes the good and the subject of the good. Giuseppe wants to be part of that subject. To the degree that Izzy uses Giuseppe, she does not direct herself and her good toward Giuseppe as toward a subject of the good. To the contrary, she directs herself to Giuseppe (by changing him) only to direct him to a good beyond his own. In her action, Giuseppe does not have the role of a possessing part, in which he is a subject of her good; rather, he has the role of producing a good that he himself does not possess. In short, he has the role of a producing part for Izzy’s good. Izzy’s use of Giuseppe touches another nerve. “She is treating me,” he thinks, “as something that she can move about and direct to her own purposes; it should be I, not she, who direct myself to my goods.” This sentiment expresses some notion of autonomy. He does not want to be moved to an end; rather, he wants to move himself to an end. Izzy’s act of using is inimical to this desire. How does this autonomy fit within solidarity? What does autonomy have to do with the shared good? Within solidarity, Giuseppe cannot be insisting on setting his own independent goods. To the contrary, he must set himself toward a good for which he plays only a part. His own goals must be subordinate. They are not productively subordinate, but they are subordinate as constitutive parts. He and his good are for a subject greater than merely himself. Such subordination hardly seems to be autonomy. As Troy Jollimore (2001, 10) states, on the other hand, friendship demands respect for the autonomy of the friend. The role of autonomy within the friendship of solidarity can be seen in the manner in which Clare seeks the good of Louis. She does not want just his activity of playing the piano independently of him. Nor does she want him just as a convenient subject for the activity. In that case, his completion would be left out of the picture; Clare would be seeking Louis’s good but not insofar as it completes him. If she really wishes to share the good, then Clare seeks Louis’s good precisely as it belongs to Louis. Their shared good is not best conceived as a separate good that is then possessed by the two of them together. It is best conceived as two independent goods that are united. Each part has its particular good, which is then united to the good of the other. Louis has his good of playing the piano and Clare has her good of playing the cello. Louis’s playing of the piano—precisely as his good—is united with Clare’s playing of the cello—precisely as her good. The goods of the parts have a certain independence, for they belong particularly to the parts. Louis’s good as a part is distinct from Clare’s

106  Harmful Using good insofar as she is a part. When the good is shared, this distinction does not disappear. The two independent goods retain their independence but are united into a greater good. Louis’s good becomes part of the greater good not by ceasing to be his own. Rather, what is his own good remains his own but is now united with Clare’s good. When Clare directs herself to Louis’s good, she does not direct herself to the disembodied activity of playing the piano. She directs herself to this activity insofar as it belongs particularly to Louis (Pettit 2015, 31). As we have seen, however, the good belongs to an individual through desire. Dan possesses the good of medical skill as an inherent good only insofar as he desires it as such. When Clare directs herself to Louis’s good, then, she directs herself to this good as possessed by Louis, which possession includes his desire. His good is fully his own, in part, through his desires (Helm 2008, 30). It is his own, we might say, through his autonomy (Sumner 1996, 160–70). Within the shared good, then, Louis’s particular good has a certain autonomy. It remains particularly his own even while being united to Clare and her good. Furthermore, it remains his own, in part, through his own desire and his own direction; his good is his own insofar as he directs himself to it. He cannot be entirely directed to his good from the outside, apart from his desire. Giuseppe is concerned about Izzy because she seems to disregard this independent direction. When she uses Giuseppe, she directs him to the good rather than uniting herself to his good with his own independent direction. Izzy directs Giuseppe to some good separate from his own; indeed, it is separate from his own, in part, because he does not do the directing. By ignoring Giuseppe’s independence as a part, Izzy fails to seek her good (the money) as belonging to Giuseppe. The same cannot be said of Kirsten in Jogging Kirsten. In that case, Giuseppe feels hurt but not because Kirsten has directed him to some alien good. Rather, he is hurt because she has insufficiently directed herself to him. Kirsten does not change Giuseppe in order to direct him and his causality to something beyond himself. Kirsten does not change Giuseppe at all, which is precisely the problem: he thinks that she should have chosen to change him, that is, to cheer him up. In the case of Izzy, Giuseppe is hurt because she has chosen to change him. The change, however, was directed beyond himself and apart from himself. 6.7  Subservient Subjection The example of Izzy is inadequate. Her case does not completely clarify what Giuseppe finds hurtful in being used. The inadequacy arises from the difference between Vince and Izzy. They both use another person, but Vince harms Anna while Izzy benefits Giuseppe. Izzy’s case of using involves no obvious harm. Perhaps Giuseppe does have some sense of being offended

Harmful Using 107 that depends upon harm. He thinks that Izzy deceives him, leaving him the impression that she visits him for his own sake when in fact she visits in order to gain money. This deception is a kind of harm. When harm is entirely absent, using seems unobjectionable. Bruce looks out the window to see whether Brenda is wearing a jacket, for instance, so that he can discern whether it is cold enough for him to wear a coat (Pallikkathayil 2010, 127). Even as Pete uses the clock to tell the time, Bruce uses Brenda to determine the weather. Brenda does not feel subjected by this using, however, because it involves absolutely no harm to herself. If Brenda is particularly sensitive, she might feel hurt but only because of a hidden harm: she has gone through the trouble of determining the weather herself and Bruce has taken advantage of her trouble. She is subjected to Bruce because he uses her trouble to lessen his own. The using, then, is not entirely without an associated harm. Not just any using, then, makes someone feel subjected to the other person; only harmful using does. The role of harmful using, as opposed to merely using, follows from the nature of the shared good. If Bruce and Brenda are to share a good, then Bruce must have his good and Brenda must have her good, and then these two goods must be possessed together. If Bruce’s use of Brenda in no way engages her good (positively or negatively), then it has nothing to do with the shared good. But if his use removes her good (or some tiny part of it), then it must be—at least in some minimal degree—in opposition to the shared good in which Brenda’s good is part of what Bruce desires to attain or possess. Using another person, then, is not objectionable in itself (as far as solidarity is concerned). On the other hand, harmful using is objectionable. Precisely in harmful using, the good of the other person is rejected as a good worth pursuing as shared; the other person is rejected as someone with whom I am united in the good. For Vince, Anna and her good are not constitutive parts of the good that he seeks. He does not want to possess Anna’s good together with Anna. He wishes to remove her good and to direct her to an alien good, which he possesses by himself (or at least with a group that excludes her). Her good loses its independence and becomes subservient to Vince’s good. She has lost the independence of a possessing part by which her good serves as a guide to Vince’s good. She has taken on the subservient role—within Vince’s desires—of a producing part. In Vince’s act of harmful using, then, Anna seems to exist not for her own purposes but for his (Quinn 1989b, 348). Within solidarity, Clare treats her own good as a part. Her good is completed by Louis’s good, so that his good limits and defines her own. In harmful using the relationship is reversed. Vince does not treat his own good as a part that belongs to Anna. His good is not limited and defined by Anna’s. To the contrary, Anna’s good is subjected to his own. His good

108  Harmful Using is a kind of end that can remove Anna’s good. Anna is not a subject of Vince’s good. Rather, precisely as a subject of the good (her own good), she is a productive instrument for his good. What Anna desires with Vince, as Warren Quinn (1989b, 350) suggests, is a good in which she can share. Vince rejects this desire. Harmful using, then, is in opposition to solidarity. As we will discover in the next chapter, however, just harm by itself, without the using, is sometimes in accord with solidarity. Notes 1 Frances Kamm (1993, 111) claims that we can use someone as a means simply because we find it useful not to do good to them. This position is doubtful. Deciding not to do something seems insufficient for using (Kerstein 2013, 56–57). The case of Gil deciding not to move (thereby remaining in the shade) is in fact a decision to bring about a change in his plans. 2 Bratman (1987, 139–64) points out that we do not necessarily intend what we foresee. On the other hand, being foreseen may be enough for an action to be described as intentional (123–25). Bratman is observing our normal usage of speech with regard to “intend” and “intentional.” (See also Chappell 2002, 223; Cavanaugh 2006, 80–82). Pace Alison McIntyre (2001, 237), Bratman’s distinction is not influenced by moral judgments. 3 These cases, according to Scanlon (2008, 106), could be described as “treating as a means” only in a very broad sense of means.

7

Foreseen Harm

We are attempting to discover whether something like morality can be discovered once we have abandoned neutrality and view the world from the perspective of complete agent relativity. We have noted a similar concern, between morality and solidarity, over harmfully using other people. We might, then, hope to discover another similarity between morality and solidarity, a similarity that concerns other instances of harming. In particular, we might find a parallel in the area of two distinctions that often arise in contemporary discussions of harm. On the one hand, some people distinguish between doing harm and allowing harm (Quinn 1989b; Foot 1994a). On the other hand, some people distinguish between what is intended and what is foreseen (Anscombe 1982; Bratman 1987, 139–67; Finnis 1991a; Foot 1994b; Bennett 1995, 192–225; Cavanaugh 2006; Delaney 2008; Pruss 2013). The case of Vince vandalizing Anna’s car provides an example of someone doing harm. In the following case, Kay provides an example of someone who allows harm. Saving Jim: Mike and Jim are both trapped upon different tracks with a trolley heading toward each. Kay can choose to free one or the other but she does not have time to free both. Kay has had fairly limited contact with Mike, but Jim is her brother, so she frees Jim. Mike dies. Kay does not positively do anything to Mike, and if she were completely inactive, then Mike would still be harmed. Kay, then, does not harm Mike, but she is said to allow him to be harmed. The terror bomber and the strategic bomber provide examples for the second distinction. The terror bomber intends to harm the civilians, while the strategic bomber merely foresees that the civilians will be harmed.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-7

110  Foreseen Harm 7.1  The Distinctions within Solidarity Neither distinction, as it will turn out, fits completely within solidarity. Nevertheless, both distinctions have a foundation within solidarity. As we have seen, the act of harmfully using another person is opposed to the shared good. Harmful using is an action, so it might fit on the doing side of the doing/allowing distinction. At the same time, harmful using might also fit on the intending side of the intending/foreseeing distinction. After all, harmful using is identified through an interior state of mind. We use other people only when we plan to direct their causality to a good outside themselves. Since plans are sometimes connected with intentions, as appears in Bratman’s (1987) treatment of intention, harmful using might be linked with intending harm. The other side of these distinctions (the allowing side and the foreseeing side) is more problematic. The antithesis to harmful using is neither allowing harm nor foreseeing harm. Rather, the contrast to harmful using is simply harm that comes about apart from harmful using (or harm without using, for short). The harm that befalls Mike does not come about from Kay’s using him harmfully. Similarly, the harm that befalls the civilians does not arise from the strategic bomber using the civilians harmfully. It is tempting to try to form a single category into which all cases of this cumbersome category (harm without using) can fit. Perhaps all cases of foreseeing harm can be reduced to cases of allowing harm, or perhaps all cases of allowing harm can be reduced to cases of foreseeing harm. Unfortunately, neither option will prove viable. The first possibility can be achieved only awkwardly. On the face of it, the strategic bomber does not allow the civilians to be harmed. Rather, he does something to them; he positively harms them. Only by stretching the meaning of the word “allowing,” then, can certain cases of foreseeing harm be described as cases of allowing harm (McIntyre 2001, 230–33). The second possibility is more plausible. Cases of allowing harm do conform to the idea of foreseeing harm. When Kay allows Mike to be harmed, she also foresees that he will be harmed. Still, Kay is not exactly like the strategic bomber. We might say that Kay foresees harm while the strategic bomber foresees harming. He foresees not only that harm will result but that he will cause the harm.1 We could use the generic label of “foreseeing evil” to cover both cases. Both Kay and the strategic bomber foresee evil. Kay, however, foresees harm while the strategic bomber foresees harming. Cases of allowing harm, then, can plausibly be reduced to cases of foreseeing harm. Nevertheless, the intending/foreseeing distinction will not (within solidarity) map perfectly onto the distinction between harmful using and harm without using. As we will see in the next chapter, not every case of harmful using is a case of intending harm.

Foreseen Harm 111 Despite its implausibility, this chapter will favor the first reduction: cases of foreseeing harm belong to the category of allowing harm. This reduction (as already suggested) does not fare well in the domain of action theory. Cases of foreseeing harming are not plausibly counted as cases of allowing harm. Nevertheless, the two categories (foreseeing harming and allowing harm) do share an important feature that is more readily associated with allowing harm: both are morally relevant—or relevant to the shared good of solidarity—on account of the absence of some action. Kay, for instance, decides not to perform the action of saving Mike. Similarly, harm without using will involve the absence of a certain kind of action. No attempt will be made to give a precise definition of allowing harm. It may well turn out, as is typically argued, that not every case of allowing harm essentially involves the absence of some action (Foot 1985a, 24; 1994b, 273; Quinn 1989b; Bennett 1995; Woollard 2008; 2015, 51; Rickless 2011). In our intuitions, however, the association between allowing harm and the absence of action is fairly strong. For some reason, harm that follows upon the absence of action seems less problematic. This intuition, which will find a basis within solidarity, will provide the link by which to provide some unity to the category of harming without using. Drawing the link requires a rather counterintuitive move. All cases of foreseeing harm (and not just a subset of them) must involve the absence of some action. In the strategic bomber case, however, the harm to the civilians seems to follow precisely upon the bomber’s action and not upon any absence of his action. When the strategic bomber foresees harm, he does not merely fail to do something; he positively harms the civilians. The following section will attempt to show that even this case involves the absence of something the bomber could have done. 7.2 Negligence In Saving Jim, Kay fails to do a very particular action; she fails to help Mike. Alternately, we might say that she fails to protect Mike from a threat. The same may be said for other cases of allowing harm. In general, they might be better described as cases of failing to help. In this respect, they are exactly parallel to Jogging Kirsten, in which Kirsten fails to do the good deed of visiting Giuseppe. This failure to help—or this absence of action—is sometimes unacceptable, as with Jogging Kirsten, and sometimes acceptable, as with Kirsten’s Mother. A similar dichotomy appears in our moral judgments. Kay’s failure to help Mike is morally acceptable since she is

112  Foreseen Harm doing something at least equally as important. Consider the following situation, however. Bookworm Bob: Bridget is trapped upon the track with a trolley heading toward her. Bob is nearby and can divert the trolley down a harmless sidetrack. Instead, he continues reading the novel in which he is currently engrossed. Bridget dies. Just as Kay fails to help Mike, so Bob fails to help Bridget. Bob’s failure, however, is morally reprehensible. The action he has chosen instead of the act of helping Bridget is not of equal or greater importance. This dichotomy also appears in cases of foreseen harm. Sometimes, the foreseen harm (in strategic bomber) is acceptable; at other times, it is unacceptable. It seems acceptable in the following case: the bomber foresees that only one civilian will be killed and that the destruction of the military site will bring a quick end to the war. It seems unacceptable in the following case: the bomber foresees that hundreds of civilians will be killed and that the destruction of the military site has only a slight chance of shortening the war. For solidarity, the divide between what is acceptable and what is unacceptable has everything to do with the importance of the action chosen as opposed to the importance of the action left undone. As we have seen, the importance of the actions may have something to do with the relative importance (or worth) of the person being helped. It is more important, for instance, for Kay to help her brother Jim than it is for her to help Mike. The same sort of reasoning might appear in cases of foreseen harm. Indeed, the similarity can include the concern over the absence of some action. Consider the following case. Waking Sarah: Kenny begins building his shed at 7 AM on a Saturday morning. He foreseeably wakens his neighbor Sarah, thereby doing her a kind of foreseen harm (since she needs her sleep). Sarah feels hurt by Kenny because he does not take sufficient care to avoid waking her. He might easily have begun working on his shed at a later time, such as 9 AM, but he chose to begin at 7 AM instead, although he fully recognized that he would likely wake Sarah thereby. This case, at least when expressed in this manner, bears similarities with Kirsten’s failure to visit Giuseppe in the hospital. Most strikingly, both cases involve a failure to do something. Kirsten does not visit Giuseppe and Kenny fails to take sufficient care. Kenny’s case, however, might readily be expressed differently. Sarah might complain not that Kenny has failed to do something but that he has

Foreseen Harm 113 in fact done something positively hurtful: he made a noise that wakened her. Giuseppe might complain that Kirsten has chosen to go jogging, but clearly Giuseppe is not hurt by the act of jogging just by itself. The failure to visit is what really bothers him. If Kirsten had jogged and had also visited Giuseppe, then he would not be troubled by her choice to jog. In contrast, Sarah is troubled by what Kenny has done and not just by what he has failed to do. Kenny has wakened her. He has thereby done her harm. He has not merely failed to do her good. Kenny’s behavior in Waking Sarah, then, might be expressed in two quite different ways. On the one hand, it is a failure to take sufficient care to avoid waking Sarah. On the other hand, it is an action of waking Sarah. In this regard, Waking Sarah is parallel to cases of negligence. Consider the following case. Negligent Surgeon: While performing surgery on Roy, Teresa cuts a nerve that leaves Roy partially paralyzed. We say that Teresa failed to take sufficient care while performing the surgery. Once again, however, her failure might also be expressed positively: she cut his nerve. For both cases (Kenny and the negligent doctor) we follow the odd convention of describing what is clearly an action in terms of a failure to act. This oddity can be explained by the boundaries of rational agency. Suppose, for instance, that Kenny had planned to waken Sarah (perhaps in retaliation for a comment she made last week). Or suppose that Teresa aimed to cut Roy’s nerve. Then we would in no way be inclined to describe the offensive action as a failure. If Kenny aims to waken Sarah, then she does not say that he failed to take sufficient care to avoid waking her. The talk of failure, then, seems to be tied to the recognition that Kenny does not aim to waken Sarah. He foresees the likely effect of her wakening, but he does not plan to waken her. What he plans to do is to build a shed by way of pounding. He does not choose, as a means to his goal, the consequent noise and wakening of Sarah. Kenny could remove these foreseen effects from his plan. He could avoid the noise of pounding, for instance, by building his shed entirely with screws. Of course, he need not take such a drastic course of action. He needs only the modest measure of starting his activity a few hours later. None of this applies if Kenny in fact aims to waken Sarah, if the wakening is what he properly plans to do. Then the wakening is not a foreseen effect that he might remove from his plan. Rather, it is of the essence of his plan. A drunk driver who kills a pedestrian may be faulted because he failed to remove the entire action of driving. This case, however, still involves a modification of the plan. He plans to get home and he chooses to do so by

114  Foreseen Harm driving. He might retain his plan of getting home but modify it so that now he catches a ride with someone who is sober. He has removed one action from his plan (the means of driving), but he has not entirely eliminated the plan (of getting home). The same could be said if Kenny chooses to use screws instead of nails. He removes from his plan the action of pounding (with its consequent noise), but he retains the plan of building the shed. Similarly, the strategic bomber might retain the plan of bombing the munitions factory but modify it to reduce the likely deaths. He might fly lower, for instance, which allows him to use fewer bombs. Then we might say (if he does not appropriately modify his action) that he fails to take sufficient care to minimize the deaths. The deaths may be foreseen rather than intended, but nevertheless the strategic bomber is not absolved of all responsibility.2 He might be responsible precisely because he has failed to remove from his action (or his plan) that which might harm the civilians. If Sarah thinks that Kenny fails to take sufficient care, then she might pass judgment upon his action (or failure to act) in much the same way as Giuseppe passes judgment in Jogging Kirsten. By failing to visit him, thinks Giuseppe, Kirsten has not sufficiently loved him. By choosing to go jogging instead of visiting him, she has not given him enough worth (as a subject of a shared good). Similarly, Sarah might think that Kenny has given insufficient weight to her good. She is hurt because she is not important enough (as far as Kenny is concerned) to remove the negative features of his action. If this weighing of various worths is really at play, then Sarah should be willing, at least in certain situations, to concede that Kenny has sufficient reasons to begin working at 7 AM, just as Giuseppe concedes that Kirsten’s visit to her mother is sufficient to forgo the visit to him. Consider the following situation. Hurricane Kenny: Kenny has already begun constructing a frame for his shed and he plans on completing the project this weekend. Now, however, a hurricane is predicted to blow through town on Saturday afternoon. If Kenny does not begin working early on Saturday, his incomplete shed will probably be blown over and the loose boards might break windows of nearby houses or cars. Perhaps Sarah will concede that completing the project in these circumstances is more important than removing the side effect of waking her in the morning. Similar reasoning might apply to the strategic bomber. Sometimes his own needs will be sufficiently great so that he might forgo helping the civilians (by modifying his plans). Perhaps if he flies at a lower altitude

Foreseen Harm 115 (so that he can use fewer bombs), he will put his own life at too great a risk, jeopardizing the whole mission. Perhaps he has removed from his plan all the danger (to the civilians) that can be reasonably expected. In some cases, the strategic bomber might do all that he reasonably can to remove foreseen harm to the civilians but the damages remain too great. The advantage to his war effort is small in comparison to the harm to the civilians. If he goes ahead with the bombing—even though it provides him only slight military benefit—then it seems that he gives the worth of the civilians insufficient weight within his overall good. His only option, if he is to give the civilians sufficient weight, is to abandon his plan of bombing the munitions factory. Even in this case, the strategic bomber’s action might be described in terms of negligence. The negligence can be found at a higher level of his plans. He has done all that he can to modify his plan of bombing the munitions factory, but he still might modify his higher-level plan of defeating the enemy. He might, for instance, eliminate the subplan of bombing the munitions factory. He is like the inebriated person, who cannot modify his plan of driving in order to make it safe; nevertheless, he can modify his higher-order plan of getting home. He can eliminate his act of driving and get a ride with a friend instead. The strategic bomber, then, might be described as negligent in the execution of his war plans. He has not taken sufficient care to remove (from his broader plan) dangers that might befall innocent civilians. By failing to remove this act of bombing from his plan, he does not take sufficient care. As Bratman (1987, 29) observes, this layering of our plans into higherlevel and lower-level plans is commonplace. We make subplans, in part, because of our limitations. We cannot carry out the higher-level plan all at once; we must accomplish it bit by bit. While carrying out one subplan, we cannot (typically) carry out other subplans at the same time. While bombing this particular munitions plant, for instance, the strategic bomber cannot also bomb a key railway transport. This limitation sometimes forces us to choose between subplans. The strategic bomber may not have enough firepower to destroy both the munitions factory and the railway transport. Both would be excellent targets in light of his higher-level plan of victory, but his limitations force him to choose between the two. The worth of the innocent civilians might be included in his choice. Perhaps he should set aside the harmful bombing of the munitions factory and choose the less harmful bombing of the railway station instead. Within solidarity, the desire to remove unnecessary harms from our actions is readily explicable. If Kenny shares the good with Sarah, then he desires his own good as also belonging to Sarah. His own good, however, includes the act of building the shed. If this good is also Sarah’s good, then

116  Foreseen Harm it should not include what is harmful to Sarah, at least if the harm can be removed. Kenny will want to remove from his good all that is harmful to Sarah. Sometimes unfortunate consequences will be unavoidable, or at least their avoidance would entail too much damage to Kenny’s own good. If he does not remove what he is able (in the context of his other plans), however, then it seems that he has too little concern for Sarah’s good. Within the shared good, he gives her too little weight. If Kenny shares the good with Sarah, then he also desires Sarah’s good as his own. Consequently, he wants to remove from his action that which could undermine Sarah’s good. His good is not found simply within himself; it is also found in Sarah. In a manner, then, the foreseen harm of waking Sarah can be reduced to something like allowing harm. More precisely, both foreseeing harming and allowing harm can be reduced to the failure to perform some action of sharing the good. Because this failure is more obvious in the case of allowing harm, the reduction appears to move in the direction of allowing harm. 7.3  Acceptable Harm Kay also reasons in terms of the importance of various actions within her plan to share the good. She has the higher-order plan of sharing the good with Jim and Mike, but now she must choose whom to help. She must settle upon which subplan to put into action: sharing the good with Jim or sharing the good with Mike. Since the good is effectively the same (saving a life), she decides most of all based upon the importance of the person. If Jim is more important to her—because she is more united to him—then she will choose to save him. Only her limitations force the decision. If she could easily save both Jim and Mike, then she need not decide between saving Jim and saving Mike. She could choose to share the good with both. To some extent, then, the acceptability of foreseeing harm is correctly linked—contrary to the claim of Shelly Kagan (1989, 124–25)— with our inability to avoid all harm. Foreseen harms enter our deliberations when choosing between subplans. In this case, Kay foresees a harm (the death of Mike) that could have been avoided by choosing another (incompatible) subplan. If Kay settles upon the subplan of saving Jim, then she must forgo the subplan of saving Mike. Kay’s dilemma might be put in terms of two goods that she has available to share. On the one hand, she has the ability to preserve Jim’s life; on the other hand, she has the ability to preserve Mike’s life. Because of her limitations, she is unable to share both of these goods. Such limitations are commonplace. We are unable to share all our good and we are unable to share it with everyone we might wish. As Kay tries to put into action her general plan or policy (to share the good with Mike and Jim), she must

Foreseen Harm 117 determine which of her limited acts of sharing is best. Her good belongs not only to herself but also to Mike and to Jim. In the current situation, Mike has need for her actively to share her good but Jim equally has need. Which good, then, should she share? Between the two, Kay’s good belongs more to Jim than to Mike. Consequently, she shares her good with Jim rather than with Mike. Jonathan Bennett (1995, 218) thinks that the deontic rationale, according to which we should treat rational agents as an end, is inadequate to account for such decisions (see also Kagan 1989, 115). Even though her choice is reasonable, Kay does not treat Mike as an end, as deontology seems to require. Rather, she has reasonably decided not to treat Mike as an end. Solidarity, however, is not hampered by a restrictive notion of “treating as an end.” Within Kay’s plan, Mike is not a full stopping point; he is not the sole reason for acting. The full reason includes both the good and the subject of the good. Furthermore, within the subject of the good, Mike is himself only one part of the full subject, which also includes Kay and Jim (and perhaps others). Mike, then, is only a partial reason for acting. In addition, Kay and Mike share the good not only through joint activity (such as Kay saving Mike) but also through desire. Recall that Giuseppe (in Kirsten’s Mother) remains a subject of Kirsten’s good. Her good is still his good. She retains the desire or plan to share the good with him, although she does not put it into action at this moment. She still desires his good as her own as long as she retains the general plan to share the good with him. The same can be said for Kay and Mike. They remain united in desire even if they cannot now possess the good together through joint activity. Bennett might concede this last point for consequences less harmful than death. Consider the following situation, for instance. Protecting Jim: As with Saving Jim, both Mike and Jim are trapped on the tracks and Kay can free only one of them. In this case, however, neither is in mortal danger. Both will be permanently injured, but neither is likely to die. Kay chooses to help Jim. Mike loses his leg, but is otherwise undamaged. Since Mike continues to live, Kay can retain her plan to share the good with him. The same does not seem to apply (in Saving Jim) when Mike dies. Death is an all-encompassing evil, excluding all future goods. When Mike dies, he cannot share in Kay’s good or in anyone else’s good. While dead, he cannot be united with Kay. Bennett may be indeed correct for the deontological idea of “treating as an end.” The same criticism, however, may not apply equally to solidarity. Even in Saving Jim, Kay may be able to retain her plan to share the good with Mike. After all, she does not plan to share all of her good with Mike

118  Foreseen Harm all of the time. Her limitations prevent any such grand plan. Her plan to share the good is always limited, as she herself is limited. She plans to share the good (actively) with Mike only when she is able, “ability” being taken within the context of her other plans and subplans. Even while Kay is saving Jim—and thereby failing to save Mike—she can still share the good with Mike by way of desire. Even then, Mike’s good is also Kay’s good. Until the very moment he dies, Kay retains a direction (in her plans) to Mike and to his good. Foreseeing someone’s death does not preclude sharing the good, even when all avenues of joint activity are excluded. Consider the following situation. Terminal Giuseppe: Giuseppe has a terminal illness and is expected to die within the week. Kirsten is informed of the matter, but is unable to visit him, for she lives thousands of miles away and has no means of transportation. Kirsten is not even able to communicate with him by other means, such as phone. Even in this situation, Kirsten does not give up her general plan to seek her good as belonging to Giuseppe and to seek his good as belonging to her. What good he has is hers by desire, and what good she has is his. The two remain united. Giuseppe still has worth in her desires as a subject of her good. Giuseppe’s good still has worth in her desires as something she longs to possess. Kirsten unites herself to Giuseppe by ordering herself to his good even when she cannot act. In Saving Jim, Kay is in a similar situation. Because of her limitations, she cannot actively share with both Mike and Jim. She must direct her activity to one or the other. When she chooses to direct herself toward Jim, she does not reject Mike in her desires. He and his good remain, at least in her plans. What is good for Kay still belongs to Mike. Indeed, since Kay seeks a good shared with both Jim and Mike, she desires Jim’s good only insofar as it also belongs to Mike. Mike retains his worth as a partial subject of their good, even when Kay is unable to act in order to give him any good. In some manner, death itself does not prove to be an obstacle to sharing the good. We still desire goods for our friends who have died. In some cases, for instance, we honor those who have died a noble death. We do so, partly, for the sake of the surviving family and for the society at large (for example, in order to encourage noble behavior), but not uncommonly we perceive ourselves as doing something good for the deceased. This attitude, of course, may sometimes be founded upon a belief that people in some manner survive their deaths. Even apart from such a belief, however, individuals will remember their dead friends, give them praise, and

Foreseen Harm 119 perhaps visit their graves. The good of the dead friend survives in his or her friends. If Mike dies, Kay makes efforts to remember him, in part, because his good survives in her. Whether this last point is conceded, it remains that Kay does not abandon her plan to share the good with Mike even while saving Jim. At least till the moment he dies, Kay and Mike remain united in the good. If Mike wants his good not only as his singular possession but also as belonging to Kay, then he need not be disappointed in Kay when she chooses to save Jim. His good is still not merely his isolated good; he remains united with Kay, who retains his worth as a possessing part in her heart. Foreseeing harm is not always acceptable. It sometimes involves abandoning the desire to share the good. By choosing to continue reading his book, for instance, Bob (in Bookworm Bob) must abandon any desire to share his good with Bridget. His plan of sharing the good with Bridget demands one particular action. He must choose to help rather than to continue reading his novel. By giving up the action, he gives up the plan. Kay’s general plan includes both Mike and Jim as partial subjects of the good. In the situation, however, she is not “able” to free both Mike and Jim, so she must choose between helping one or the other. In other words, her general plan, given her limitations, can be put into effect with reference either to Mike or to Jim but not to both. In contrast, Bob is “able” to help Bridget. If he forgoes the action of helping, then he also forgoes the plan. Similar reasoning may be extended to the strategic bomber, who foresees harming. By bombing the munitions factory, he foresees that he himself will harm the innocent civilians. With his plan to seek their good, he should remove from his actions whatever is harmful to them. He must remove, however, only that which he is able. If he can reliably destroy the munitions factory (with no further risk to himself) by using fewer explosives, thereby putting fewer innocent civilians at risk, then he should. But if the effort to put fewer civilians at risk places himself and his mission at great risk, then he can reasonably claim that he was not able—in the context of his plans—to remove the danger. 7.4  The Taint of Causing Harm Foreseeing harm and foreseeing harming, we have seen, are similar in the crucial role that the absence of action plays. Nevertheless, the two are not entirely alike. Our intuitions concerning them seem to diverge precisely over the question of causing harm, which distinguishes one from the other. In Saving Jim, Kay does not harm Mike; in contrast, the strategic bomber does harm the civilians. This difference in causality seems to be

120  Foreseen Harm associated with a moral difference, as is evident from two cases adapted from Philippa Foot (1994a). Rescue:

José notices a runaway trolley heading toward five people trapped upon the tracks. He wants to help them but he also notices Traci trapped in a similar situation. José chooses to save the five. Traci dies. Poison Gas: In order to produce a medicine that will save five people, Dan inevitably produces a poisonous gas in a room from which Traci (who is otherwise healthy and safe) cannot be removed. Dan produces the medicine. Traci dies. Rescue is a case of foreseeing harm while Poison Gas is a case of foreseeing harming (although Foot considers it simply as a case of harming). As Foot notes, we are inclined to say that José acts acceptably but Dan does not. Similar intuitions might apply to the shared good of solidarity. Dan wishes to share his good with Traci, but the good he seeks (producing the medicine) is also a causal harm to Traci. If he really wishes to share his good with Traci, then he must try to remove the harm to her. He may have to remove the good action entirely; that is, he may have to give up the act of producing the medicine. The prohibition against producing the gas (and thereby killing Traci), however, does not seem to be absolute. The act of producing the gas might be acceptable in some parallel situations, such as the following. Saving the Prime Minister: The situation is similar to that of Poison Gas, except that Dan is trying to produce the medicine in order to save the Prime Minister, whose life is urgently needed to retain stability within the country. Dan produces the medicine. Traci dies. In Poison Gas, then, it does not seem that Foot has put her finger on an absolute prohibition. The production of poisonous gas is parallel with Kenny waking Sarah or with the strategic bomber killing the innocent civilians. It is a foreseen consequence within Dan’s plan but it is not something that Dan plans to do. Dan should try to remove this negative aspect of his action by modifying his plan, but sometimes he will be unable to remove it within the context of his broader plans. Nevertheless, Foot has put her finger on a difference of degree between foreseeing harm and foreseeing harming. The bar of justification is higher for Dan, who foresees harming, than for José, who foresees harm.

Foreseen Harm 121 In many ways, the two cases are parallel with one another. Both José and Dan choose to perform an action of sharing the good with the five who will be saved. Furthermore, both José and Dan are limited. José is unable to save both the five and Traci. Dan is unable to remove from his action (of saving the five) the harmful aspect toward Traci. The two cases differ dramatically, however, over the role of causality. José’s action (of saving the five) does not cause the death of Traci, except in the limited sense that it causes the absence of the act of saving Traci. In contrast, Dan’s action of producing the medicine does indeed cause the death of Traci. José is limited in that he cannot add something to his action. Dan is limited in that he cannot remove something from his action. José cannot add a good (saving Traci) that he would like to add; Dan cannot remove an evil (harming Traci) that he would like to remove. Since Dan’s action is his good and since it has an evil that cannot be removed, it follows that Dan’s good has something bad about it. In contrast, José’s good, which is his action, does not have something bad about it; rather, it lacks the fullness of good that he might want. Dan’s good, then, is tainted with evil but José’s good is not. The taint associated with foreseeing harming (as opposed to foreseeing harm) seems to apply even to actions for which we have no responsibility, such as the following case, which sometimes arises in discussions of moral luck (Nagel 1979; Williams 1981a; Bennett 1995, 58–61; Wolf 2001). Lethal Accident: Pat is driving cautiously down a street, doing all that is appropriate for the situation. A child, who was concealed behind a parked car, dashes out immediately in front of Pat. Pat hits the child, who dies. By supposition, Pat has done nothing wrong and is not responsible for the death of the child. Nevertheless, he feels as if he should do something for the family, in order to make up for what he has done. His good—unbeknownst to him—has proven to be a causal evil for the family. He feels that he cannot leave his good that way; he must somehow balance the evil found in his good. The taint of causal evil, then, might help to explain the differing intuitions we have concerning Rescue and Poison Gas. More generally, it might help to explain the differing intuitions concerning foreseeing harm (most clearly exemplified in allowing harm) and foreseeing harming. In both these cases of foreseeing, the agent is limited and cannot completely share the good. Foreseeing harming adds something further. The act of sharing in which the agent engages is not only limited; it positively introduces a harm. It has something to be removed; in contrast, for foreseeing harm we wish only that, ideally, something could be added.

122  Foreseen Harm 7.5  Is Harming Worse than Allowing Harm? This account of the difference between foreseeing harm and foreseeing harming might be considered a defense of the view that James Rachels (1994) attacks so vigorously, namely, that killing is worse than letting die, or more generally that harming is worse than allowing harm (see also Tooley 1994, 104). Rachels thinks that this claim is open to an obvious counterexample. Consider the following two cases. Active Drowning: Max drowns his cousin Helena in order to gain the inheritance. Passive Drowning: Joe finds his cousin Beatrice already drowning in the bathtub. He stands by and does nothing, precisely so that he might gain the inheritance. According to Rachels (1994, 116), our moral intuitions suggest little difference between Max (in Active Drowning) and Joe (in Passive Drowning). Both are equally reprehensible, or at least nearly so. Rachels concludes that, in principle, allowing harm is just as reprehensible as doing harm. The two cases do not quite match the distinction between foreseeing harming and foreseeing harm. Max does not merely foresee that he will harm Helena on account of some action that he performs; he positively plans to harm Helena. In short, he engages in harmful using. Nothing suggests, for solidarity, that deliberate harming is generally worse than allowing harm; rather, foreseeing harming is generally worse than foreseeing harm. The difference of degree found within solidarity, then, is not the same as that with which Rachels is concerned. Furthermore, Passive Drowning, as has often been pointed out, involves a very special instance of allowing harm (Trammell 1975, 132; Sullivan 1994, 134; Nesbitt 1995). It is hardly a pure case of allowing. It might even be classified as a killing, one that is achieved through a not-doing (Quinn 1989b, 301). In any event, it seems close to a using, even if strictly speaking Joe does not change Beatrice. Joe positively desires the harm that he allows, which is not typical in cases of allowing harm. He is much like Gil, who chooses not to change himself (by remaining within the shade of the building) and thereby directs the causality of the building upon himself. Likewise, Joe chooses not to change himself (he refrains from saving Beatrice) and thereby directs the causality of Beatrice toward the inheritance. This desire for a useful harm places Joe more in line with Max and less in line with Kay (in Saving Jim). Both Max and Joe, then, seem to be engaged in harmful using. Neither case involves harm without using. Only in this latter case (harm without

Foreseen Harm 123 using) do we find the difference in degree between allowing harm (that is, foreseeing harm) and harming (that is, foreseeing harming). Passive Drowning has another feature not shared with most cases of allowing harm: Joe positively wants his own failure to save Beatrice. In other words, he wants his own failure to share the good. When he reasons backward from his goal of gaining the inheritance, he judges that failing to save Beatrice can bring about his goal. Kay makes no such judgment. Her failure to help Mike is not a means to anything. Rather, helping Jim is a means to her goal. She foresees, however, that by helping Jim she will be unable to help Mike. Joe, then, positively wants to break off his relationship with Beatrice because severing the relationship (by failing in its demands) is precisely what he needs to achieve his goal. 7.6  Is Harmfully Using Worse than Causing Harm? Rachels’ examples highlight the importance of planning as opposed to mere physical activity, an emphasis completely in accord with solidarity, which is concerned with rational agency rather than with mere physical agency. When we look at the plans of Max and Joe, we see that they are both engaged in harmful using. Cases of harmful using, however, differ in kind (and not merely in degree) from cases in which the harm (or harming) is merely foreseen (Quinn 1989b, 289; Foot 1994a; Sullivan 1994, 134). By its nature, harmful using is an action opposed to sharing the good. In contrast, foreseeing harm (or harming) is sometimes consistent with sharing the good, at least by desire. In contrast both to Rachels and to solidarity, Alison McIntyre (2001, 229–33) wishes to downplay the role of the agent’s desires, emphasizing instead the role of physical agency. The moral importance of allowing harm as opposed to doing harm, she claims, has nothing to do with the harm being foreseen; rather, it has to do with the harm not being caused by the agent herself. Unfortunately, McIntyre provides no argument to support her assertion. Perhaps she is correct for fragmented morality. For solidarity, however, whatever difference arises from physical agency—that is, from foreseeing harming as opposed to foreseeing harm—is insignificant in comparison to the difference between harmfully using, which is planned, and foreseeing evil (that is, both foreseeing harm and foreseeing harming). Foreseeing evil is sometimes acceptable and sometimes not. In contrast, harmful using is always opposed to sharing the good. It always involves the rejection of the plan to share the good. It involves the rejection of the person as a subject with whom one shares the good. The account of solidarity can be better understood by contrast with a common account of the difference between intending evil and foreseeing

124  Foreseen Harm evil. Thomas Nagel (1986, 181–82) argues that these two differ morally based upon that to which we direct ourselves. When we intend evil, we direct ourselves toward evil. When we foresee evil, we direct ourselves to something else, to which evil is attached. Morality provides us with the principle, however, that we should direct ourselves to what is good and we should not direct ourselves to what is evil or bad. Max’s action of intending Helena’s evil is particularly reprehensible because it directly opposes this principle. In contrast, when José chooses to help the five and foresees the harm to Traci, he does not direct himself to her evil. Rather, he directs himself to the good of the five, to which Traci’s harm is attached. Max is guided by evil; in contrast, José is guided by what is good. Alison McIntyre (2001, 227–28) criticizes Nagel by suggesting that he has attached a kind of mystical aura to the idea of intending evil. Causing evil (thinks McIntyre)—and not just intending evil—is problematic. What is so special about intending evil? Why does it matter whether Max is guided by evil, as long as that evil is itself directed to some further good? Consider, for instance, the following situation (Kagan 1989, 167–70). Cruel Dictator: A cruel dictator tells Barb that she must kill Scott, or else he will kill five other innocent people. Barb kills Scott. Barb directs herself to Scott’s evil; at the same time, however, she directs herself to the good of the five. She is, like José in Rescue, ultimately guided by what is good (Mack 1998, 74–75). Solidarity stands outside both the account of McIntyre and the account of Nagel. It does not concern agent neutral goods or evils, toward which Barb may direct herself. In Rescue, for instance, the harm to Traci is relevant not as some kind of agent neutral evil nor simply as Traci’s personal harm. Rather, it is relevant insofar as Traci’s personal good belongs to a shared good, a good that belongs to Traci and to José (and perhaps to others). Similarly, in Cruel Dictator Scott’s evil is important insofar as he, as a subject of his own good, is united with a greater subject that includes Barb. Barb’s choice to kill Scott, then, is a choice concerning the subject of the good. She chooses to exclude Scott. She does not desire Scott’s good as her own good. To the contrary, she desires his evil as her (useful) good. He is no longer part of the subject of a shared good that Barb desires. Consequently, Barb redefines the good. It is no longer a good shared with herself and Scott. He and his good are no longer part of the shared good and the shared subject. Within Barb’s desires, Scott is not even a subject of his own good. In no way, then, can he be a subject of a good that belongs both to himself and to Barb. Barb happens to direct Scott toward the goal of saving five people, but the particular details of this goal do not matter. Barb could have directed him to any other good. What matters is that Barb directs Scott to some

Foreseen Harm 125 alien good, to a good that is not his own. She directs Scott to her own good (perhaps shared with the five), but her own good is not his. In this situation, Scott can be the subject of two different kinds of goods. On the one hand, he can be a possessing part of a good shared with Barb (and others). On the other hand, he can be the subject of a utility; he can produce a good that he himself does not possess. Barb must choose between these options. In this situation, they cannot both stand. Scott is the subject of the utility precisely insofar as he is not the possessing subject of even his own good. The good by which Scott is useful, then, cannot be his own good. For solidarity, the good to which Barb directs Scott matters little. It might be the noble-seeming good of saving five lives. It might be so that she can gain money. It does not matter. In any event, it is a good alien to his own, a good that excludes his own. By necessity, then, Scott must be a producing part of this good rather than a possessing part. In her action, Barb diverges far from Kay (in Saving Jim). Kay fails to direct herself actively toward Mike. Nevertheless, she retains her direction in desire. Mike remains an independent subject of the good that completes her own. On account of her limitations, she is unable to help Mike, but his good is still her good. His evil does not become, for her, a useful good. Ultimately, then, Kay does not turn away from Mike and from his good. In contrast, Barb turns away from Scott as a subject of the shared good. She thereby turns away from any commitment (or plan) she may have had toward his good. As far as Barb is concerned, Scott’s possession of his own good is an obstacle to a utility that she desires. His good, then, must be removed in order that the utility might be realized. The strategic bomber is more like Kay than like Barb. He does not see the civilians as the subject of some utility, a utility that excludes their own good. He does not, like the terror bomber, aim to change the civilians in order to use their causal efficacy toward some good. He does not reason backward from his goal and conclude that killing the civilians will produce a weakening of the enemy. Rather, he reasons that destroying the munitions factory will weaken the enemy. He then moves forward and recognizes that destroying the munitions factory will also kill the civilians. In this recognition, he finds something repugnant in his action. He desires to share his good with the civilians, but his action proves harmful to them. His desire to share the good, then, will lead him to remove this unfortunate aspect of his action, at least if he is able. Barb is different. Reasoning backward from her goal, she decides that she must change Scott so that he can cause her goal. The change she seeks to introduce, however, is harmful to him as a subject of his own good, a good that is a constitutive part of a greater shared good. Barb must, then, reject Scott’s role as an independent subject of his good, which is part of a shared good.

126  Foreseen Harm Barb and the strategic bomber differ in the direction they give to their rational actions. The difference is not so much in the good to which they direct themselves as it is in the subject of the good, although these two cannot be entirely separated. Barb directs Scott to be a subject of a certain good, a useful good, but it is a good that is alien to Scott himself. In contrast, the strategic bomber does not direct the civilians to be a subject of any good, alien or otherwise. His action does not directly bear upon the civilians. Because Barb aims to make Scott a subject of an alien good, she finds that his being an independent subject of the good is an obstacle to be avoided. Because the strategic bomber, in his action, does not aim to make the civilians the subject of any good, he is faced with no such obstacle. He does not want them to be the subject of some alien good in order to achieve his goal. Their deaths are not goods to be achieved in his plan, for the causality of the civilians does not usefully achieve his goal. The civilians can remain (within his desires) a subject of their own good, which is part of his good, even if they will soon die. Scott can have no such place within Barb’s desires. In the most essential respect, the strategic bomber is like Kay. He sets about attending to some other good and as a consequence a good that he desires is undermined. He is not setting about trying to make the civilians the subject of some good, useful or otherwise. In the same way, Kay is setting about to make Jim (not Mike) the subject of some good. In contrast, Barb is trying to make Scott the subject of some good, a useful good but also an alien good. If Scott is to be a subject of the shared good, then he must be first the subject of his own good, which helps to constitute the shared good. But as the subject of his own good, Barb views Scott as an evil (an obstacle to the good) to be rejected. For solidarity, then, we can say that doing harm is worse than allowing harm, as long as we are precise. Doing harm is not simply the physical activity of causing harm. Rather, it is the action of harmful using, the action of directing a person (in our plans) to a good alien to his own. Allowing harm refers to any harm without using, which may be subdivided into foreseen harm and foreseen harming. In the latter case, we foresee that our action will cause harm to someone. Finally, “worse than” does not refer to some quantitative degree. Rather, it simply indicates that harmful using always excludes someone from the shared good. Harm without using is sometimes consistent with the shared good and sometimes not consistent. When it is inconsistent with the shared good it might be just as bad— “quantitatively” speaking—as harmful using (Quinn 1989b, 355–56; Foot 1994a; Hanser 1999). The distinction between doing and allowing captures an important reality, a reality that is also present, but not as evident, in the distinction between intending and foreseeing. In cases of harm without using, the focus is upon an absence; the focus is upon what is not done.

Foreseen Harm 127 In cases of allowing, such as Saving Jim, the agent performs one action and is thereby prevented from performing another. Kay saves Jim and is thereby prevented from saving Mike. On account of the agent’s limitations, this absence—this failure to do good—is sometimes acceptable. Within the plan to share the good, and the subplans to share with diverse members, the agent is sometimes unable actively to share the good with some members. At other times, however, the absence of the good action is unacceptable. Given what the agent is able to do, and given the importance of this particular person, the plan requires this helpful action. In cases of foreseeing harming, such as the strategic bomber, the agent performs an action that has undesirable aspects to it. The absence involved is the failure to remove these undesirable aspects. Once again, this failure is sometimes acceptable and sometimes not. It is acceptable when the agent removes what he or she is able, while still retaining the overall shared good. It is unacceptable when the agent fails to remove what he or she could. Notes 1 For a defense of the idea that doing and allowing differ in causality, see Vihvelin and Tomkow (2005). 2 Peter Singer (2011, 183–84) attributes the following strawman argument to those who defend double effect: those who foresee harm are in no way responsible for it (see also Bostock 2000, 104). Timothy Chappell (2002, 228–30) corrects the mistake.

8

Double Effect

The agent relative world has displayed features similar to those found in morality. It has, for instance, a kind of worth for persons, or at least for certain persons. This worth is undermined by acts of harmful using. On the other hand, harm without using is at least sometimes consistent with the pursuit of the shared good. Furthermore, this consistency, or acceptability, is linked to the absence of action. All of these similarities include significant differences. Most dramatically, the worth—and everything that follows upon it—is relative to a particular shared good; it is not common to all human beings. The stricture against harmful using is not a general principle of behavior. Rather, it follows as a matter of consistency: while pursuing a shared good with someone, an agent will not also use that person. The choice to use is precisely a choice to abandon the shared good. The role of harm within solidarity still requires clarification. This chapter will reveal another dissimilarity with morality: harmful using, within solidarity, is not the same as intending harm. The next chapter will discuss another similarity (in the area of harming) between solidarity and morality: both allow for punitive actions. Chapter 10 will take a break from the question of harm to address an apparent absence in solidarity: it seems to have no place for impartiality. Chapter 11 will return to the question of harm, approaching it from the new angle of partiality, an angle that arises in discussions of agent-centered restrictions. 8.1  Harmful Using versus Intending Harm This chapter aims to clarify the distinction between harmful using and harm without using. It is tempting to suppose that harmful using is the same as intending harm. For solidarity, this identification will prove problematic. While every case of intending harm may be a case of harmful using, not every case of harmful using is a case of intending harm.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-8

Double Effect 129 Uncovering the distinction between these two requires an examination of a topic much discussed in the literature on double effect reasoning: what exactly are the boundaries of the distinction between intending harm and foreseeing harm. How exactly do we determine whether or not the strategic bomber intends the deaths of the innocent civilians? How do we determine that the terror bomber does intend their deaths? These questions cannot be avoided (or so it seems), because the category of harmful using depends upon the plans (and hence the intentions) of the agents. The terror bomber uses the civilians harmfully precisely because he intends their deaths. The strategic bomber does not harmfully use the civilians, in part, because he does not intend to harm them but merely foresees that he will harm them. The importance of intention suggests another parallel between solidarity and morality: solidarity employs reasoning similar to double effect reasoning. Indeed, the parallels go deeper than a dependence upon the distinction between what is intended and what is foreseen. When pursuing shared goods, for instance, agents make something like proportionality judgments, which might correspond to what is (typically) listed as the fourth condition of the principle of double effect, namely, that any evil consequences must be proportioned to the good done (Mangan 1949, 60–61; Cavanaugh 2006, 26). As usual, this last similarity comes with a caveat. The proportional reasoning used in each (double effect and solidarity) is not exactly alike. The proportionality advocated by the principle of double effect, or at least by many versions of it, looks like consequentialist reasoning (Kagan 1989, 151–65). The good effects, when laid against the bad effects, must be greater (Cavanaugh 2006, 31–35). As a result, critics of double effect reasoning have accused it of being nothing other than a kind of camouflaged consequentialism (Johnstone 1985; Woodward 1997; McIntyre 2001, 222–23, 255). As we have seen in the case of Giuseppe, however, the “proportion” involved in possession-based reasoning is far from consequentialist reasoning. It does not add up goods. Rather, it compares agent relative goods and the subjects that they complete. It asks not only how important the good is within the shared good; it also asks how close this person is to me within the shared good. It aims not at producing some absolute overall good; rather, it aims to possess the good together. The “weighing” involved is not a consequentialist calculus of agent neutral goods. The accusation of a hidden consequentialism, sometimes laid against double effect reasoning, does not apply to solidarity (Singer 2011, 184). Indeed, it need not apply to double effect reasoning either (Chappell 2002, 229; Cavanaugh 2006, 32).

130  Double Effect This chapter examines another dissimilarity between solidarity and (many accounts of) double effect reasoning. The significant category, for double effect, is intending harm. For solidarity, however, the significant category is harmfully using. Spelling out this dissimilarity requires an extensive examination of our intentions, especially our intentions of harm. In discussions of double effect, intentions of effects are typically lumped together with intentions of actions. The conflation between the two is no accident. It seems like a distinction without a difference. The terror bomber intends to kill the civilians; he also intends the death of the civilians. Indeed, he intends to kill the civilians only insofar as he intends the death of the civilians. On the other hand, the strategic bomber does not intend to kill the civilians precisely because he does not intend the death of the civilians. The intention of actions is lumped together with the intention of effects because actions are often described in terms of their effects. The action of killing is nothing other than the action that brings about the effect of death. Despite this tight link between intending actions and intending effects, the two will prove to be distinct. Furthermore, the distinction will matter (at least sometimes) in the analysis of harmful using. Harmfully using another person, of course, is an action and not an effect. Nevertheless, it seems to involve the intention of certain effects, such as the effect of harm. The terror bomber harmfully uses the civilians precisely because he intends the effect of their death, which is a certain harm, and he then directs this effect to some alien good. If he did not intend the effect of harm, it seems, he would not perform the action of using the civilians harmfully. The link between the action of harmfully using and the intention of some harmful effect, however, is not as tight as this example suggests. It is sometimes broken. Every instance of intending harm may also be an instance of harmfully using, but the converse is not the case. Some acts of harmfully using do not involve intending harm. Even when the effect of harm is not intended, an agent may perform an action of harmfully using another person. As the very name implies, most accounts of double effect focus upon intending effects rather than upon intending actions. In this regard, solidarity will differ from morality, at least if these versions of double effect are taken as representative of morality. The intention of actions and the intention of effects are clearly related. Nevertheless, they are not exactly the same. An action typically involves using our causality to bring about some effect. The action of killing, for instance, involves using our capacity to change the world in order to bring about the effect of death. Intending death, then, is not exactly the same as intending to kill (although perhaps the former is simply shorthand for the latter). The idea of intending death omits any reference to our causality in bringing about the effect of death; on the other hand, the idea of intending to kill is essentially a reference to this causality.

Double Effect 131 Intention of effects and intention of actions have another important difference that follows upon this first difference. When we intend an action we do not simply intend to engage our causality to bring about a certain effect. We also direct this causality upon a certain subject. The terror bomber, for instance, engages his causality to bring about death; in addition, he directs this causality onto the civilians. When we intend an action we intend to bring about an effect in some subject. This aspect of intending actions can readily be incorporated into the intention of effects. We need simply specify the effect as belonging to the subject. The terror bomber, for instance, does not simply intend the effect of death; he intends the death of the civilians. The great parallels between intending effects and intending actions suggest that the difference between the two is merely verbal. It is a distinction without a difference. And indeed, in some cases it may be. Plausibly, intending the action of harming is nothing other than intending the effect of harm. It does not follow, however, that intending the action of harmfully using is the same as intending the effect of harm. The action of using a person involves engaging our causality to change the person in order, thereby, to direct her causality to a good besides her own. Adding the qualifier harmful suggests that the change introduced in some manner harms the person. We would make a mistake, however, if we concluded that harmfully using necessarily involves intending harm. Discovering this mistake will take some effort. We must examine the boundaries of intending effects to see whether every instance of harmfully using can be reduced to intending harm. 8.2 Closeness In discussions of double effect, the most disputed topic seems to concern the boundaries of intention. How do we determine that the terror bomber intends the harm of the civilians while the strategic bomber does not? As we have seen, Jonathan Bennett attempts to place the terror bomber in the shoes of the strategic bomber. His sophisticated terror bomber need aim only to make the innocent civilians appear dead long enough to demoralize the enemy. Their actual death is not necessary. The sophisticated terror bomber merely foresees the actual death as a consequence of making the civilians appear dead. If what matters, in double effect reasoning, is the intention of harm, or of evil more generally, then it seems that the sophisticated terror bomber is off the hook, a conclusion that almost no one defending double effect wishes to endorse (Nelkin and Rickless 2015). One possible response to the problem posed by the sophisticated terror bomber employs the distinction between intending effects and intending actions. The sophisticated terror bomber (so the response argues) does not

132  Double Effect intend the effect of the deaths of the civilians. Nevertheless, he intends the action of harming them, for surely he harms them by bombing them. Unfortunately, this response will not work, at least not without significant clarification. The same sort of reasoning will condemn the strategic bomber. He does not intend the deaths of the civilians, but he does intend to harm them. As we have already seen, another sort of response, posed entirely in terms of intending effects, can set Bennett’s sophisticated terror bomber aside as inadequately conceived. Bennett mistakes the nature of the means. He uses the overly strict requirement that the means intended must be necessary. Since only the appearance of death—and not actual death—is necessary for demoralizing the enemy, he concludes that the actual deaths of the civilians are only foreseen, not intended. Unfortunately for the sophisticated terror bomber, we regularly intend many things that are not necessary. Kenny, for instance, intends to make his shed with nails, although he could make it with screws instead. The sophisticated terror bomber must ultimately answer how he is going to make the civilians appear dead. As it turns out, he chooses the most obvious means; he makes them appear dead by actually making them dead. Even if the sophisticated terror bomber can be set aside, other cases pose similar problems. Consider the much-discussed case of the craniotomy. Craniotomy Case: A woman is in labor with cephalopelvic disproportion, in which the head of the baby is too large to fit through the woman’s pelvis. No C-section is available. Labor will continue indefinitely, until the woman dies. The doctor saves the life of the mother by crushing the head of the fetus, so that the body can be removed. Although the doctor crushes the head of the fetus, it does not follow that she intends to kill the fetus. Strictly speaking, what causes the labor to end is the smaller size of the head. The doctor reasons backward from this desired means to the further means of using forceps. At this point, however, she moves forward to recognize that the death of the baby is a consequent effect following upon the crushing of the skull. The doctor seems to be in exactly the same situation as the strategic bomber. Many who defend double effect, however, are unhappy with this conclusion. They wish to exonerate the strategic bomber but condemn the doctor. The most common way to get around this difficulty can be called the closeness approach (Quinn 1989b; Fischer, Ravizza, and Copp 1993; Fitzpatrick 2006; Hills 2007; Delaney 2008; Wedgwood 2011; Pruss 2013; Nelkin and Rickless 2015). The death of the baby, the argument goes, is just too close to the crushing of the skull, so that the doctor cannot intend

Double Effect 133 one without also intending the other (Anscombe 1982, 23; Foot 1994b, 268; Delaney 2008). The idea seems to be that intention includes not only the end and the means but also those things that are “close” to the means. Unfortunately, the strategic bomber might run afoul of this definition of intention. After all, the deaths of the civilians are rather close to his act of bombing the military site. A parallel to Craniotomy Case also poses a problem for those defending double effect. Hysterectomy Case: A pregnant woman has aggressive cancer of the uterus, which must be removed immediately. Unfortunately, the fetus is not viable, so that when the cancerous uterus is removed, the baby dies. Many defenders of double effect want to condemn the action of the doctor in Craniotomy Case but not in Hysterectomy Case. In both cases, however, the death of the baby seems close to the action of the doctor. One can try to give a principled account of “closeness” that draws the line in the right place. All too often, however, these attempted accounts have the distinct appearance of philosophical gerrymandering (Bennett 1995, 204–12; Delaney 2001, 568–71; 2015; Nelkin and Rickless 2015). They are plausible only to true believers. 8.3  The Identity View Another attempt to save the craniotomy case (to reach the conclusion that the doctor intends to harm the baby) continues to focus upon effects rather than actions, but it does not refer to close effects; rather, it refers to identical effects (Brock 1998, 204–205; Cavanaugh 2006, 112–13). According to this reasoning, which we will call the identity view, a crushed skull is identical with harm to the baby. Consequently, when the doctor intends the effect of a crushed skull, she also intends harm to the baby. Identity fares better than closeness. Clearly, for instance, the death of the civilians is a distinct effect from the destruction of the munitions factory. Similarly, the death of the baby (in the Hysterectomy Case) is a distinct effect from the removal of the cancerous womb. The problem with identity is on the other end. Is it really the case that the effect of the crushed skull is identical to the effect of injury? Several thinkers argue the contrary. Bennett (1995, 205), for instance, shows that the event of the collapse of the head is separate from the event of dying (Bennett 1995, 205; Nelkin and Rickless 2015, 382, 387). Others have argued that the crushed skull causes injury, and since a cause cannot be identical to its effect, the crushed skull cannot itself be the injury to the baby (Masek 2021, 672–74).

134  Double Effect This response confuses the precise nature of the harm involved. Critics of identity have focused upon the harm of death, which is indeed distinct from a crushed skull, a point granted even by the advocates of the identity view (Brock 1998, 204–205; Kaczor 2001, 85; Cavanaugh 2006, 112–13; Jensen 2014, 281). These advocates have focused upon another kind of harm. They claim that to have a crushed skull is itself a kind of injury. Admittedly, it causes other injuries, such as blood loss and death. Nothing prevents one injury, however, from causing another injury. If someone breaks off the leg of a chair, he damages the chair; furthermore, the damage is nothing other than the broken leg considered in relation to a functioning chair. There are not two things: a broken leg and damage to the chair. Similarly, a crushed skull simply is an injury; the injury is nothing other than the crushed skull considered in relation to a functioning baby. Another case drives home the point (Sullivan and Atkinson 1985, 253). In order to test a new sword, a samurai warrior waylays a passerby and makes a cut, clean through, from the shoulder down to the opposite hip. In this case, the effect of being cut in half is not the exact same effect as death. The death might occur, for instance, at a slightly later time than the cut. Furthermore, the effect of being cut in half causes the effect of death. Nevertheless, being cut in half is itself a kind of injury, and a pretty serious one at that. 8.4  Intending under a Description The identity view may have dodged one criticism, but it is open to a second and similar criticism. Someone might grant that the crushed skull is identical to injury but insist that we intend effects only under certain descriptions (Anscombe 1963, 11–47). The doctor, for instance, intends the effect of the crushed skull under the description of a smaller head; she does not intend it under the description of harm. In general, an agent intends an action only under the description he finds useful (Finnis 1991b, 68; Tollefsen 2006, 445). This line of reasoning is often counterintuitive. Consider the following example from Alexander Pruss. An eccentric, literalistic but always truthful magnate tells Sam he will donate to famine relief, saving hundreds of lives, if and only if Sam follow his directions to the iota. Sam is to purchase a gun, sneak at night into a zoo owned by the magnate, and kill the first mammal he sees. Unfortunately the first mammal Sam sees is the zookeeper, and he shoots her. When Sam is charged with murder, he argues that he did not intend to kill the human there, but only to kill the mammal. (Pruss 2013, 53–54)

Double Effect 135 Sam intends to kill the zookeeper, and the zookeeper is certainly a human being. Nevertheless, Sam intends to kill her only under the description in which it proves useful. He intends to kill her only insofar as she is a mammal and not insofar as she is a human being. Other examples, such as the following, can be provided. Assassin Rachel: Rachel intends to kill Sarah, who is the Prime Minister. Sarah also happens to be the sister of Sam, who is a good friend of Rachel. Sam protests to Rachel that she intends to kill his sister. Rachel responds that she intends no such thing. She merely intends the death of the prime minister. Or suppose that Pete wants to draw a triangle. The only writing utensil available is a red colored pencil. A red triangle on this paper, however, will serve as a signal to operative Gil to assassinate Vince. As Pete draws the triangle, he explains to Vince that he intends only to draw a triangle and not a red triangle. In other words, the triangle appeals to him only under the description of being a triangle; its being red provides Pete with no motivation. Our intuitions might be torn in these cases, in part, on account of an ambiguity in the phrase “intend insofar as.” Sam intends the death of the zookeeper insofar as she is a mammal (and not insofar as she is a human being). Rachel intends the death of Sarah insofar as she is the Prime Minister (and not insofar as she is Sam’s sister). The exact role of this phrase, however, is not clear. Does it mean that Rachel does not at all intend the death of Sam’s sister? Or does it mean that she does intend the death of Sam’s sister, but that this description does not provide any special motivation giving rise to her intention? If the phrase has the second meaning, then Rachel does intend to kill Sam’s sister, Sam does intend to kill a human being, and Pete does intend to draw a red triangle. In that case, the view suggested by Christopher Tollefsen (2006) and Joseph Shaw (2006) is problematic (see also Reed 2015). They claim that we intend effects only under the peculiar descriptions that provide us with independent motivation. The second meaning of the phrase implies that we also intend effects under other descriptions, descriptions that do not provide independent motivation. 8.5  Intending Concrete Actions The use of plans to set the precise parameters of human actions might suggest that Rachel does not intend the death of Sam’s sister. As she is making her plan to overthrow the government, she need consider only that Sarah is the Prime Minister. Sarah’s being Sam’s sister need not enter her deliberations.

136  Double Effect Once again, however, ambiguity is present. Bratman (1987, 17) distinguishes two ways in which an agent might search for the means to achieve some goal. On the one hand, he might seek some cause to bring about the desired goal. On the other hand, he might seek some more particular realization of the desired goal. Anna, for instance, has the goal of going to Europe. Buying an airplane ticket is a cause that will bring about this desired goal. Going to Rome, on the other hand, is a more particular instance of going to Europe. Our thoughts and desires often abstract from the details. Anna begins with the desire to go to continental Europe, but she cannot stop at this generic desire. She must get more specific. There is no such thing as just a trip to Europe. It is always a trip to this or that particular place within Europe. She must decide, then, where within Europe she wants to go. Perhaps she settles upon Italy. Once again, however, she must further specify her desire. She will go to Rome. She also determines the dates of her travel. It will be in the summer, for instance. All these deliberations aim to determine a more particular realization of the initial goal. In the end, she intends to take a trip to Rome on July 21. Suppose, however, that she is responding to Pruss’s magnate, who has told her to take a trip to Europe sometime in the summer. Then the trip to Rome is appealing as a means only insofar as it is a trip to Europe. A trip on July 21 is appealing only insofar as it is in the summer. Nevertheless, these details fall within Anna’s backward-moving deliberations. These details or specifications, it seems, provide an essential element to her plan, for every plan requires specific details. Anna never plans to take an abstract trip to Europe. There is no such thing. She does not intend, as Pruss (2013, 53) suggests, the conception of a trip; rather, she intends a concrete trip under various conceptions. She plans, from the beginning, to take a very concrete trip. Indeed, that is exactly what the magnate wants of her. He is not asking her to take an abstract trip. The specific details, then, are necessary to achieve her goal. If she is going to take a trip to Europe, then she must take a trip to some particular place within Europe. The details serve as a means—and provide some appeal—because they provide concrete existence. We use the word “means” both for causes that produce the goal and for more particular determinations that help to realize the goal. Going to Rome is indeed a means of going to Europe. Admittedly, the word “means” is sometimes narrowed to causal means, for the word sits more comfortably with this meaning (Davis 1984a, 113). Nevertheless, the word need not be restricted to this meaning. We do not plan upon descriptions. Nor do we plan upon effects. Rather, we plan upon actions. In his deliberations, for instance, Sam is seeking the concrete action of killing the first mammal that he sees. As it turns out, the concrete action with which he is presented is an action of killing a human

Double Effect 137 being. He must now ask himself whether he wants this action. The question does not concern merely a description of an action. It concerns this action in its concrete details. This discussion of the concrete details of an action was launched in order to defend one aspect of the identity view. The view was called into question by turning attention to the descriptions of effects. A crushed skull may indeed be identical to a certain kind of injury. Nevertheless (the objection contends), the doctor does not intend the crushed skull under the description of injury; rather, she intends it under the description of a smaller head. The response to this objection suggests that the doctor may be attracted to the crushed skull primarily on account of it being smaller. Nevertheless, the doctor does not seek a description; rather, she seeks to attain a concrete instance of a crushed skull, which is indeed an injury. More accurately, she wants to introduce the effect of a crushed skull into this concrete individual. In other words, she wants a concrete action of crushing a skull. This concrete action is also an action of injuring. 8.6  Two Kinds of Identical Actions Unfortunately, this response may backfire upon the identity view. One of the initial merits of the identity view was its ability to absolve the strategic bomber since the death of the civilians is clearly a distinct effect from the destruction of the military site. The focus upon actions, rather than effects, however, may reverse the situation. What the strategic bomber wants, it seems, is a concrete action of destroying a munitions factory. As it turns out, however, the concrete action offered to him is also an action—in its concrete details—of killing innocent civilians. Consequently, it looks as if the identity view is in much the same boat as the closeness view. It must conclude that the strategic bomber intends to kill the innocent civilians (Bennett 1995, 208; Nelkin and Rickless 2015, 383). The requirement to intend the concrete details is much too stringent (Hills 2007, 266). The similarities between Sam’s case and the case of the strategic bomber, however, are exaggerated by a misconception of the kind of action involved. Neither Sam nor the bomber wants mere physical activity; neither wants merely bodily movement upon which follows a multitude of effects. Both want to direct their causality to a particular effect (or effects). Neither wants aimless physical movement. Both want actions with direction. In other words, both want rational actions, in which the physical activity is directed by the agent (in his plans) to something definite. The identity view, then, is not concerned with just any identical actions. It is not concerned with the identity of merely physical actions with their multiple effects. Rather, it is concerned with the identity of rational action; the identity of directed activity.

138  Double Effect In one way, the bomber’s action of destroying the factory is identical to his action of killing the civilians. In another way, the two are distinct. Indeed, in this other way—in the way of rationally directed activity—no act of killing the civilians can be found, for nothing is directed to the deaths of the civilians. The first way is the way of bodily movement followed by effects. By a series of bodily movements, the strategic bomber gives rise both to the effect of the destruction of the munitions factory and to the effect of the death of the civilians. In this way, we do quite reasonably speak of a single action that is both an act of destroying the military site and an act of killing civilians. The second way is the way of rationally directed activity. The bomber takes his bodily movements and directs them (in his plans) to the destruction of the factory. In this way, the action directed to the destruction of the military site is not identical to an action directed to the death of the civilians, for there is no action directed to the death of the civilians. The difference between Sam and the bomber is revealed in their deliberations. Sam is attempting to introduce the change of death into a mammal. He aims to direct his very concrete causality onto a very concrete mammal. The mammal with which he is presented, however, is a human being. The action that he directs to the death of a mammal, then, is identical to an action directed to the death of a human being. The bomber’s reasoning is different. He aims to direct his causality toward the destruction of a military site. Like Sam, he aims to direct his concrete causality to a concrete military site. He does not, however, aim to direct his causality to the death of civilians. The bomber, of course, does want a concrete action, and this concrete action does result in the death of civilians. Nevertheless, it is not directed to the death of the civilians. Someone might insist that the concrete action upon which the bomber settles does indeed kill the civilians. The point must be granted. It does not follow that the bomber intends to kill the civilians. Rather, he intends an action of destroying a military site that has the effect of killing civilians. This manner of speaking—in terms of having an effect—conveys the idea that the action is not directed to this effect. For consequentialism, of course, all that matters are the effects produced. For solidarity, on the other hand, the direction of an action to certain effects—and the absence of a direction to other effects—might make all the difference. In the direction of our actions—and not in the effects— we share goods with others. In the direction of our actions—and not in the effects—we treat human beings (upon whom we act) as the subject of various goods. We treat them as the subject of shared goods, which are possessed together; or we treat them as the subjects of a good of utility. Sam treats the zookeeper as the subject of a good of utility, for he directs

Double Effect 139 her toward an alien good, a good that is not her own. In contrast, Kay (when saving Jim) treats Jim as the subject of a shared good, a good that belongs to her and Jim together. In both cases, the direction of the action, and not merely its effects, makes all the difference. Through our actions, we direct ourselves to various goals. Our wishes or wants are insufficient to provide a direction. By our actions, which are sometimes only in plan and have not yet been executed, we set ourselves to a goal. Kay makes herself to be a person directed toward saving Jim. Sam makes himself to be a person directed toward the death of the zookeeper. In the direction found within our actions, and not merely in the effects that result from our actions, we set ourselves to goods, which are the relative goods of persons. Kay sets herself to a good that Jim possesses together with her. Sam sets himself toward the useful good within the zookeeper. In relation to the innocent civilians, the strategic bomber directs himself toward neither kind of good. He does not direct them to some alien good, for he does not direct himself to change them at all. Nor does he direct them to a shared good. Of course, the consequent death of the civilians is still relevant to his choice, even though he does not direct himself to these deaths. Because of what he fails to do—through the absence of direction—he might exclude the civilians from a shared good. If he does not remove what is harmful from his actions—if he is able—then he may treat the civilians as insignificant, as if they do not have worth within the shared good. The positive direction of his action, however, does not place them either within the shared good or outside the shared good. The upshot of this discussion is that the identity view can potentially redeem double effect reasoning (or at least common interpretations of it) from some often discussed difficult cases. In the Craniotomy Case, for instance, the doctor does indeed intend to harm the baby. In the hysterectomy case, the doctor does not. Sam does indeed intend to kill a human being; the strategic bomber does not. 8.7  Using Harmfully without Intending Harm In the end, however, the identity view will not redeem double effect reasoning—focused upon effects rather than actions—for solidarity. Solidarity is concerned with the action of harmfully using people for an alien good. Double effect is concerned with intending (the effect of) harm. Many (perhaps all) cases in which we intend harm to others are also cases of harmfully using them. The converse is not necessarily the case. Some instances of harmfully using might turn out to be free from any intention for the effect of harm.

140  Double Effect One commonly discussed case provides a good example. Human Obstacle: A runaway trolley is headed down a track where five people are trapped. Kay cannot divert the trolley, but she can push Mike onto the track. Mike (but not Kay) has enough mass to stop the trolley before it hits the five. Kay pushes Mike onto the track. Mike dies. Kay does not aim directly at Mike’s harm. Rather, she aims to stop the trolley by interposing Mike’s mass. This description of the case might seem like hairsplitting wordplay, but its validity can be seen through a series of parallel cases. Grenade with Human: A grenade is thrown in the midst of six people. Deb leaps upon the grenade, preventing its shrapnel from reaching the other five. Deb dies. Grenade with Chest: A grenade is thrown in the midst of six people. Deb quickly pushes a large chest over the grenade. The grenade explodes but harms no one, although it damages the chest. Soccer Goalie: Deb is a soccer goalie who has lost her mitt. Linda kicks the ball toward the goal. Deb strikes the ball away with her bare hand. Deb’s hand is injured. In all three of these cases, Deb interposes an obstacle in the way of some projectile. In all three cases, she foresees some damage but does not aim at the damage. This last point is seen most clearly in Grenade with Chest because it involves no moral ambiguity; the damage is not to a human being but to a chest. Moving backward from the goal to the immediate means that Deb chooses, we see that she begins with the goal of stopping the shrapnel from reaching the people in the room. She seeks an obstacle to stop the shrapnel, and the chest is conveniently available. She recognizes that she must move the chest over the path of the shrapnel. Deb need not, through all of this, aim to damage the chest. The change she needs in the chest is not damage. She needs merely a change of place, so that she can direct the causality of the chest upon the shrapnel. The shrapnel also acts upon the chest, causing it damage, but this equal and opposite activity is not what achieves Deb’s goal. Rather, her goal is achieved through the activity of the chest upon the shrapnel. The effect of the shrapnel being stopped (by the chest) is not identical to the effect of the chest being damaged (by the shrapnel). These two effects cannot be identical, since they occur in two distinct subjects.

Double Effect 141 The consequent damage to the chest is—like the noise of Kenny pounding—merely foreseen. The noise of pounding is not a cause of Kenny’s shed. Rather, the pounding is the cause, but this pounding also causes noise. Similarly, in order to achieve her goal, Deb needs the chest to stop the shrapnel. As a result, the shrapnel will also damage the chest, but this damage is not a cause upon which Deb settles while reasoning backward. The same may be said for Soccer Goalie. In her desire to stop the ball from reaching the goal, Deb reasons backward for the need of an interposing obstacle, for which her hand is conveniently available. She reasons back to the need for her hand to act upon the ball. The ball will also act upon her hand, causing damage, but this latter activity is not a cause of stopping the ball. With her hand, then, Deb aims to act upon the ball; she merely foresees that the ball will act upon her hand and that her hand will be damaged. Finally, similar reasoning applies to Grenade with Human. Deb does not, as is sometimes claimed, kill herself in order to save the other five. She does kill herself, but only as a foreseen consequence of her bodily movements; she does not direct herself and her causality to the effect of her death. In this case, she reasons back to the need for an obstacle to stop the shrapnel, but the chest is not available. She herself provides the best obstacle. Once again, the causality she needs to achieve her goal is the activity of her own body upon the shrapnel. The consequent lethal activity of the shrapnel upon her body is a foreseen consequence. The same analysis applies to Human Obstacle (Wedgwood 2011, 394; Pruss 2013, 58; Nelkin and Rickless 2015, 381). Kay aims to prevent the trolley from hitting the five people. She reasons back to the need for an obstacle to stop the trolley, and she finds that Mike is the most convenient obstacle. She does not reason back to the need to harm Mike, nor even to the need of the trolley to injure Mike. What she wants is for Mike to act upon the trolley, not the trolley to act upon Mike. She foresees that the trolley will act upon Mike and that it will injure him, but that at which she aims, in her backward reasoning, is only for Mike to act upon the trolley. Human Obstacle, then, is unlike Cruel Dictator. In the latter case, Barb aims to achieve Scott’s death, which is his harm and evil. In the former case, Kay does not aim to achieve Mike’s harm; she merely foresees the harm. Nevertheless, according to our moral intuitions, the two cases seem similar. Double effect reasoning—if it is concerned with intending the effect of harm—does not explain these intuitions. Since Kay does not intend the harm of Mike, double effect reasoning seems to absolve her of any positive wrongdoing. At most, she might fail the proportionality requirement. Kay should be placed in the same category as the strategic bomber.

142  Double Effect Solidarity, however, is not hampered by a focus upon intending harm. It focuses upon the act of harmful using. Although Kay does not intend Mike’s harm, she does use him harmfully. She directs his causality to a good alien from his own. The focus (of solidarity) upon harmful using still requires an understanding of intention. When Vince harmfully uses Anna by vandalizing her car, he does indeed intend to bring about certain changes and he does indeed intend to direct Anna’s causality (through her car) to a further goal. These intentions (or these plans) are necessary for the very idea of using. We use other people (or other things) when we change them in order to direct their causality to something beyond themselves. Both the change and the direction to something further involve intention. No act of using can be identified through mere physical activity. It must always be identified through intentional activity. When Kay uses Mike, she does intend to change him. Furthermore, she intends to use his causality to stop the trolley. These intentions are necessary for her act of using. We cannot understand her act of using Mike without understanding her plans and intentions. In short, Human Obstacle does not obviate concerns over what is intended. It does reveal, however, that double effect reasoning—which focuses upon intending (the effect of) harm—does not capture every case of harmfully using. Kay intends the action of harmfully using Mike, although she does not intend the effect of Mike’s harm. Other cases might also fit this pattern. In Craniotomy Case, for instance, the doctor might not intend the harm of the baby (although the identity view suggests that she does). In any event, she harmfully uses the baby. She does change the baby in order to direct his causality to a further goal. And since this direction involves harm to the baby, the doctor uses the baby harmfully. Similarly, Bennett’s sophisticated terror bomber, even if he did intend only to make the civilians appear dead, would still use the civilians harmfully. On the other hand, the strategic bomber and Hysterectomy Case are not cases of harmfully using. The strategic bomber does not use the civilians (harmfully or otherwise). He does not direct himself to change the civilians, nor does he direct their causality to a goal beyond themselves. If he does not use the civilians, then neither does he use them harmfully. Similarly, in Hysterectomy Case, the doctor does not use the baby. She does not direct herself to introduce a change into the baby. Rather, she changes the uterus and foresees that the baby will be changed. Nor does the doctor direct the baby’s causality to any further goal. Solidarity is not wedded to the importance of intending harm. Harmful using is what matters. When Kay throws Mike in front of the trolley, she is not intending his harm but foreseeing it. Nevertheless, she is using

Double Effect 143 him to achieve her goals. The good she seeks is not Mike’s good, since the very act of using brings harm to him. Kay, then, is directing Mike to an alien good. Within Kay’s desires, Mike can be ordered in two possible ways, but the two orders cannot stand together. Either he can be ordered to his own good as an essential part of the shared good or he can be ordered to some utility that excludes his own good. Kay chooses the latter. Kay does not direct herself toward Mike as toward a subject of his own good. Rather, she directs herself toward him as a subject of a useful good, a good that destroys his own. 8.8 Consent The focus upon using rather than upon intending harm explains another element of our intuitions: consent can remove the taint of harmful actions (Pruss 2013, 59). Consent achieves this transformation by removing the act of using, although the harm may remain. When Deb throws herself upon the grenade, she consents to the action and the harm it involves. If she, instead, threw Norbert upon the grenade (against his will), then her action would be reprehensible. In terms of solidarity, she would use Norbert for a good alien to his own. The importance of consent is further suggested by the following case: Consenting Obstacle: A runaway trolley is headed down a track where five people are trapped. Mike cannot divert the trolley, but he recognizes that he is the only object available with enough mass to stop the trolley before hitting the five. Unfortunately, Mike is paralyzed and unable to move himself onto the track. He asks Kay to move him onto the track. Kay pushes Mike onto the track. Mike dies. In this case, Kay’s action seems at least acceptable. She recognizes that if she herself had enough mass, then she would jump on the track (in a complete parallel with Deb in Grenade with Human), and she recognizes that if Mike were not paralyzed, then he would jump on the track. Given that he has asked to be placed on the track, her action seems acceptable. As we have seen, consent removes the use from the action. Kay does not direct Mike to some alien good. Mike himself does the directing (Kagan 1989, 149). He simply requires some assistance from Kay. Someone might object that Mike directs himself to an alien good. Perhaps Kay does not use Mike, but Mike uses himself. Kay does not exclude Mike from the shared good, but Mike himself does. The deontological

144  Double Effect norm against using is not necessarily phrased in terms of using others; it is phrased in terms of using humanity, whether found in oneself or in others. Even with his consent, then, Mike opposes this deontological norm. He uses humanity (found in himself) for some alien good. Might the same reasoning apply to solidarity? The case is not like Dan, who consents (as a doctor) to help his patient (perhaps for recompense), for Dan does not harm himself. Mike does harm himself, and he directs this harm to a good that excludes his own. Consent (the objection concludes) might remove the using in the case of Dan, but it does not remove the harmful using in the case of Mike. His action is a kind of self-using, but it is still a using. The same conclusion applies to Deb as she throws herself upon the grenade. In order to respond to this objection, we must carefully examine Deb’s intention as she throws herself upon the grenade. Deb is like Kay in Saving Jim (where she chooses to save Jim and foresees that Mike will die). Kay is engaging in an act of sharing the good, an action that is directed to the particular good of one member (Jim) of the shared good. She foresees harm to another member (Mike) but does not direct herself toward this harm. Deb does the same. She performs an action that is directed to the good of some members and foresees harm to another member (herself), but she does not direct herself to this harm. Deb’s action, then, is an action of sharing the good with others. This action is not an act of self-using. It lacks (on account of consent) the element of a direction to an alien good, to a good that is not Deb’s own. Her very act of giving is an act of sharing. It is an act in which she possesses the good. As Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics III, 9, 1117b10–15) suggests, in this act she may possess it more profoundly than in any other action. She is not directing herself to an alien good. To the contrary. She is thoroughly possessing the good that is her own. If Deb throws Norbert upon the grenade, Norbert does not attain the same possession. Norbert possesses the good by sharing it with others, but when he is forced upon the grenade, he himself performs no act of sharing. He does not give his own good to others. In this case, then, Norbert is used as a means to a goal that is alien to his own. He is prevented from sharing in the good by the very force that excludes his own action. He is not allowed to direct himself to the shared good. Mike, in Consenting Obstacle, is unlike Norbert. He does direct himself to the shared good. He does give of his good, just as Deb does. He needs some assistance in carrying out this act of giving, but it is still his act of giving. Like Deb, he is not directing himself to an alien good. Rather, he is thoroughly possessing the good that is his own. This analysis suggests that self-sacrifice—and the power of consent— may have its limits, at least in relation to the shared good. Not every

Double Effect 145 sacrifice can be directed to the shared good. Contrary to the suggestion of Kagan (1989, 147), consent does not provide unlimited permission to harm. Consider the following case. Altruistic Suicide: A dictator is about to kill five innocent people, but he tells Mike that he will refrain from these murders if Mike kills himself. Mike commits suicide. The five innocent people live. Mike’s action, in this case, is not exactly the same as in Consenting Obstacle. He does not perform an act of sharing the good, from which he foresees that some member of the shared good will be harmed. Rather, he directs himself to the harm of one member (himself), so that others might benefit. Does this difference comprise a moral difference? Or rather, does it make a difference for the shared good of solidarity? When Kay saves Jim, she does not exclude Mike from the shared good. Indeed, by sharing the good with Jim, she also shares it, indirectly, with Mike, who is united with Jim. Mike’s share in the good, of course, is very limited, since he will soon die. Nevertheless, he can rejoice in the good found in Kay’s action and in the good that she gives to Jim. Similarly, when Mike has himself thrown upon the tracks, he can rejoice (even more) in his own action and in the good that he gives to the others, although he sorrows over his consequent death. Does the same conclusion follow for Altruistic Suicide? Perhaps not. Can Mike’s action be characterized as an action of sharing the good from which the death of a member follows? It would seem not. Most clearly, the death of the member does not simply follow from the action. It is the immediate goal of the action. On the face of it, then, it is an act of excluding one member from the shared good. Perhaps, nevertheless, it is an act of sharing the good. After all, some good does result from this exclusion. Indeed, this good is the ultimate goal of the exclusion. Perhaps, as Alison McIntyre (2001, 227–28) suggests, this ultimate goal is all that matters. It is an act of sharing the good because the goal is to bring about the good of some members of the united community. Admittedly, the more proximate goal is to exclude one particular member. The ultimate goal, however, is the good of other members. At the very least, the intentional exclusion of one member creates an ambiguity not found in the cases of Grenade with Human and Consenting Obstacle. Deb does not exclude a member of the shared good in order that other members might benefit. Rather, she benefits various members of the shared good, foreseeing that one member will suffer. In contrast, Mike (in Altruistic Suicide) excludes himself in order to benefit others.

146  Double Effect To what conclusion does this ambiguity lead? The answer is unclear. It  suggests, however, that Mike might not be performing an action of sharing the good, at least not a good that includes himself as a member. He is not exactly using himself. If anything, he might be said to use the whole united community for goods alien to itself. This manner of speaking presumes that he himself has certain goods (such as his life) that belong centrally to the shared good. Consequently, even he himself cannot remove them. As Bennett Helm (2008, 32) observes, when we care for others (or for ourselves, for that matter), it does not suffice to want what they want, for we cannot reject their well-being. 8.9  The Loop Trolley The focus upon the action of using harmfully, as opposed to the effect of harm, may prove helpful in one last iconic case. Judith Jarvis Thomson created the Loop Trolley case as a difficulty for double effect reasoning. Before we examine Loop Trolley, we must first lay out the basic trolley case, of which Loop Trolley is a modification. Trolley Case: A runaway trolley is headed down the track where five people are trapped upon the track. Kay can pull a lever to divert the trolley down another track where Mike is trapped. Kay pulls the lever. Mike dies. Loop Trolley adds a seemingly innocuous detail. Loop Trolley: The situation is the same as in Trolley Case with one difference. The sidetrack on which Mike is trapped loops back around to the original track. If Mike were not on the track, the trolley would simply continue down the sidetrack and then loop back to kill the five anyway. With Mike on the track, however, the trolley will be stopped (or sufficiently slowed) when it hits Mike, so that it will not go on to kill the five. Kay pulls the lever in order to save the five. Mike dies. According to Thomson (1985, 1403) and others, our intuitions tell us that Kay’s action is just as acceptable in Loop Trolley as it is in the standard Trolley Case, in which the loop is missing (see also Singer 2005, 340; Scanlon 2008, 18). What difference, she asks, could a few extra feet of track make (the extra feet needed to loop around)?1 The intuitions of Jeff McMahan (2009, 359) differ from those of Thomson (see also Chappell 2013, 108; Bruers 2016a; 2016b). It is not acceptable, he thinks, for Kay to pull the lever in Loop Trolley. In Loop

Double Effect 147 Trolley, but not in Trolley Case, Kay must use Mike as a means to achieve her goal. His body mass is used to stop the train. As such, Loop Trolley is actually parallel to Human Obstacle, which most people consider unacceptable. As we have seen (Section 6.1), we can use something without acting directly upon it; we need merely change how it acts. Don can use fire to heat the water in two ways. First, he can move the fire under the water, in which case he acts directly upon the fire; second, he can move the water over the fire. In either event, he changes how the fire acts (it now acts upon the water), and thereby uses the fire. Similarly, Kay can use Mike to stop the trolley from hitting the five in two ways. In Human Obstacle, she acts directly upon Mike. In Loop Trolley, she acts upon the trolley but thereby changes how Mike’s body acts: it now acts upon the trolley. In either event, Kay uses Mike. In Loop Trolley, however, our judgment is somewhat obscured because Kay does not act directly upon Mike; rather, she acts directly upon the trolley (Waldmann and Dieterich 2007; Otsuka 2008, 103; 109–10; McMahan 2009, 359; Bruers 2016a, 418–20; 2016b). Another grenade case clarifies the point: Kick Grenade: A grenade is thrown in the midst of six people. Deb quickly kicks the grenade under a large chest. The grenade explodes but harms no one, although it damages the chest. Deb can use the chest in two ways. She can move the chest over the grenade, or she can kick the grenade under the chest. In Grenade with Chest, she changes the chest and thereby directs the causality of the chest upon the grenade. In Kick Grenade, she changes the grenade and thereby directs the causality of the chest upon the grenade. In both cases, she uses the chest. Kick Grenade, then, is exactly parallel with Loop Trolley. Note 1 Frances Kamm (2000; 2007, 118–22) attempts to defend this intuition with her “principle of triple effect,” but Michael Otsuka (2008) shows that this principle does not in fact apply to Loop Trolley (see also Liao 2008).

9

Punishment

Punishment, which is intimately linked with the moral idea of justice, is difficult to disentangle from morality. So-called expressivists, however, have emphasized the importance, within punishment, of what Peter Strawson (1962) calls the reactive emotions, such as guilt, repentance, indignation, and resentment (Strawson 1962; Hampton 1988a, 1988b, 1992; Duff 2001; Bennett 2002). These emotions have a broader context than state-sanctioned punishment; they apply to interpersonal relations without criminal offense. Kirsten, for instance, might feel guilty for her failure to visit Giuseppe, and Giuseppe might feel resentment toward Kirsten. Punishment, claims Christopher Bennett (2002, 147), is best understood by first understanding our personal reactions to wrongdoing. Plausibly, then, solidarity might also use these reactive emotions, thereby providing, for solidarity, the contours of an analog of punishment. These emotions will be explained in terms of the shared good, a project that develops Strawson’s original emphasis upon the relation between these emotions and the moral community. 9.1 Balancing When Kirsten recognizes that she has selfishly chosen to go jogging, she might feel guilty, apologize to Giuseppe, and attempt to make it up by spending extra time with him or by giving him some small gift. Kirsten’s reaction goes beyond guilt to what might be called repentance. She recognizes that she has harmed the friendship (and so feels guilt) and she wants to restore the friendship, which brings her to repentance. She wants to make it up to Giuseppe for the damage she has done. As Christopher Bennett (2002, 156–57) notes, repentance involves an intention “to do what [she] can to remove the bad consequences of [her] actions … to restore the situation to the way it was before [her] wrongdoing, so far as that is possible.” These efforts of Kirsten might mollify Giuseppe’s pain. On the other hand, if Kirsten does not make these efforts, then Giuseppe might feel DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-9

Punishment 149 resentment. He might even try to “get back” at her in some way or other. Perhaps he will be cool toward her, thereby inflicting something like punishment. Giuseppe might feel this way even while granting that Kirsten’s offense does not rise to the level of injustice. She was not bound to visit him by strict justice. He did not have a “right” to a visit. Still, given how close he is to Kirsten, he might have expected a visit. Both Kirsten’s repentance and Giuseppe’s resentment share two features with gratitude. First, all three of these emotions (repentance, resentment, and gratitude) fall short of strict justice. If Kirsten does visit Giuseppe in the hospital, then he should feel grateful, but he is not bound to gratitude by strict justice. Close friends, perhaps, do not need to say thank you. Nevertheless, they want to. Second, all three attitudes incorporate the idea of some kind of imbalance that must be set right. When Kirsten visits Giuseppe, she does him a kind deed. He must counterbalance with a kind deed of his own, at least by verbally thanking her and perhaps with some special kindness in the future. If there is only kindness on Kirsten’s side and no balancing kindness on the side of Giuseppe, then the two are unequal. It begins to look as if Giuseppe considers her an inferior who should tend to his needs. A return act of kindness restores the balance, so that the two are indeed equal, both seeking the good of the other. When Kirsten feels repentance, she also wants to restore the balance. By choosing to go jogging and failing to visit Giuseppe, she has not given him (in her desires) the worth or commitment that is fitting for their close relationship (Bennett 2002, 151). By choosing to go jogging, Kirsten has taken from Giuseppe a good. At the minimum, she has taken from him the good of the visit. She now wishes to restore the loss he has incurred. She makes it up to him, restoring the balance by doing kind deeds in which she seeks his good as her own, thereby restoring his worth within the relationship. Finally, with the emotion of resentment, Giuseppe also wants to restore the balance (Fletcher 1999, 58). Kirsten has taken from him a good. She has not given him the expected visit, and she has given him insufficient worth in her desires. In response, he will take something from Kirsten. He will take from her, for instance, his usual gregarious self; he will not speak to her. She has treated him as something insignificant; he will correspondingly treat her as insignificant. The idea of equality guides his action. This equality or balancing has what seems, at first, to be an odd characteristic: it seeks to go beyond the initial action. Kirsten, in her repentance, wants to do more for Giuseppe than give him a single visit to the hospital, which strict equality would seem to demand (Bennett 2002, 159–60). Likewise, in his resentment, Giuseppe wants to take from Kirsten more than the equivalent of a visit to the hospital. Finally, (although less clearly), in gratitude, Giuseppe wants to return more to Kirsten than he

150 Punishment has received. In short, the balancing does not seem to aim at strict equality. It aims at an overbalancing. This appearance, however, can be readily dispelled. In each case, the person wants equality, and the apparent overbalancing is judged as proper and fair. It is not in fact an overbalancing, but only an overbalancing in appearance. Giuseppe deserves, thinks Kirsten, more than the lost visit to the hospital; equality demands extra attention. Likewise, the resentful Giuseppe thinks that Kirsten deserves, by equality, more than the loss of a visit to the hospital. Finally, in the case of gratitude, giving extra in return is considered only fair and equal. On the surface, equality requires only that Kirsten pay a visit to Giuseppe. That is, after all, what she originally should have done; through her failure, then, she has removed from Giuseppe the good of her visit. In equality, she should restore the visit, or something comparable. We have seen, however, that Kirsten takes from Giuseppe more than a visit to the hospital. She has not given him, in her desires, the importance that he expects. He wants to share the good with Kirsten, and he can share it with her only through her desires. Ideally, thinks Giuseppe, she will love her good as his good and his good as hers. When she chooses to go jogging, she does not give Giuseppe’s good the weight appropriate to his importance. She not only fails to visit him. She fails to treat him as a partial reason for acting, or at the very least, she does not give him sufficient weight as a reason for acting (Tadros 2011, 95–99). If Kirsten has taken more than the activity of the visit, then she must restore more. Equality demands it. She must not only visit him. She must do something additional. Perhaps she can visit him for an extended period or make extra visits. Perhaps she can bring a gift. The possibilities are multifarious, but in some manner or other, she must make up for more than the lost visit. She must desire Giuseppe as more important to counterbalance her previous insufficient desire. In his resentment, Giuseppe feels a similar need. As Jean Hampton (1988a, 52) suggests, Kirsten has, in a way, placed herself above him. Her trivial desire to go jogging has been given greater weight than the sharing of the good with him. She has deemed herself, then, more important than is proper given their relationship within the shared good. When he seeks to restore the balance, he not only takes from her the equivalent of the visit; he also takes away her elevated status. He must put her back down into her proper place. Finally, in gratitude, we recognize not only the gift but also the spontaneous love that gave rise to it. A properly balanced gratitude, then, seeks more than a strictly equal kind action. It seeks also to show appreciation for the love itself. How does this sense of balancing fit within solidarity? How does it relate to the shared good? Let us begin with Kirsten’s repentance. She

Punishment 151 recognizes that she has failed to share the good with Giuseppe. In a sense, she has taken from him the shared good. She must now restore it. The restoration involves a return of the action, or something comparable to it. More importantly, it involves a return of the proper desires. In her desires, Kirsten has given herself greater importance—in relation to Giuseppe— than is appropriate. She must lower herself, which she does through an apology, and she must elevate him, which she does through a kind deed. When she apologizes, she humbles herself; she lowers herself from her previously elevated state (Duff 2001, 107; Bennett 2002, 161). When she does a kind deed, she elevates Giuseppe, giving him greater worth in her desires. Through her actions and desires, then, she restores the shared good. Her isolating action and desire have been replaced with an act of sharing. With regard to resentment, Giuseppe is in a more difficult situation. He cannot himself restore Kirsten’s desires. She may repent on her own, in which case he may feel no need for “punishment.” If she does not repent, however, then he cannot directly control her desires. He aims, however, to change her desires indirectly. By withdrawing himself, he hopes to make her realize the error of her ways. By making her lose a good (the good of his fellowship), he hopes that she will see how painful it is for him to lose a good. As Christopher Bennett (2002, 153) suggests, Giuseppe wants Kirsten to share his disapproval of her action. Perhaps then she will recalibrate her desires. In short, Giuseppe hopes to induce repentance. 9.2 Restoration Anthony Duff (2001) develops an entire account of punishment based upon this motivation. Punishment is meant to communicate to wrongdoers the error of their ways, thereby spurring them on to change. Punishment is particularly well fit for this goal precisely because it takes away a good, thereby communicating to wrongdoers what they have done in their own actions, which in some manner have damaged or removed a good. Duff, however, may have overemphasized this rehabilitative motivation. This goal does not seem to exhaust what Giuseppe desires in his resentment. Even if Kirsten does not repent, Giuseppe hopes to gain something through his punitive action. He still hopes to restore the balance, even without a change in Kirsten’s desire. He has lost something, and he hopes to regain it. Kirsten has gained something, and he hopes to take it from her. He cannot regain the lost visit, but still he hopes to regain his place, that is, his importance within the shared good. He cannot take from Kirsten her ill-gotten jogging, but he can take away her elevated place. Giuseppe is concerned with a shared attributive good, in which the good itself cannot be detached from the subject of the good. Giuseppe’s good belongs to him precisely insofar as it completes him as a subject. It is

152 Punishment not good by mere existence. Through her offensive action, Kirsten has dislodged the good from the subject. Giuseppe wants the good as shared; he wants it as completing a united subject, himself and Kirsten. In her action, however, Kirsten has desired the good (of visiting Giuseppe) as something that she can take simply for herself as the subject. It can be disposed of for the sake of her private good of jogging. This point needs clarification. Kirsten herself might be considered in various relations. She is part of the union of herself and Giuseppe, but she is also part of other unions; furthermore, she is an independent subject of the good. Giuseppe feels hurt because Kirsten has not given to him sufficient importance in the pursuit of her goods. His place within her overall good is too small. Kirsten has given her union with Giuseppe too little importance. She has given more importance to herself as an independent subject of the good. She has given too little importance to herself as a part united with Giuseppe. Effectively, Kirsten’s choice has been a choice concerning subjects of the good. The good she wants is that which completes her as an independent subject. The good shared with Giuseppe is set aside in preference for the good belonging only to herself. The shared good has been alienated from its subject (Giuseppe and Kirsten united) and given to another subject (Kirsten alone). Part of Giuseppe’s restorative desire seeks to bring the good back to its subject. In Kirsten’s desires, she has allocated the good for herself. The good must be pried from her desires, which attach it to the wrong subject (herself alone), and it must be sought as belonging to the united subject. Her desire must be opposed by taking from her the good. This opposition to her desires is essential to his resentment. If he discovers that she actually enjoys the new state of things (in which she is given the cold shoulder), then he will modify his behavior, trying to find something that he can take from her, something that will be against her desires (Duff 1992, 49; Hanna 2008, 126–28). If the treatment is according to her desires, then the good remains her private good. The good must be taken from her private realm by opposing her desires. She has desired the shared good as only her own; he will now make sure that the shared good is not her own. Resentment, however, does not focus primarily upon restoring the good. Rather, its primary concern looks to the worth of the subject. Kirsten has given herself too much importance and Giuseppe insufficient importance. Giuseppe now wants to restore the proper order. He must be given more importance and she less. Whitley Kaufman (2013; 2016) suggests that in resentment people most of all seek to defend their honor. Since honor concerns a person’s worth, it seems that resentment is most of all concerned with personal worth. What Giuseppe most of all desires, in his resentment, is to restore his own personal worth. He must elevate himself since Kirsten

Punishment 153 has put him down. Along the way, Giuseppe will put Kirsten down. This suppression of Kirsten, however, is not his primary goal. What he really wants is to restore his honor, and he will do so by putting Kirsten down. The link between elevating Giuseppe and suppressing Kirsten derives from the nature of Giuseppe’s worth, which is not absolute but comparative. Giuseppe does not have worth by himself as an isolated individual. Rather, he has worth within a united subject. He has a certain worth for Kirsten within that whole. Kirsten has put Giuseppe down by elevating herself. She has given her private good more importance than the good shared with Giuseppe. She has given herself greater importance as a separate subject, thereby giving less importance to Giuseppe as part of a united subject. The worth involved is relative. By putting one person down, someone else is elevated. Kirsten elevates herself precisely in relation to Giuseppe. Kirsten might voluntarily put herself down by repentance, apology, and a deed done in recompense. But if she does not, then Giuseppe must defend his honor by putting Kirsten down. Otherwise, her elevation—by which he is put down—remains intact. Kirsten has rejected Giuseppe’s worth. If she is not put down, then this rejection remains standing; he remains diminished. Her action, in which she has insufficiently desired Giuseppe, must be opposed. Suppose that Giuseppe is a stooge, a pushover who lets everyone walk all over him. He never stands up for himself. He is always being put down, but he never raises himself up. When he is slighted, Giuseppe the stooge lacks sufficient anger to defend himself. He accepts his subsidiary place. He lacks self-respect (Murphy 1988a, 16; Corlett 2006, 29). The punitive Giuseppe is a welcome relief from the pushover. He has, as Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics iv.5, 1125b-1126a) suggests, an appropriate anger. His punitive acts are meant, fittingly, in defense of himself. He does not accept a subsidiary place but defends his higher (hopefully proper) place. If someone (that is, Giuseppe himself) stands up for Giuseppe, then he is given a higher place. She who put Giuseppe down will herself be put down. Otherwise, Giuseppe is accepting the lower place. He asserts his proper place by putting down those who put him down. To do nothing is to remain below. To retaliate is to elevate. Giuseppe hopes to oppose Kirsten’s desire, and he wants her to be aware that he is opposing her. He gives the cold shoulder, hoping that she will recognize why this good has been withdrawn (Bennett 2002, 152). She must see that she is in fact being put down. Then her demeaning desire will truly be opposed, and Giuseppe will be elevated. Perhaps Giuseppe’s defensive attitude is unreasonable, but this portrayal of the emotion of resentment is realistic enough. When we are angry, we want to reassert our proper place. We feel that we have been slighted,

154 Punishment and our punitive response is meant to show that we are not as low as the offensive action suggested. A failure to respond to the offensive action indicates that it was not an offense at all; rather, it reflected our proper place. The response of retaliation indicates the opposite. The offense was wrong; our place is higher. The retaliation, however, is more than symbolism. It is not a mere expressive punishment. It addresses the reality of the subject and the good, a reality that is played out in desires. In her action, Kirsten has done more than symbolize Giuseppe’s suppression; she has actually suppressed him in her desires. Outside of her desires, of course, Giuseppe’s worth is untouched (Hampton 1992, 6). The good is shared, however, through desire. Within the subject that includes not only Giuseppe but also Kirsten, Giuseppe’s worth has been diminished. In recompense, Giuseppe wishes to do more than symbolize his elevation; he wishes actually to elevate himself. He must desire, in action, to put Kirsten down, thereby negating her desire. Her desire has put him down. Giuseppe’s action of removing the shared good against her desire puts her down, thereby restoring him to his proper place. His worth is defended because that which was suppressing him has been suppressed. 9.3 Revenge The word “revenge” carries with it a negative connotation, as if it is inherently wrong. In his resentment, however, Giuseppe need not seek revenge. Perhaps he seeks only restoration, that is, the restoration of his proper place. Revenge would be something additional beyond this restoration, something more negative (Nozick 1981, 366–68). In the Craniotomy Case, the doctor seeks the harm of the unborn baby, but she need not seek it precisely insofar as it is harm. She might seek the crushing of the skull merely insofar as it is a resizing of the head. She still seeks to injure the baby, but she does not seek the injury precisely insofar as it is injury. The same may be said of Giuseppe. He does seek to remove part of the shared good from Kirsten, which is a kind of harm to her. He does not seek this harm, however, precisely insofar as it is harm. Rather, he seeks it as a restoration, a lowering of Kirsten to her proper place and the corresponding elevation of Giuseppe (Hampton 1988b, 143; Murphy 1988b, 89). In this regard, Nathan Hanna’s (2009, 243) suggestion is correct: we can withdraw the good from someone without aiming to harm her or make her suffer. Still, we do aim at that which is harm, although not necessarily precisely insofar as it is harm. Our anger, however, might push us beyond this desire to restore. Giuseppe, for instance, might go one step further. He might want to harm Kirsten precisely insofar as it is bad for her. He no longer seeks only

Punishment 155 restoration; he now seeks revenge. His resentment has taken on the quality that Friedrich Nietzsche finds so repulsive. On this account of revenge, Kaufman incorrectly limits the difference between punishment and revenge. The two differ, he thinks, merely in the manner of execution: punishment is carried out by the state while revenge is carried out by the individual (Kaufman 2016). Another difference, however, seems to be present. In revenge, we seek harm precisely as harm. Even if Giuseppe restrains his desire, limiting it to restoration, he still seeks Kirsten’s harm, although he does not—contrary to the claims of Bill Wringe (2013)—seek it precisely insofar as it is harm. In his punitive action, then, it seems he gives up his desire for the shared good, or at least he is not seeking the shared good in this punitive action. He is not desiring Kirsten’s good as his own. Rather, he wants Kirsten’s harm as his good. On the other hand, he justifies his action precisely in terms of the shared good. He wants his worth within the shared good to be restored. According to his own reckoning, then, he has not given up the desire for the shared good. Rather, he is promoting the shared good. As Strawson (1962, 21) emphasized, resentment always views the other person precisely insofar as he or she is a member of the community. The attitude of repentance indicates that Giuseppe might be right. If Kirsten feels bad about her failure to visit Giuseppe, then she apologizes and tries to make up for it. She voluntarily gives up some of her private good in order to give it to Giuseppe, so that his proper worth might be restored. She herself, then, acknowledges that she should undergo some kind of “harm,” some loss to her own good, for the sake of the shared good. If she does not repent, then she keeps what she has taken from the shared good. She has transformed the shared good into her own private good. Unless she repents, she holds onto this private possession of the shared good. The partial removal of the shared good from her, then, is not opposed to the shared good. Rather, it restores the good to its proper subject. 9.4  A Parallel with Punishment This analysis of resentment within solidarity provides clear parallels with punishment. The parallels are clearer if we consider Vince’s action and place it within the larger context of a group greater than merely Vince and Anna. Suppose that Anna and Vince belong to a small group called the Auto Club, which is devoted to classic car restoration. The car that Vince vandalizes is one such car. It belongs to Anna, or at least it is in her care. Vince seeks Anna’s harm as his own good, thereby cutting himself off from the group. This example provides a better analogy with punishment (than does Giuseppe’s resentment) for two reasons. First, it involves more than a

156 Punishment private affair between two individuals. The Auto Club can provide a parallel with society, the agent of punishment. Second, it involves a more serious action. Kirsten’s offense is minor. She does not fully reject Giuseppe and his good. She simply does not give him and his good sufficient weight. In contrast, Vince seeks Anna’s evil as his good. He rejects any plan to share the good with Anna. Like Giuseppe, Anna desires a kind of restoration. Vince has elevated himself above the Auto Club and must be put down; Anna has been suppressed below her place or worth within the Auto Club and must be lifted up (Murphy 1988a, 25, 28; Fletcher 1999, 63). A single action of putting Vince down serves both purposes. The Auto Club might put Vince down in a variety of ways. Perhaps, for instance, he will be excluded from the Auto Club, at least for a time. Perhaps his use of the cars will be prohibited. And so on. Of course, society at large might do something to Vince as well, such as put him in prison, but we are concerned with the reaction of the Auto Club. Suppose that the Auto Club does nothing; rather, it continues to let Vince participate as he has in the past. Anna will feel slighted by the Auto Club itself, which will be—parallel to Giuseppe—something like a stooge, especially in relation to Anna’s good. The inaction of the Auto Club will confirm Vince’s attitude: Anna’s worth within the whole is not important (Murphy 1988a, 25; Hampton 1991, 401–402; Hieronymi 2001, 546; Scanlon 2003, 223). Through Vince’s action (with its attendant desire), Anna’s share in the good has been diminished. She has lost something of the good itself, for she no longer has use of the car. More importantly, however, she has lost the sharing of the good, for the good is shared through desire. Vince has not desired her good as his own. Or rather, he has not desired it as something to be shared. He has desired it only as his own, as a useful good directed solely to himself (or at least not to Anna). In effect, her good has become (in his action) the private good of Vince. She herself, then, has ceased to be (in Vince’s desires) a subject of the good. Within his desires, she does not exist as a subject to possess the good; rather, she exists to produce some alien good. Her worth as a sharing part has been rejected (Hampton 1992, 5–6). By a single action, Vince has both elevated himself above the Auto Club and has demoted Anna to the level of a producing part. Indeed, by suppressing Anna, he has made the whole group, of which Anna is a possessing part, subject to himself. Correspondingly, by a single action, the Auto Club might restore Vince and Anna to their proper places (Hampton 1992, 13). A single punitive action, such as removing all his privileges in the group, might put Vince down and elevate Anna back up. It most clearly puts Vince down. That which he desires is taken from him. He is not allowed to share in the good. He has taken the shared good

Punishment 157 as his own private good. Now the shared good will be taken from him. This removal serves as a sign of disapproval, a sign that Vince is cut off from the group (Bennett 2002, 150). It is, however, more than a sign. It actually demotes Vince within the desires or goals of the group. The punitive action also elevates Anna. The Auto Club wants her good to be shared. They do not want it to be merely the private good of Vince. By opposing Vince’s self-seeking desires, they take her good out of the grip of his desires. They themselves assert their desire for Anna’s good as belonging to the group and not as belonging to Vince. In a way, Vince no longer desires the shared good, so its removal is no loss to him. He does not desire it, for he has rejected it. By desiring Anna’s harm as good, he no longer desires the shared good. More precisely, he does not desire it as shared; he does not desire it as belonging to himself and to Anna as well. He desires it, but only as belonging to himself. When the group takes the shared good from him, then, they do go against his desires, for everyone wants to be on good terms with others (Bennett 2002, 155). They take from him a good that he desires for himself. As with Giuseppe and Kirsten, so also with Vince: the group aims to oppose Vince’s desire. They seek to take the good from him. He has elevated himself in his desires, and so his desires must be opposed. Only through this opposition can they put Vince down and thereby elevate Anna. The Auto Club aims to harm Vince not because the harm is good in itself. Rather, it aims to restore the proper order. Vince must be put down, in his desires, by removing the good from him. As Bennett (2002, 151) suggests, retribution requires suffering imposed on the wrongdoer by the withdrawal of the other members of the community. The punitive act, then, restores the shared good, which has been taken by Vince and turned into his private good. In response, the shared good is taken from him, so that it is no longer private and subject to Vince; rather, it is shared and subject to the group. This same action also elevates Anna. Vince has desired her good as merely his own private good. The Auto Club now desires Anna’s good as more important than Vince’s private good. Vince has desired Anna merely as a producing part. In its punitive action, the Auto Club rejects this desire of Vince. By affirming Anna’s position as a possessing part, the group rejects Vince’s desire as twisted. This way of speaking personifies the group, which is said to reject, desire, and affirm. This personification is not to be taken literally. The Auto Club itself does not have desires. Only its members do. Nevertheless, the members of the group are undertaking a joint action, just as the orchestra undertakes the action of playing symphonic music. In relation to the good of the whole group, the punitive action is itself good insofar as it restores the shared good, both by putting Vince down and by elevating

158 Punishment Anna. To the degree that the members actually desire the shared good, they desire the punitive action for this restorative reason. 9.5  Rehabilitation and Deterrence Giuseppe’s punitive action includes a rehabilitative goal. By taking the good of his society from Kirsten, he hopes that she will see the harm she has done by taking the shared good from him. Perhaps then she will repent, and seek his good once again according to his true worth. A similar goal can apply to the punitive action of the Auto Club. By removing the shared good from Vince, the Auto Club can hope that he will see what harm he has done. He might begin, then, to seek Anna’s good as shared, and not merely as his own. If Vince regrets his action, then he might repent, apologize, and try to make up for the offense. He might realize the mistake he has made, and try to restore his relationship with Anna. In that case, he can once again share the good with the group. While this repentance is absent, however, Vince remains cut off from the shared good. Neither Anna nor the group, then, can have solidarity with him. Still, they might have what could be called benevolence, which falls short of actually sharing the good. Through benevolence, we hope to share the good. When Kenny meets Krystyna in the airport, for instance, he learns that she is, like him, from the town of Dickinson. He  then recognizes that they have a similar good that they could choose to share with one another. As long as he has nothing against Krystyna, he desires to share the good with her. That desire is realized, however, only with some level of mutuality, or at least with the absence of resistance. If Kenny discovers that Krystyna hated growing up in Dickinson, then he cannot share the good with her. He might retain the hope, however, that she will someday change; at that future day, he can share the good with her. He does not have solidarity with her, but he does have benevolence toward her. Similarly, Anna and the rest of the group might recognize that if Vince changes his desires and repents of his action, then they can share the good with him. While they hope yet to share the good with him, they have benevolence toward him. The punishment, then, could be an act of benevolence (so defined). By punishing Vince, they hope to induce repentance. If he repents, then they can once again share the good with him. Benevolence depends upon the possibility of some future union. This medicinal goal, then, is possible only so long as the Auto Club members think that Vince might still be united with the group. In two ways, they might judge that he cannot be united. First, they might come to judge that

Punishment 159 Vince is a hopeless case. He will never (they judge) repent and turn back toward Anna as a subject of the good. Second, they might judge that the offense is too great, so that they can no longer extend friendship toward Vince. In either case, the love of benevolence becomes impossible, and upon its demise the medicinal goal also disappears. Another goal often attributed to punishment is deterrence (Tadros 2011, 265–92). By imprisoning car thieves, for instance, we hope to dissuade further actions of stealing cars. This deterrence is both individual and general. It looks to the future actions of the imprisoned thief, hoping that he will not steal in the future. It also looks to the actions of people in society in general, hoping to dissuade them from stealing. Both individual and general deterrence can have a parallel within solidarity. By giving her the cold shoulder, Giuseppe hopes that Kirsten will not, in the future, demean his worth. Likewise, the Auto Club hopes to change Vince’s future behavior. Furthermore, the members might well hope for a kind of general deterrence in other members. By removing the good from Vince, they hope that other members will not behave as Vince has done. 9.6 Retribution Much of what has been said concerning resentment and solidarity seems to correspond with the goal of punishment associated with retributivism. A retributive motivation, of course, is consistent with other motivations, such as deterrence (Corlett 2001, 87; Tadros 2011, 37–38). Retributivism need not be identified through the exclusion of other motivations; it can be identified through the necessity of the retributive motivation (Lewis 1970; Fletcher 1999, 52; Moore 2010, 91). The parallel between solidarity and retributivism, however, is far from exact. Herbert Morris (1968), for instance, explains retributivism in terms of an unfair advantage that must be set right (see also Davis 1986). The exact nature of the unfair advantage, however, is unclear (Scheid 1990). Even if it can be made clear, the idea does not seem to have a place within solidarity. Rather, solidarity is concerned with possessing the shared good, which depends upon desire as directed to the subject of the good. It is concerned with seeking the good as belonging to those who are possessing parts within the whole. It is not concerned with the advantages or disadvantages of following rules (Hampton 1992, 4–5). Michael Moore (2010, 94–102) claims that retributivism simply asserts that punishment is deserved. He eschews as dead metaphors ideas such as paying back a debt or restoring the moral order (Moore 1999, 84). His account of retributivism, it seems, finds little foothold within solidarity.

160 Punishment The previous discussion does not speak about desert, but it does have parallels with paying back or restoring. It is unclear even what “desert” would mean within solidarity. When desert is left unexplained, retributivism is especially open to the accusation, often laid against it, that it merely asserts intuitions without giving an explanation (Hanna 2008, 123–24; Kaufman 2016, 322). Retribution may still be the best explanation of our concrete intuitions, as Moore (2010, 105–88) claims, but the value of retribution still remains unexplained. Expressive retributivists, such as Jean Hampton (1992), attempt to shore up this weakness by explaining punishment in terms of a kind of communication or expression. Although this explanation resonates with solidarity, it does not fully capture the motivation of punitive action (Davis 1991; Gert, Radzik, and Hand 2004; Hanna 2008). As Joel Feinberg (1965) has made clear, punitive action is indeed expressive of certain ideas. Nevertheless, it is more than a mere expression. In addition, it actually changes the relations that hold within the subject of the shared good. An offensive action communicates disdain for the worth of the victim, but it also changes, within desire, the role of the victim in the whole. The corresponding punitive action communicates the importance of the victim, but it also renews the victim’s place as a possessing part. The reactive emotions help us to tease out a person’s motivation in relation to the shared good. Despite the claims of expressivists such as Bennett (2002, 150), however, the role of punishment is not only to express these emotions. To the contrary, the punitive action first appears good and then gives rise to the emotion (Korsgaard 1996a, 196). Giuseppe, for instance, does not first have the reactive desire to put Kirsten down, and then he gives her the cold shoulder simply as a way of expressing this emotion. Rather, he first sees that giving her the cold shoulder is a way of removing the good from her, which in turn is a way of reestablishing his worth. Once he recognizes the value of the punitive action for the shared good, then he has the reactive emotion. Retributivism might be accused of simply making things worse. In response to one bad action, it adds another bad action (Nussbaum 1993, 89–91; Ewing 2015). In relation to the shared good, however, a punitive action is not entirely bad. It has something bad about it, for it is a kind of private harm for the person punished. At the same time, it has something good about it. It restores the worth of the victim by putting the offender down. As long as the offender remains elevated within the whole, the victim is suppressed. Punitive action for the shared good focuses upon this restoration. If it turns, instead, toward the harm of the victim, it becomes revenge. Retributivism is sometimes described as seeking suffering as an inherent good (Nozick 1981, 374; Tadros 2011, 25–28, 73–78; Radzik

Punishment 161 2017, 165). At least as far as solidarity is concerned, this account confuses retributivism with revenge. 9.7  Relative Punishment Within solidarity, the relative nature of these punitive actions must be emphasized. They do not concern some absolute justice or an absolute dignity. Nor do they suppose that harm to offenders is some kind of intrinsic good. Punitive actions concern agent relative goods and the worth of the members who share this good. One more example, on a rather small scale, will help to highlight the relative character of the good and of the punitive actions. Consider a philosophical discussion group, called the Peripatetics, that follows certain rules of discourse. When a person is recognized by the moderator, for instance, then he or she is given the opportunity to speak. Deb has now been recognized as the speaker, but Chris interrupts, speaking over her, in order to counter her view. Chris has offended against Deb by taking from her a certain good (her time to speak) and has taken a good for himself that is not his own within the community (by making Deb’s time into his own). The worth that Deb has within the shared good of the Peripatetics has been undermined by Chris. He has treated her as unworthy, and he has arrogated to himself a greater worth than he has. The worth, the offense, and any subsequent punitive action are all relative to the shared good of philosophical discussion within the group. The issue does not concern any absolute worth that Deb might have; rather, it concerns her worth as a part of the group. She is a possessing part and shares in the good (in part) by providing her own contribution. Chris takes this shared good from her. Furthermore, he attempts to take the shared good for himself. At this point, however, he is no longer directing himself to the shared good; rather, he is treating the shared good as directed to himself. He is treating the Peripatetics as if it were a band of thieves from which he can get his own private good. In short, he treats his own worth as greater than a possessing part. His offense is found precisely in this subjection of Deb and of her good, this transformation of her good into a part of his good, this transformation of Deb from a possessing part into a producing part. The same subjection of Deb or of the group is not found if Chris simply decides to withdraw from the group. Suppose he decides, for instance, that he no longer has enough time for the group. This decision rejects the good of the whole as something that also belongs to Chris. It does not, however, make the good of the whole something subordinate to Chris’s own good. It does not redefine the good of the whole as part of his own. The Peripatetics have a kind of oversight with regard to the shared good. It is, after all, the good of the group. It does not belong to any single individual precisely as an individual; it belongs only to the individuals as

162 Punishment united, that is, to the group. The individuals as united have the direction to the goal so that this goal completes them precisely as united. When the good is taken from them, then, the group naturally responds by trying to restore it to the group. Chris has indeed taken the good of the Peripatetics and treated it as belonging especially to himself. The Peripatetics now respond by taking the good away from Chris. They declare, perhaps, that he cannot attend any meetings for the next two months. Chris has taken the shared good for himself; consequently, the shared good will be taken from him, at least for a time. Chris is thereby restored to his proper place. He has subjected the group to himself, and now he is made subject to the group. This punishment also restores the importance of Deb. She has been treated as if she is not a possessing part. Through its act of punishment, the Peripatetics now treat her as having the worth of a part. Deb is lacking not just some “quantity” of respect for her worth. She is lacking this respect from Chris. What is out of place with her worth is precisely her relationship with Chris. His action has placed himself above her. What must be made up to her, then, is the relationship with Chris. Ideally, this relationship is made up voluntarily by Chris himself, through his sorrow and the recompense he offers. But what if Chris is unrepentant? How is Deb’s deficit to be made up? How is the relationship between Chris and Deb to be set right? The group steps in and puts Chris down precisely for the sake of Deb, to show that her worth within the group still holds. Chris has immediately offended against Deb, but he has also offended against the Peripatetics as a whole, chiefly because Deb herself is a possessing part of the group. As Bennett (2002, 161) notes, the wrongdoer has most fundamentally alienated himself from the community and not just from the individual. Chris has offended against the Peripatetics because he has disregarded the directions that they have provided for achieving the shared good. The punishment, then, reestablishes the priority not only of Deb but also of the group. In addition, it serves other ends. Members of the group (including Chris), for instance, may be discouraged from future acts of disrespect. The punitive action fits only within the shared agent relative good. Outside the united group, the punitive action is not a good to be pursued. It is good only insofar as it restores the proper relation of the members. Chris does not deserve “punishment” in some absolute sense. He “deserves” punitive action only as a member of the Peripatetics, only in relation to the good shared by the group. 9.8  Punishment as an Act of the Group Punishment is considered to be an act of the state rather than an act of the individual (Tadros 2011, 78–83). If Barb kills Scott, we suppose that the state has the exclusive right to punish Barb. Scott’s family cannot, of

Punishment 163 their own accord, retaliate and harm Barb in some way. This idea, when adjusted to solidarity, implies that punitive actions are reserved for the group; they are not to be undertaken by individual members. The example of Giuseppe and Kirsten is at the individual level. Giuseppe himself, as an individual, engages in the punitive action of reducing his interaction with Kirsten. By parallel, we might suppose that Anna and Deb can engage in punitive actions of their own. Anna, for instance, might decide to stop speaking with Vince, and Deb might refuse to answer Chris’s philosophical questions. On the other hand, some punitive actions seem to be beyond the reach of Anna and Deb. Anna, for instance, cannot take from Vince his privileges within the Auto Club, nor can Deb declare that Chris will not attend any meetings of the Peripatetics for two months. These punitive actions do not seem to be within the purview of any individual; rather, they belong only to the group as a whole. The difference between these two kinds of punitive actions—those within the reach of the individual and those reserved for the group—depends upon the kind of good removed. As we have seen, each individual has his or her particular good within the shared good. Clare, for instance, has the good of playing the cello, and Louis has the good of playing the piano. These goods are united, through coordination, into a shared act of playing music. Consequently, Clare might remove the shared good from Louis in two ways. On the one hand, she might remove her particular good from the coordinated activity. In short, she might refuse to play the cello with Louis. On the other hand, she might remove Louis’s particular good; she might prevent him from playing the piano. The first option seems to be available to an individual. With a kind of punitive action, individuals can withhold their own particular part of the shared good from the one who has offended against them. Anna can refuse to speak with Vince, and Deb can refuse to answer philosophical questions. The second option seems to be available only to the group as a whole (perhaps by way of some representatives, such as the president of the Peripatetics). Of her own accord, Deb cannot prevent Chris from attending future meetings; she cannot take from him the part that he plays within the whole. Each person has care of his or her particular good. Deb has care of her particular good, so she can remove it from Chris. On the other hand, she cannot remove Chris’s own good, for she does not have care over his good within the whole. In a manner, however, the whole group does have care over all of the parts within the shared good. Consequently, the whole group can remove from Chris his particular part within the shared good. Within solidarity, then, some punitive actions fall within the domain of the individual while other punitive actions fall within the domain only of the group as a whole. Within morality and society, the former kinds of

164 Punishment punitive actions do not merit the full name of punishment. By its nature, punishment is an act of the state, and it removes from the individual his own part within the whole. 9.9  Forfeiture of Rights Rights forfeiture accounts of punishment distinguish between the justification of punishment and the permission to punish (Kershnar 2010; Wellman 2012, 371–72; Alm 2013, 92). Retribution, deterrence, or rehabilitation might provide justification for punishment, but none of them explains why punishment is permissible in the first place. They explain why society might want to punish, but they do not explain why society is allowed to punish. Punishment, by its nature, has a mark against it. It appears to oppose a person’s rights. Throwing someone in prison, for instance, opposes his or her right to freedom; capital punishment opposes his or her right to life. Perhaps prison works well for deterrence; nevertheless, it might be wrong to place people in prison. Rights forfeiture accounts claim to explain the permission of punishment. We are allowed to punish, they claim, because the offenders have forfeited their rights (Thomson 1991, 300). When the thief takes the car, he gives up his right to freedom. Consequently, we oppose no right when we throw the thief in prison. The value of speaking in terms of rights is questionable. Brian Roseberry, for instance, claims that the notion of forfeiting rights adds nothing to the idea of permission to punish (Rosebury 2015). At any rate, talk of rights has little place within solidarity. Even the idea of “permissibility” may have more moral content than can be found in solidarity. The question, for solidarity, is not whether punitive action is permissible. Rather, the question is whether punitive action is consistent with the pursuit of the shared good. Can the members of the Auto Club continue to pursue the shared good even while they take the shared good from Vince? They no longer seek the good as belonging to Vince; in what way, then, do they seek a shared good? Some kind of forfeiture does seem to take place. In a way, Vince has forfeited his possession of the shared good, for he himself has ceased to desire the good as shared. According to Gilbert (2000, 60), when several people agree to a joint activity, the fulfillment of the agreement is conditional. When one person willfully fails to meet the agreement, then the other parties need not maintain the conditions of the agreement. When Vince forfeits his place within the shared good, the members of the Auto Club conclude that they are no longer bound to seek the good for him. They may remove the shared good from Vince because he has already separated himself from the good. By his own action, he is no longer a subject of the good. Consequently, the desire for the shared good no longer includes

Punishment 165 Vince. Indeed, only benevolence can remain toward Vince. The members cannot actually share the good with Vince; at most, they can hope that they will be able to share it with him sometime in the future. Even benevolence is optional. Kenny may have no desire to share the good with Krystyna, given that she hates the good he loves. Similarly, the members of the Auto Club, especially Anna, might think that Vince has too much against him. In his favor, he still has an interest in classic cars; against him, he has desired this good—as realized in Anna—as only his own. In the end, these negatives against Vince might exclude even benevolence. But benevolence, if it is present, does not prevent punishment. As we have suggested, the punishment itself might be motivated by benevolence. In order to share in the good, Vince must repent of his action. He must desire the good as shared once again, and he must seek to restore his place within the shared good. The punitive action might encourage repentance. Vince’s desire for the shared good—which the group now takes from him— might lead him to desire it once again as shared. When he feels the pain of losing the shared good, he might see what loss he has given to Anna, and he might seek to restore it to her. Harming Vince, then, furthers the shared good. Indeed, it is kindness to Vince (at least in relation to the shared good). Solidarity, then, can adopt something like a rights forfeiture account, what might be called a shared good forfeiture account. Vince forfeits his position as a possessing part of the shared good. The pursuit of this shared good, then, need not include Vince. Even if it does include Vince (by benevolence rather than by solidarity), it can be pursued by way of harming Vince. Since he is not yet a subject of the shared good, the good can be withheld from him now so that he might have it in the future. Through this harm, Vince can be restored as a subject of the good. 9.10  Proportional Punishment One objection against rights forfeiture accounts claims that they offer no restraint (Tadros 2011, 333). Traditionally, punishment is supposed to be proportional to the crime. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But if someone has given up his rights, then it seems that there are no limits to what is allowed. Disproportionate punishments might be applied. Rights forfeiture accounts might respond in two ways. On the one hand, they might claim that an offensive action gives up only some rights; correspondingly, then, only some goods can be taken from the offender. On the other hand, a rights forfeiture account might concede the point (Wellman 2012, 386–87). When rights are forfeited, all rights are entirely forfeited. In principle, then, all sorts of harm can be done to the offender. A similar problem seems to apply to shared good forfeiture. If Vince has voluntarily given up his place as a subject of the good, then no reason

166 Punishment remains (within the shared good) to seek his good in any way. Pursuing the shared good is consistent with all kinds of harm being done to Vince. Punitive action toward Vince, then, need not be proportioned to his offensive action. The distinction between justification and permission, however, still applies. Vince’s forfeiture might permit all kinds of harm, but it does not justify all kinds of harm. It justifies putting him down only to the degree that he has elevated himself. The point may be expressed in terms of the desire for the shared good. Within the desire for the shared good, the desire to harm Vince seems to have no limit (it “permits” all harm). At the same time, however, the desire for the shared good provides no motivation beyond a proportionate harm (it “justifies” only proportionate harm). As long as the Auto Club is seeking the shared good, then, it will not seek disproportionate harm. Furthermore, benevolence limits not only the motive that justifies punishment; it also places restrictions on the permission of punitive actions. If the Auto Club punishes Vince out of benevolence, then they will not seek any harm that might turn him away from the shared good (Holroyd 2010). The Auto Club will seek only that harm to Vince that is also good for him. Consequently, it will not seek to degrade him to the degree that he could not become a possessing part. In the punitive action, he will be lowered only to the level that is good for him (Hampton 1992, 14). Furthermore, what good remains within Vince is regarded at least as potentially shared. It is not now shared because Vince refuses to share; he does not desire the good as shared. But it can be shared if he repents. If the group hopes to share the good with Vince, which is what it means to have benevolence, then they will want to preserve the good in Vince as much as possible. Consequently, they will not seek disproportionate punishment, taking from Vince more of the good than is needed to set the balance; they will seek to take only what is needed to lower him to his proper place. 9.11  Non-Punitive Harm The forfeiture of the shared good might allow for other harmful actions that are not strictly punitive. In situations of urgency, harm might be necessary to defend the shared good. Self-defense provides a clear example (Thomson 1991; Wellman 2012, 374). If an attacker is coming at Linda, then she must act now or die. She cannot wait around for punishment (which typically involves some kind of investigation into guilt), but she must defend herself as a possessing part of the shared good. Sometimes, her defense will require harm to her attacker. On some accounts, self-defense is justified only in terms of double effect reasoning (Anscombe 1981b, 54–55; Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle 2001). Self-defense is allowed because the harm to the attacker is not intended but

Punishment 167 foreseen. Ultimately, these accounts seem unrealistic (Kagan 1989, 133–34). No doubt some defensive actions can fit under double effect reasoning, but many cases of evidently justified defensive action do not. Suppose Mike is about to kill Linda, for instance, and Linda can save herself only by shooting Mike. The claim that Linda can shoot him without aiming to harm him is wildly implausible. The harm is not merely a foreseen consequence of her action. Rather, the harm is precisely what prevents Mike from killing. From the goal of saving herself, then, Linda must reason back to harming Mike as a productive means. Evidently, then, this case of justified defensive action, and many others as well, involves directly intended harm. As with punishment (as opposed to revenge), so also with self-defense. In punishment, the individuals who carry out the punishment intend to harm the person punished, but they do not intend the harm precisely insofar as it is harm. They intend it as a kind of restoration. Similarly, Linda does intend to harm her assailant, but she does not intend the harm precisely as harm. What she finds appealing, and that which motivates her action, is that the death or injury incapacitates the assailant, thereby stopping the attack. That the death or injury is opposed to the completion of the assailant does not provide Linda with independent motivation. The strategic bomber is different from both of these cases (with regard to the innocent civilians, and not with regard to any combatants). He does not even intend harm to the civilians. The harm itself—under any aspect of motivation—does not cause or bring about his goal. Rather, the destruction of the military site causes his goal, and this destruction also causes the death of the civilians. For Linda, on the other hand, the death of her assailant is indeed a cause of her goal. Precisely through being harmed, he ceases to attack. If Linda shares no good with her attacker, then nothing prevents her (in her pursuit of the shared good) from harming him. She can reasonably damage a tree, with which she shares no good, especially supposing that this tree would otherwise do harm to her. Like the tree, her attacker does not share a good with her, so she can harm him with no damage to the shared good. Toward her attacker, however, she might have something more; she might have benevolence. If her attacker at least has certain similarities with her, together with the ability to share the good with her, then she can hope to share the good with him, although the two do not currently share the good. Even if the two of them previously did share the good, the sharing can reasonably be set aside. In his violent action against Linda, the attacker has (presumptively) forfeited any sharing in a good with Linda. Just as rights forfeiture can be used to allow self-defense as well as punishment, so also can shared good forfeiture be used to allow self-defense.1 Since the attacker is seeking to do some harm to Linda, he must not be seeking her good as his own. He has given up any shared good he might have had with Linda; he has given up his place as a possessing part.

168 Punishment As we have seen, however, Linda as an individual member of the group cannot inflict punishment. At most, she can remove her own particular good from her attacker; she cannot remove from the attacker his particular part of the good. If she kills him in self-defense, however, she clearly removes his particular good. It seems, then, that punishment does not justify Linda’s action. Something more than forfeiture is needed. Something must elevate Linda, giving her the permission to take the good from her attacker. That something more, it seems, arises from the urgency of the situation. In order to protect the shared good, Linda must act now. Linda does not seek a punitive action, which aims to restore the shared good; rather, she seeks to protect herself as a member of the good. That protection must be done now. Consequently, she cannot act under the limitations of a particular member of the group; she must act as someone who can dispose of the shared good, even that part of the shared good that would be found in her attacker. Just as benevolence places restrictions upon punitive actions, so it places restrictions on harmful defensive actions (Tadros 2011, 175–81). If Linda has benevolence toward her attacker, in which she hopes to share the good with him, then she will restrain her action to what is expedient. Suppose that she can defend herself without killing, perhaps by means of some lesser harm. On account of benevolence, she will choose the lesser harm. This justification and permission of self-defense could be extended to the level of a group, in order to justify united violent action such as warfare (Benbaji 2008). A defensive war most closely parallels the situation. The country called Aggressor is attacking the country called Defender. Defender has not the time (nor the means) to investigate the guilt of those who are attacking. By a reasonable presumption, however, Defender can suppose that those (within Aggressor) who are attacking have cut themselves off (through their belligerent actions) from any shared good (with Defender). To seek their harm, then, is not to reject the shared good, which has already been destroyed by those attacking. Of course, if the two countries in no way share a good to begin with, then the whole question of “justifying” war is irrelevant within solidarity. Just as Linda can attack a tree, with whom she shares no good, so Defender—if it shares no good with Aggressor—will have no restrictions in the harm that it can do to the members of Aggressor. On the other hand, if the two do share some good, then the attack of Aggressor can reasonably be considered a forfeiture of the shared good. This reasoning could even be used to distinguish (with moderate precision) between combatants and noncombatants. Combatants are those engaging in the belligerent activity that seems to reject the shared good. Noncombatants are not engaging in belligerent activity, at least not directly. The urgency of the situation permits violence only to the

Punishment 169 combatants. The noncombatants have not cut themselves off from the shared good, so their harm cannot be desired as a useful good. Furthermore, benevolence (which members of Defender could have even toward combatants) might place further restraints upon harmful activity. Because of the desire to share the good in the future, the members of Defender will try to minimize the harm, doing only what is needed to stop the aggression of Aggressor. These brief suggestions are a far cry from a just war theory. Nevertheless, they indicate how solidarity might accept certain harmful actions that are not strictly punishment. Within solidarity, we do not aim to harm those with whom we share the good, although sometimes we can foresee this harm. Sometimes, however, harm might be justified given two conditions. First, the people harmed have (presumptively) forfeited their place as possessing parts of the shared good. Second, some urgency requires that harm be done in order to protect the shared good. In these cases, the harm is not strictly punishment, because it does not seek to restore the proper order within the whole. It simply seeks to protect the shared good. This account of acceptable harm within solidarity applies only to the “guilty,” to those who have cut themselves off from the shared good, or at least those who are acting as if they have. The “innocent” (those who have not cut themselves off from the shared good) cannot be directly targeted while pursuing the shared good. Their good is still my good and my good is still theirs. Consequently, solidarity seems to conform with Jeff McMahan’s (1994) reasoning concerning so-called innocent threats (see also Otsuka 1994; for opposed views see Quong 2009; Tadros 2011, 241–61). The innocent child with a bomb strapped to her back cannot be killed, even if she will otherwise walk into the midst of many others, who will be killed when the bomb detonates. Only those who have presumptively rejected the shared good may be directly harmed. The shared good cannot be rejected by mere physical activity; it can be rejected only by desire, by action undergirded by a rational plan. The mere physical activity of the child, of walking into the presence of the crowd, may be physically harmful to the shared good, but it is not an act of rejecting the shared good. If we suppose that the child is a member of the shared good (which might be disputed), then she has not forfeited her part of the shared good merely by her physical activity. She has not planned to take away any part of the shared good. Note 1 As David Alm (2013) suggests, then, forfeiture precedes the permissibility of selfdefense. Warren Quinn (1985), on the other hand, places the right of defense of the defender as primary, rather than the forfeiture of the right of the attacker.

10 Impartiality

From Kirsten, Giuseppe expects partiality. Given how close he is to her, he expects her to give more importance to himself than she does to Brett. Furthermore, he is not surprised when she gives more importance to her mother than she gives to himself. He has a certain place within her heart, but he expects her heart to have room for others as well. He is not the sole object of her desires. The many who fill her heart, however, are not equal. Some have greater importance than others. Giuseppe would want it no other way. 10.1  Three Features of Morality This partiality seems opposed to impartiality, which is sometimes thought to be essential to morality. On this view, Kirsten should give equal consideration to each person rather than give greater weight to the good of her mother or to the good of Giuseppe. This impartiality is sometimes linked with a second feature of morality, namely, universality, according to which morality applies to all human beings, perhaps even to all animals. Since morality does not concern merely my personal goods but the good of all, it must be impartial between all. This universality is linked to a third feature of morality: it is universally binding. Moral reasons trump all other reasons for acting; when our personal motives conflict with morality, we should set them aside and act for the impersonal good of morality (Darwall 1983, 17, 201–17; Railton 1984, 139; Kagan 1989, 64–70; Miller 1992, 326–76; Annas 1993, 121; Jollimore 2001, 52–72). These three central ideas of morality (impartiality, universality, and its overriding nature) are not tied—at least not necessarily—to solidarity. Solidarity, for instance, need not be universal. It is often concerned with quite parochial shared goods. The members of an orchestra, for instance, share the good of playing symphonic music with one another; they do not share it with every human being. Likewise, the members of the Peripatetics share the philosophical good with one another and not with everyone.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-10

Impartiality 171 Neither is the shared good of solidarity absolutely blinding, trumping all other considerations. The musical good that Clare shares with Louis, for instance, is far from the most important good that enters her deliberations. Often, she will pursue other goods, which are unrelated to Louis and which have greater weight in her deliberations. Finally, solidarity is far from impartial. To the contrary, it encourages partiality. Within solidarity, we should give more weight to those who are closer to us. Kirsten, for instance, is more united with her mother than with Giuseppe. As such, her mother has greater worth—to Kirsten—than does Giuseppe. All three of these features, however, can be associated with solidarity. Universality is the most straightforward. Indeed, a certain kind of universality applies to every shared good, for the good applies universally to every member of the group. The good of the orchestra, for instance, belongs to every member of the orchestra. Such universality does not apply to all human beings. Nevertheless, it applies to every member of a certain group. The same can be said for every universality. The universality of morality applies to all human beings but not to animals, or if it applies to all animals (as some claim), then it does not apply to plants. Every universality, one might say, is relative to a certain group (Gert 1998, 131–32). For solidarity, the groups tend to be smaller, making them appear not to be universal. Nevertheless, nothing prevents a shared good from being universal to all human beings. Conceivably, a limited subset of shared goods—those shared with all human beings—could match the universality of morality. Similarly, some cases of solidarity might provide a universally binding good. Nothing in the nature of the shared good makes it to be an absolutely guiding motive, but some limiting cases might conceivably meet this requirement. Jerry might have some overriding good, for example, to which he always gives priority, and this good might be a shared good. For Jerry, then, this shared good will have something like an absolutely binding force. He will always pursue it in preference to other conflicting goods. Indeed, this good enters all his deliberations, for he perceives something as good only insofar as it contributes to this overarching good, or at least insofar as it does not undermine this good. Suppose, for instance, that Jerry is a member of a group devoted to fighting human trafficking. For Jerry, this good takes priority over any other good. Furthermore, while he enjoys other goods, he does so only as part of his life of opposition to human trafficking. He might enjoy a good meal, but he does so precisely as someone who opposes human trafficking. He might enjoy a concert, but he does so precisely as someone who opposes human trafficking. These other goods are good, for him, only insofar as they make him better as someone who opposes human trafficking. For Jerry, then, this

172 Impartiality good overrides all other goods and enters into his deliberation (often virtually) concerning every good. Such a good, we might say, is a governing good, for it governs all of Jerry’s pursuits. Such cases may be very rare. In general, governing goods of any sort may be rare, but even less often will this governing good be shared. Even then, of course, it might be governing for Jerry but not for other members of the group. Nevertheless, the possibility remains. Solidarity is not, of itself, opposed to absolutely binding reasons. Impartiality remains. It, more than the other two features of morality, appears incompatible with solidarity, which encourages partiality. Even impartiality, however, can find a place within solidarity. It depends on what meaning is given to the term “impartiality.” In this chapter, we will consider four meanings (Sections 10.2–10.7). The first will prove incompatible with the partiality of solidarity, but the last three will not. After examining these four meanings of impartiality, we will consider (Sections 10.8–10.10) a few other objections (to solidarity) based upon partiality or impartiality. 10.2  Agent Neutral Impartiality The first meaning of impartiality is sometimes linked with consequentialism. Impartiality itself is associated with an “impartial observer,” which in turn is associated with the “point of view of the universe” or “the view from nowhere” (Firth 1952; Brandt 1954; Hare 1981; Nagel 1986, 138–63; Lazari-Radek and Singer 2014). These metaphors, by themselves, do not specify the meaning of impartiality. They must be further spelled out. One way of specifying the “view of the universe” stipulates that an impartial observer takes on the preferences or desires of everyone. If Robin is an impartial observer, for instance, she will take on not only her own preferences but also the preferences of Jody, Tom, Ryan, and of everyone else. This description is still unhelpful unless we know what Robin is supposed to do with all of these preferences. On one account, she is supposed to compare different possible states, judging one to be better than another. She might judge, for instance, that the state in which Jody dies but Tom and Ryan live is better than the state in which Jody lives but Tom and Ryan die. She judges based upon “weighing” the multiple preferences she has taken on. She does not give greater weight to one person’s preferences over another. They must all be given equal weight. In short, Robin must treat them all impartially. The kernel of consequentialism is smuggled into this notion of impartiality. It includes the idea that what we do with preferences, whether our own or others, is weigh them in some grand total (Wiggins 1998, 76–77). It ignores another possibility: what we do with preferences, and the goods they aim to attain, is share them with this group of individuals.

Impartiality 173 The instructions (to Robin) to weigh the diverse preferences presume that preferences within a collection can in fact be weighed one against another. This presumption may be realistic as long as the goods involved are agent neutral. Problems arise, however, for agent relative goods. If the diverse preferences that Robin takes on are concerned with possessionbased desires and corresponding agent relative goods, then it is far from clear that they can be weighed one against the other in order to reach a sum total (Korsgaard 2011, 386; 2013, 13). Collecting possession-based desires into one imaginary person does not dissolve their relativity. They remain separate goods of separate subjects, although one subject is aware of them all. What is desirable to Pat is not desirable to Bob (supposing they have no shared good), for each seeks to possess his own good. If Robin imagines that she can compare these separate agent relative goods, then she is changing their nature. She is supposing that the goods involved complete one single subject. The fiction of the impartial observer facilitates this supposition. If these diverse preferences are all collected within Robin, then it seems that they are all in fact Robin’s preferences. The diverse subjects are eliminated and replaced with the single subject of Robin. The good of a hammer may have nothing to do with the good of a pen, but if we imagine that a single instrument—let us call it a “hampen”—takes on the function of both, then the two diverse goods become the good of this one hampen. The two goods that initially could not be compared with one another can now be compared. This comparison is achieved, however, only by stripping the goods of their natural subjects. The good of the hammer is given to the hampen, and the good of the pen is applied to the subject of this hampen. Likewise, the good of Ryan is taken from him and given to Robin, as are the goods of Jody and Tom. What was relative to Ryan is now relative to Robin. What was relative to Jody is also relative to Robin. The agent relative goods have been stripped of the subjects to which they were relative. Unfortunately, Robin is only a fictional observer; there is no such unified subject of the diverse preferences. The relative goods, then, have been stripped of their subject and given to nothing, at least to nothing real. In short, the relative goods have been transformed into agent neutral goods. As neutral, they not only can be compared, they (plausibly) can be quantifiably commensurated. The fiction of a unified subject provides commensurate goods. Once the fiction of the subject is removed, we are left with subject-less goods, which are (at least plausibly) quantifiably commensurable goods. This kind of impartiality is unfriendly to solidarity but only because it surreptitiously defines the good as agent neutral. Impartiality supposedly leads to consequentialism. In fact, this kind of impartiality seems to presuppose the goods of consequentialism.

174 Impartiality 10.3  An Objective Observer Another rather minimalist account of an impartial observer is more friendly to solidarity. According to this description, which might be associated with the “view from nowhere” rather than the “view of the universe,” Robin—as an impartial observer—is simply objective (Nagel 1986, 138–63; Hurley 1997, 134; Wiggins 1998, 59–60; Sen 2002, 455). She judges what is good not only based upon what is good for her. She judges what is good for each thing according to its own standard. Robin recognizes what is good for a beetle, a doctor, and a thief. She need not personally endorse any of these goods. She can, for instance, recognize what is good for a thief while thinking that this good is (for herself) reprehensible. She recognizes what is good for each thing without combining these goods into a single good or into a single subject. As so far stated, this impartiality reaches no judgment about how to behave. This further judgment, however, is not difficult to reach. With her dispassionate eye, Robin can recognize that a doctor should heal and a thief should steal. Each will thereby attain his or her agent relative good. Robin could provide additional details. She might direct the thief, for instance, to scope out potential targets. Personally, she might think this behavior is a bad idea, but she can recognize that given the good the thief pursues, this behavior is recommended for him. Robin’s impartial objectivity does not lead, by itself, to “morality” (Nagel 1986, 140–41; Miller 1992, 330). After all, it observes that thieves should steal (Gert 1998, 135–36). Robin’s impartial observations can be extended to shared goods. Although Robin may have no interest in music, she can recognize what is the shared good of an orchestra. In addition, she can judge how the members of the orchestra should behave in order to achieve their shared agent relative good. Of course, she can make similar judgments for a band of thieves (whether they have some truly shared good or merely a shared means). All the while, Robin’s observations remain impartial, insofar as they do not depend upon her particular goods. Suppose that Robin passes judgment upon a musical union, in which Louis plays the piano, Clare plays the cello, and Anna plays percussion. Although the good is shared, Robin gives distinct directives to distinct members. She directs Louis to play the piano, for instance, while she directs Clare to play the cello. She could give a generic judgment that each person should play music, but even this judgment is applied differently for each member of the group. For Clare, it means that she should play the cello; for Louis, it means that he should play the piano. More specific directives can themselves be expressed in a generic manner. The direction for Louis to play the piano, for instance, might be expressed as follows: piano players should play the piano. This judgment

Impartiality 175 can be accepted universally by all members. Louis will apply it to himself; both Clare and Anna will apply it not to themselves but to Louis. As is appropriate for impartiality, similar cases are treated similarly but different cases are treated differently (Becker 1991, 698; Herman 1991, 776). The direction to play the piano is applied to Louis because he is a pianist; it is not applied to Clare, since she is a cellist. This directive involves a specification of the good pursued. The generic “playing music” is determined to “playing the piano.” As is appropriate for attributive goods, the specification identifies the subject to whom the specific good applies. As Brad Hooker (2010, 29) suggests, the impartial application of rules includes a reference to which subjects should benefit. The good of playing the piano applies to piano players within the group. Likewise, the good of playing the cello applies to cello players. Despite the specificity, the judgments involved can be recognized by everyone. Even if Robin gives a more generic rule, such as “play music,” she still directs the individuals back toward their own actions. She really means “play your music.” This generic rule directs Louis to play his part, Clare to play hers, and Anna to play hers. It directs them to an overall shared good of playing music together, but it does so only by way of their particular parts within it. The self-reference not only refers to a particular part, such as playing the piano or cello; it refers to the particular individual. Suppose that Clare and Anna both play the cello (and the same part for the cello). With a general rule, Robin directs cellists to play the cello, but she thereby directs Clare toward her act of playing the cello and Anna to her act of playing the cello. She does not direct them to produce (and perhaps maximize) generic acts of playing the cello. She directs each to her particular action. 10.4  Impartial Partiality All these judgments remain impartial and not peculiar to the good of Robin, who may have nothing to do with the good of Louis, Clare, and Anna. These impartial judgments, however, encourage partiality (Miller 1992, 328–30; Wiggins 1998, 61–62). They encourage Louis to focus upon his part, Clare to focus upon her part, and Anna to focus upon her part. Robin does not direct Louis to forget about himself and focus upon some big picture of the good. To the contrary, she directs him precisely upon himself. He must play his part, which is the piano. Of course, he cannot forget about the big picture. He plays his part together with the others. He plays his part precisely as a part of a larger musical piece. He seeks this larger good, however, only by pursuing his own part within it. He has a particular function within the whole, and as he aims at the function of the whole he must do so by fulfilling his own particular function. He must be partial if he is going to contribute to the shared good.

176 Impartiality Robin’s third-person perspective, then, requires (of others) a self-referential perspective (Wolf 1992, 247). She recognizes that the good of the whole group is achieved by the individual members fulfilling their own specific parts. The group can possess the good only insofar as its members possess the good. The group does not have some independent act of possessing. Rather, its possession is constituted by a union of the individual acts of the members. Perhaps for morality—at least as interpreted by Richard Arneson (2003, 384–86)—partiality toward oneself is repugnant, but solidarity requires partiality toward one’s role within the whole. In order to direct to the group possession, Robin must direct Louis to possess his particular good within the whole and she must direct Clare and Anna to possess their particular goods within the whole. Each member seeks the good of the whole only by seeking his or her own possession. The individuals, then, must focus upon themselves and their part as the way toward the good of others. As John Cottingham (1991) notes, selfconcern is of central importance even in the pursuit of ethics. This focus is not egoistic. The members still seek the shared good of the whole group; they do so, however, only by way of their own particular good. If they did otherwise, they would not be seeking the good as possessed together. The shared good is not something that exists independently of the individuals with their own particular goods. Rather, the overall shared good is precisely these particular goods, which belong to particular individuals. Nor is it these particular goods as existing separately and then accumulated through addition. Rather, it is these particular goods as belonging to the individuals and then united through sharing. The overall shared good, then, is attained only through partiality. It is attained only through individuals attaining their own particular good first of all and then seeking their own good as belonging to others. Necessarily, then, the shared good involves separate parts, possessed at an individual level but then shared. These separate parts are individual goods of different members. The complexity of the shared good is often greater yet. It involves not only individual members uniting in some whole. It also involves subgroups within the whole. Within an orchestra, for instance, the violinists might be conceived as a subgroup, and the first violinists a subgroup within that, distinct from the second violinists. The possession of the good, then, does not necessarily move immediately from the individual to the orchestra. It may go to the orchestra by way of the subgroup. As an individual violinist, Bridget must seek to play her part within the first violinists, and the first violinists must seek to play their part within the violinists, who seek to play their part within the orchestra. The larger group will possess the good only to the degree that the subgroups possess their more particular goods, and the subgroups will possess their good as shared only to the degree that each member possesses his or her good as united with the others within

Impartiality 177 the subgroup. The shared good is something like a series of nested circles (Frim 2019, 155). This portrayal, no doubt, is a simplification. Nevertheless, it suggests the roles that different layers might play. Robin will direct Bridget to possess the good together with the other violinists and thereby together with the other musicians. In other words, she will direct Bridget not only to a partiality for her own act of playing the cello; she will direct Bridget to a partiality for the united act of the violinists (as opposed to the united act of the percussionists). A shared good might involve many interlocking layers of partiality. Bridget’s priority of herself is absolute; the priority she places on subgroups is less strict. The priority for herself is absolute because in every act in which she seeks the good of the group, she must do so by directing herself and her good to the group. The same does not apply (at least not typically) to any particular subgroup. Sometimes Bridget might work together with one subgroup and at other times with another. She will often work with the other violinists, but if she has a duet (within a piece) together with Anna the percussionist, then she will order her good to the good of the larger group by way of ordering it to the subgroup of herself and Anna. The subgroup of the violinists, then, can sometimes be set aside (for Bridget), but she herself must always be present as the one whose good she is directing to the group. In her objective judgments, then, Robin perceives a complex relation of parts ordered to the good of the whole. This objective order demands partiality. Members must seek the good of the whole by seeking their own good as directed to the whole. They must seek the good of the whole by way of their own good and by way of those close to them. 10.5  Relative Objectivity As Robin directs to partiality, her judgment remains both objective and relative. She is judging concerning agent relative goods, which must always remain relative. If Louis is driving to the concert hall while Clare is driving to the homeless shelter, Robin will objectively judge that Louis should turn right while Clare should turn left. She makes no absolute judgment to turn either right or left. The judgment is relative to the particular person with his or her particular destination. Similarly, Robin always judges concerning a good that is “for” some particular subject, either an individual or multiple individuals united. She makes no judgment concerning a good in itself. With her objective judgments, she makes no judgment concerning something that is of value to the universe. If she did, she would falsify the agent relative good, turning it into an agent neutral good. Her judgment would not remain objective

178 Impartiality and impartial. Of course, supposing there is an agent neutral good, Robin can make another sort of objective and impartial judgment concerning this good. Nevertheless, by itself, objectivity does not lead to neutrality. We can speak of objective motion even from an Einsteinian perspective, as long as we identify a frame of reference. Similarly, we can speak of objective value in relation to a frame of reference, that is, in relation to a particular agent. Cutting is objectively good for a knife, while pounding is objectively good for a hammer. No objective good applies to both. Contrary to the claims of Alan Goldman (2008, 509–10) and Shelly Kagan (1989, 60), then, objective value need not be a Newtonian agent neutral good. We have presented Robin as judging concerning goods that are not her own. The same kind of objectivity, however, can be applied to one’s own goods. Giuseppe, for instance, thinks he is judging objectively when he determines that Kirsten should not have gone jogging but should instead have visited him. He is judging, in effect, the weights various goods should play within Kirsten’s overall good. His judgment is linked with the subject of the good, including information regarding how extensively he and Kirsten (as opposed to Kirsten and Brett or Kirsten and her mother) share the good. In these judgments, Giuseppe does not give greater weight to his own preferences just because they are his preferences. Rather, he gives them greater weight (if he does) because of the link between himself and Kirsten. His judgment remains impartial as long as he rejects one source for this differential weighing: something does not have greater weight simply because it concerns a preference that is his own. He treats his own preferences just as he does others (Wolf 1992, 245). That is not the same as giving equal weight. Rather, it is giving differential weight based upon the union between individuals. 10.6  A Veil of Ignorance Another kind of impartiality—the impartiality of a veil of ignorance—does not much alter the picture for solidarity (Rawls 1999, 118–23). Let us suppose that Robin is not entirely outside the situation; rather, she will be taking part in the good upon which she judges. At the same time, however, she stands behind a veil of ignorance. She does not know what part she will take within the group. Suppose, for instance, that a directive is proposed declaring that each person should keep what belongs to himself or herself and that these belongings should not be taken away in order to benefit others. In voting for this proposal, Robin must remain behind a veil of ignorance. She must not know, for instance, whether she will be wealthy and be able to keep her wealth or whether she will be poor and will be forced to remain in her poverty. For solidarity, this kind of impartiality is possible as long as the shared good of the group does not fall behind the veil of ignorance. If Robin knows,

Impartiality 179 for instance, that she will belong to a group that plays music together, then in her ignorance of her own role, she can still make many judgments, such as the following: each person should play his or her part; pianists should play the piano; cellists should play the cello; and so on. Even if she knows only that she will belong to a group that has a shared good, she can still make some judgments, such as that each person should do his or her part. Typically, however, the veil of ignorance is proposed not for a group that is knowingly pursuing a shared good; rather, it is proposed for individuals who are seeking their own private interests within a group. The veil of ignorance is meant to assure unenlightened egoism (Nagel 1973, 228). While deciding which rules to follow, individuals must not know how the rules will affect them personally. They must treat themselves as separate from the others since they are ignorant of whether they will be in union with anyone else. In contrast, the members of a shared good treat themselves as united with others. Any “veil of ignorance,” that includes ignorance concerning the shared good, then, is incompatible with solidarity. On the other hand, if the veil allows a shared good to be perceived, merely excluding knowledge of the particular role that an individual will play within a shared good, then it is consistent with solidarity. At this point, however, the veil of ignorance seems to play no significant role. If Robin is a member of a musical group and she stands behind a veil of ignorance concerning her particular role, she will reach judgments about how pianists should behave, how cellists should behave, and how vocalists should behave. Her judgment does not differ, however, if she knows that she herself is a vocalist. The veil of ignorance changes nothing. 10.7  Agent Impartiality Another meaning of impartiality, which we will call agent impartiality, will also prove consistent with solidarity, although at first glance it will appear inconsistent. Agent impartiality concerns an agent acting for some principal (Gert 1998, 135–36). If Chuck is in charge of military contracts, for instance, then he acts as an agent under the direction of a principal, namely, the military. Consequently, he is bound by the standard of impartiality. He should not offer a contract to a company primarily because the owner is a friend of his. His decision should be based upon his principal (the military) and not upon his own personal connections. Similar rules would apply to a teacher giving out grades or to someone in charge of hiring job candidates for a large company. In these cases, personal connections should not provide the basis for a decision. For the shared good, however, we seek the good of others precisely based upon personal connections. Kirsten decides whether to visit Giuseppe or her mother, for instance, based upon the connections she

180 Impartiality has to each. Apparently, then, solidarity is opposed to agent impartiality (Arneson 2003, 397). Upon scrutiny, the appearance begins to dissolve. Chuck’s decision differs dramatically from that of Kirsten. Kirsten is deciding whether to share her personal good with others. In contrast, Chuck is not making a decision regarding his own personal good; he is deciding concerning the good of the military. Chuck’s personal relations, then, are irrelevant to his decision. They are relevant only when he is deciding to share his own personal good, not when he is deciding upon the action of the whole military (Cottingham 1998, 11). If Chuck seeks the shared good of the military (supposing there is one), then his own personal connections are sometimes relevant and sometimes not. They are relevant when he is seeking to share his own personal part of the good with others. They are not relevant when deciding about an action at the level of the whole group. Similar reasoning applies to other cases. Someone given the role of hiring must decide concerning the good of the whole company, not concerning his or her own personal part within it. Likewise, a judge giving out punishment (within the framework of solidarity) is trying to restore the order of the shared good, not just his or her particular part within it. Grading also might be conceived as a principal and agent relationship. The evaluation of the students is directed by the institution as a whole (Cottingham 1986, 358). Impartiality is sometimes portrayed as paying attention only to those considerations that are relevant and setting aside those that are irrelevant (Baron 1991, 837). This description fits well for agent impartiality, in which an agent sets aside personal considerations as irrelevant and focuses only upon the considerations of the principal. Within solidarity, the standard of which factors are relevant arises from the shared good. An agent is sometimes sharing his or her particular part of the good with others; then personal considerations and partiality are important. At other times, an agent acts in the place of the whole, in which case personal considerations are irrelevant. Agent impartiality can arise even within personal relations. A grandmother, for instance, should not lavish gifts upon her favorite grandchild while ignoring her other grandchildren (Baron 1991, 837). This kind of personal impartiality can also fit within solidarity (Jollimore 2011, 150). Robin’s impartial viewpoint recommends both partiality and impartiality. She recommends that the grandmother treat her own grandchildren in a special way because she is close to them. At the same time, this special treatment should itself be impartial between the diverse grandchildren. Insofar as they are grandchildren, all of them have the same connection with the grandmother. This equality of special relation will give rise to equal special treatment. The grandmother still might treat some of her grandchildren differently because she might have additional special relations with some of them.

Impartiality 181 Perhaps one grandson, for instance, spent long hours with his grandmother when she was sick. She will seek to give him additional special treatment, distinct from the other grandchildren, based upon this close relationship, but this relationship will not lead her to ignore her other grandchildren. Insofar as he is a grandchild, she will treat him as other grandchildren; insofar as he has an additional relationship, with its additional shared good, she will treat him accordingly. In each case, Robin’s impartial viewpoint asks the grandmother to consider how close her relationships really are. The grandmother must ignore her own impulses and whims and consult her objective connections. Just as Giuseppe thinks that he can evaluate Kirsten’s relationship with him by objective standards, so the grandmother can evaluate her relationship with her grandchildren based upon objective standards and not based upon personal preferences. In a way, the grandmother is not much different from Chuck, who must set aside his personal desires and act simply as an agent of the whole, following the direction that the whole itself provides. The grandmother also is an agent of the whole. She seeks (by supposition) some shared good. She must fulfill her part within the whole. She is not making decisions for the whole, as Chuck is, but she is making decisions for a part of the whole, namely, for herself. Insofar as she wants the shared good of the whole, then, she will seek to act according to the direction of the whole. Every person within a whole, it seems, acts as an agent under the direction of some principal. The principal is the whole itself, which has its overarching function. The individual person is the agent moving some portion of the whole to the good of the whole. Chuck’s case is not limited to a particular part, since he decides on the activity of the whole itself. His portion, then, is the whole. It could easily be more limited, however. Perhaps he is in charge of contracts for only one base within the whole military. The grandmother’s role is more limited yet. She decides upon the actions of a very small part, namely, herself. In any case, the agent will seek to carry out the direction to the whole itself. She must use the standards of the whole, not her own impulse or whim. Robin’s objective judgment, which perceives this direction to the whole, recognizes that particular parts (ranging from subgroups to the individual) should move to the good of the whole by way of those that are close to them. The objective judgment, then, recommends partiality. Acting as an agent of the whole, the grandmother will treat those who are close to her in a special way, giving them more attention than those who are more distant. Her role within the whole must always include her own possession of the shared good. And since she possesses this good as shared by way of others within the whole, she will direct herself and her good to the whole by way of those who are close to her.

182 Impartiality When she is aiming at the shared good, then, all of the grandmother’s actions can be perceived as instances of the agent/principal relationship. She is always an agent, and the whole is always a principal. She is an agent that carries out a small part of the whole, but she is an agent nevertheless. The same might be said of any individual within a shared good. This manner of speaking, however, obscures an important difference between the grandmother and Chuck. The grandmother performs her own individual action, which is not an act of the whole; in contrast, Chuck performs an action that belongs to the whole (while at the same time belonging to himself as an individual). We regularly make such distinctions when speaking of united agency. Fighting the battle of Waterloo, for instance, was an act of Wellington’s whole army; no single soldier did the action by himself. In contrast, the firing of this rifle at this enemy soldier was an act of an individual soldier but not of the whole army. The individual soldier was commanded to fire his rifle at the enemy, so he still acted as a kind of agent under a principal, but the action he performed was only his own; it was not the action of the whole army. In contrast, when Chuck makes a contract, he performs an action of the whole army. How, then, do the grandmother and Chuck differ? The grandmother is directed (by the whole) to share her own particular good. Consequently, she is directed to be partial, to share her particular good with those who are close to her. To ignore one of her grandchildren would be opposed to this partiality. On the other hand, Chuck is directed to share a good that is not his particular part. Consequently, partiality—at least a partiality in reference to himself as an individual—must be left out of his decision. The grandmother is impartial, then, by remaining faithful to her partiality, by keeping in mind both herself and those who are close to her. Chuck is impartial by leaving himself out of the picture. We may conclude that agent impartiality, like objective impartiality and (some forms of) the impartiality of the veil of ignorance, is consistent with the partiality of solidarity. Of the kinds of impartiality discussed above, only one poses a problem. This problematic impartiality attempts to make all goods—including all agent relative goods—belong to a single subject, such as an ideal observer. This impartiality readily applies to agent neutral goods, but it distorts the nature of agent relative goods. 10.8  Impartiality and Impersonality The partiality within solidarity has stood its ground against an objection. According to this objection, impartiality demands the removal of partiality. In fact, partiality need not be set aside even on the supposition that impartiality is an important good. Or, at any rate, it need not be set aside, for solidarity, under many understandings of impartiality.

Impartiality 183 Other objections might be raised against the partiality of solidarity. One significant objection will become evident only in the next chapter. A few others may be addressed at this point. First, a version of Bernard Williams’s (1981b, 18) objection against morality might be raised against solidarity. The following case is based upon Williams’s example. Drowning Wife: Avak, the husband of Barbara, faces the following difficult situation. Both Barbara and an unknown stranger are drowning. Avak is able to save one of them but not both. He chooses to save Barbara, but first he considers whether it is permissible for him to do so. Barbara, says Williams, might complain that Avak has had “one thought too many.” Rather than think “she is my wife and it is permissible,” he should have thought simply “she is my wife.” Consulting the moral permissibility of the action adds one thought too many. Avak’s rationale becomes impersonal (Wolf 2012). Barbara might complain even more against solidarity, in which Avak thinks “I want to save Barbara because she is my wife, but I want to save her most of all because she is a part of this greater good.” Or perhaps he thinks, “I want to save her most of all because that is how the greater group would direct me to attain the shared good.” Her being a part of a greater whole, thinks Barbara, should not be so central in his thoughts. He should want to save her just because she is his wife and not because he is directed by some greater good. The complaint is not so much against impartiality as it is against impersonality (Henberg 1978, 718–19). The decisions of those acting within morality and within solidarity must always incorporate an impersonal element. The source of this impersonality might appear to be impartiality. A more likely source, however, is the absolutely binding character of morality. Avak must consult not only his own connection with Barbara; he must always also consult morality (Wolf 1992, 257; 2012, 80). Something similar applies to solidarity, even though the shared good is not overriding. Unlike in the case of morality, Avak need not always act for the good he shares with Barbara (and presumably, the stranger), but when he does act for this good—which he does when saving Barbara—then he must consider the good of the whole and not simply the good of Barbara. Williams’s complaint, appropriately adjusted, must be granted. When seeking the shared good, Avak must consider more than Barbara; he must consider the good of others within the group as well. This consideration might be only virtual (Section 2.4). In other words, he need not always consciously advert to the consideration. He might actually think only of

184 Impartiality Barbara, because no cue triggers any thought beyond his immediate concern for Barbara (Mason 1999, 253–60). This point, however, may not allay Williams’s concerns (Wolf 2012, 74–81). Just as Kirsten’s virtual pursuit of the agent neutral good still leaves Giuseppe feeling alienated, so Avak’s virtual consideration of other values or goals might still leave Barbara feeling that Avak’s decision is too impersonal. Within solidarity, however, it is unclear that Barbara will object. By supposition, Barbara wants the same shared good as Avak, which includes others beyond herself. Otherwise, she is not objecting against solidarity and its partiality. Rather, she is objecting against Avak because he happens to have other goals (the shared good) beyond herself. Nothing about solidarity forces Avak to have such goals; nothing about solidarity forces Avak to seek these goals while pursuing the good of Barbara. In this regard, the shared good differs from morality, which does demand Avak’s assent. The demand of solidarity is conditional. If Avak does indeed pursue Barbara’s good as part of a greater shared good, then he must consider not only Barbara and her good; he must also consider the others who share the good. A complaint against the antecedent (Avak does pursue Barbara’s good as part of a whole) is not a complaint against solidarity but against Avak. If Barbara complains against solidarity, then she accepts the antecedent for Avak and for herself. Her complaint must be against the requirement found in the consequent (that Avak must consider others besides Barbara). But if Barbara accepts the antecedent, then it is unclear why she would object to the consequent. If Barbara wants her own good insofar as it belongs to others beyond herself—the same others with whom Avak is concerned—then why should she complain if Avak has similar desires? The point is clearest when the shared good includes no one beyond Barbara and Avak. If Barbara complains that Avak wants his good to be hers and her good to be his, then she does not really want the good as shared with Avak. Rather, she wants something like altruistic love, in which she is the final and only stopping point. In that case, Barbara will indeed be dissatisfied with solidarity. She does not want her good to be also Avak’s good. It is unclear why Barbara would complain concerning Avak’s lack of personal concern. On this supposition, she does not want his personal concern (Smith 2005, 266–67); she wants only to live. What does it matter if her life arises from a personal choice or an impersonal choice? Avak wants to save her precisely because she is united with him. If Barbara objects, then it seems she wants impersonality rather than personality. The objection seems to have more force when the shared good is larger, including many beyond Barbara and Avak. Then Avak no longer acts for the “we” of Barbara and Avak united; rather, he acts for the “we” of the multitude. This portrayal, however, overlooks important features of Avak’s action. The objection is not that Avak fails to act “because she is my wife”; rather,

Impartiality 185 the objection is that he has this thought and another. This thought, then, remains intact. In terms of solidarity, Avak is still acting for the sake of the smaller group of Barbara and Avak united; he is still saving Barbara insofar as she is united with him immediately. The presumption—if the objection is to be applied to solidarity—is that this smaller union is part of a greater one, just as the union of violinists is part of the greater union of the orchestra. Avak, then, is sharing his good immediately with Barbara, insofar as he and Barbara form a subgroup within a greater whole. Avak does not—except perhaps on rare occasions—share his good directly with the entire group. Rather, he shares it with particular members of the group. He shares it with Barbara or with Aris or with Anna. He wants his good as belonging to other particular individuals, not as belonging to a reified group. He wants his good to belong to Barbara, but he does not want it for her as an isolated individual; rather, he wants his good to belong to Barbara insofar as she is united with others. At the very least, he wants her good insofar as she is united with himself. He might also want her good insofar as she is united with others as well. He wants his good for individuals, never for a group that is somehow independent of individuals. He wants his good for the group only if this manner of speaking means that he wishes it for these individuals insofar as they are united. The individuals are primary; the group is simply the individuals in union. Because Avak is closer to Barbara, he wishes to share his good more with her than with others. He shares it with others by way of sharing it with Barbara. The good of “Avak and Barbara” is itself a shared good that the two of them seek as belonging to others. Avak does not want to save Barbara merely insofar as she is a part of the larger group. Rather, he wants to save her insofar as the two of them are united as a subgroup within the larger group. By supposition, Barbara wants it no other way. She also wants her own good as united with others. Within the suppositions of solidarity, then, she will not make Williams’s complaint. If anything, she will make the opposite complaint. She will object if Avak fails to have the additional thought; she will object if Avak fails to seek her own good insofar as it belongs to others beyond herself. After all, that is the good that she herself wants. Williams’s objection—at least when it is applied to solidarity—seems to be based upon too stringent a notion of personal choice (Velleman 1999, 372–73; Kristjánsson 2020). Avak’s choice is entirely personal. When he forms the plan to pursue the good in union with Barbara and others, he identifies himself as a member of the greater group. He now acts precisely from this identity, from the one he has chosen to be. He acts as someone united with Barbara. He acts for the sake of Barbara precisely as she has identified herself, as someone united with others. He acts according to the person that he is.

186 Impartiality 10.9 Altruism Richard Arneson raises another objection against partiality. He doubts whether partiality can explain the behavior of Mother Teresa, who made personal sacrifices for the sake of the greater needs of desperate poor people (Arneson 2003, 385–86). Arneson seems to think that Mother Teresa, before she chose to act, considered two separate goods—her own good taken separately and the good of others taken separately—and then she preferred the latter. Certain versions of morality, he seems to think, are opposed to this vision of altruism; they require Mother Teresa to be partial to herself; they require her to seek her own good taken separately over the good of others taken separately. Mother Teresa may have been surprised to discover that she operated under some kind of consequentialist altruism. If, instead, she operated under solidarity, then she would not endorse Arneson’s vision of separate goods laid against one another. If Mother Teresa’s good is a separate agent relative good, then it cannot be compared to the good of others at all, as either more or as less important. A comparison can be made only within a shared good, in which the good of an individual is not taken separately but is taken as belonging to others. Even within the shared good, however, Arneson’s problem might seem to arise. As Robin looks at a community sharing in the good, she impartially recommends partiality. She recommends, for instance, that Louis attend to his playing of the piano and that Clare attend to her playing of the cello. Each must address his or her particular good within the whole. It seems, then, that Robin would direct Mother Teresa to attend to her own good and only secondarily to attend to the good of others. In short, Robin’s recommended partiality does indeed seem to undermine self-sacrifice, as Arneson suggests. This portrayal, however, ignores what we have already seen. We have described two ways in which the shared good involves self-sacrifice, and now we can add a third. First, individuals might sacrifice their own private (non-shared) good for the sake of the shared good. Clare might give up reading a novel in order to practice the cello for the sake of the good she shares with Louis in their musical duet. Mother Teresa might give up a private good, such as the pleasure of a good meal, for the sake of sharing her good with others. She can compare these diverse goods because they are both her own, the one as private and the other as shared. Second, even within the shared good, someone may have to accept a smaller part. Louis must accept that Clare as a cellist has a greater part in the duet than he himself does. Similarly, Mother Teresa might find that some of her particular goods—even shared goods—are worth less than the good she finds in others. If we suppose that Kirsten (in Kirsten Jogging) pursues the good of jogging not simply as private but as also belonging to Giuseppe,

Impartiality 187 then she might have to give up this part of the shared good because it is less important than the good found in Giuseppe. In the same manner, Avak might even give up his own life in order to save Barbara. He might believe that Barbara’s life is worth more—within the shared good—than his own. Third and finally, individuals will love “our” good more than their particular part of the good. Louis does not attend to his good of playing the piano as something separate. To the contrary, he desires his good as belonging to others. He focuses upon himself only to direct himself to others. Similarly, Mother Teresa might desire the act of sharing her good, which she perceives as “our” good, more than she desires simply to keep her own good. Avak might desire the action of saving Barbara, even at the expense of his own life, because in this action is found “our” good. It is not just his good nor just the good of Barbara. In this action, the good is truly shared. While he may want his part of the good more than Barbara’s part of the good (if the two are otherwise equal), he will want “our” good more than either. As Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics IX, 8, 1169a35–1169b2) suggests, Avak still chooses the greater good. The good of sharing his very life with Barbara is greater than his continued living. If Avak bravely faces death in battle, says Aristotle, then he sacrifices much. It is with great sorrow that he loses his own life. Nevertheless, in the very act of sacrifice he attains a surpassingly great good (Nicomachean Ethics III, 9, 1117b10–15). It is not a surpassing selfish good, however. It is his good as belonging to others. Avak possesses the shared good in the very act of sacrificing his life. After his death, he will no longer (barring an afterlife) share in the good, which gives him sorrow. Nevertheless, he desires the shared good most of all, and he can have it in his act of sacrifice. Mother Teresa often emphasized the importance of loving and being loved. What she gave to her poor was not so much food, clothing, or comfort. Even more, she gave love. What mattered, for them, was that she was giving herself to them. What mattered, for her, was that she was giving herself to them. It was her sharing of her own good that mattered most of all. Her sacrifice, then, was an act of uniting herself with those she loved. She was not looking to add up the production of goods. She was looking to give herself to others. This very giving was not an alien good, that is, it was not alien to her. It was a shared good, a possessing of the good with those she loved. 10.10  Consequentialist Partiality Robin’s impartial recommendation of partiality faces another difficulty. The partiality within solidarity begins to look something like the partiality within certain versions of consequentialism. These consequentialist accounts claim that we should be partial to those who are close to us, but

188 Impartiality only because, by so doing, we are best able to produce the greater agent neutral good (Parfit 1984; Railton 1984; Wolf 1992, 244, 249; Norcross 1997). We are more effective in producing the good in those who are close to us. If we were to focus upon those more distant, we would produce less good. Helping those who are close to us, then, is one more utility. As we have seen, this useful partiality is unpalatable to many. A similar complaint might be raised against solidarity. We should share the good more with those who are close to us but only because, by so doing, the whole group better attains the shared good. The shared good is possessed by members seeking their own good and then seeking to share it with those who are close to them. If members focused upon those who are more distant, then the good would not be possessed as well as it might be. Sharing the good with those who are close to us, then, is just the most effective way for the whole group to possess the good. This manner of expressing the objection, however, is misleading. It leaves the impression that in solidarity we seek something—the whole group possessing the good—that is separate from our own good. The group’s possession of the good, on this portrayal, is something that results from Avak’s action of sharing with Barbara. In fact, the group possessing the good is not different from Avak sharing his good with Barbara; it is not different from members of the group sharing their good with Avak. Avak is not producing some group possession when he shares the good with Barbara. Rather, in his act of sharing, he and Barbara are possessing the good of the whole. Avak does not want the good with Barbara simply as the most effective way of sharing the good with the wider group. Rather, the particular way in which he wants to share the good with the wider group is by way of Barbara. Just as he wants his own good not simply as his own but as belonging to others as well, so he wants the good he shares with Barbara. He wants it not only as the good of the two of them but as belonging to others beyond the two. He wants this nested sharing not because it is most efficient for the greater good. Rather, he wants it as his way of sharing the greater good. Solidarity and consequentialism, then, are quite distinct (Jollimore 2001, 25–29). In consequentialism, Kirsten’s attention to those close to her is a utility for the greater agent neutral good (although, if she is sophisticated, she may not often advert to this utility). In solidarity, Avak’s attention to Barbara, who is close to him, is simply the way he wants his good to belong to others. He wants it first to belong to Barbara, and then by way of Barbara to others as well. Attention to Barbara is no more a utility than is the attention he gives to himself. He seeks his own good as belonging not only to himself but also as belonging to others.

11 Restrictions

Robin’s impartial recommendation of partiality poses a problem for solidarity parallel to the problem, within morality, that goes under the heading of agent centered restrictions. The terminology may not be ideal, since some deontologists insist that these restrictions have characteristics that can be described as neutral (Korsgaard 1993; Mack 1998; Dougherty 2013). Accordingly, we will drop the reference to “agent centered” and refer simply to restrictions. 11.1  Restrictions within Solidarity Restrictions, so the objection complains, require agents to give preference to their own activities, even at the expense of the overall greatest good. A restriction that prohibits killing innocent people, for instance, requires Barb (in Cruel Dictator) to give preference to her own fulfillment of this restriction even in those situations when abandoning the restriction would produce the overall greatest good. Barb must refrain from killing Scott, although she could save five other people by killing him. One attempt to reconcile restrictions with the overall greatest good will not do (Kagan 1989, 26–27; Scheffler 1994, 87–90). Someone might insist that Barb’s very act of killing is itself a greater evil than the five deaths. Barb might then calculate that refusing to kill Scott does in fact result in the greatest overall good. The refusal brings about five deaths (as opposed to one), but the choice to kill brings about the much greater evil of the act of killing. This easy solution is insufficient. Barb must reckon not only with the five deaths; she must also consider the five killings performed by the dictator. By refusing to kill Scott, she brings about five deaths and five killings. By choosing to kill Scott, she brings about only one death and one killing. The greater good, it seems, is still produced when Barb chooses to kill Scott. The case reveals why restrictions seem to be agent relative (Nagel 1986, 178; Kagan 1989, 74–75). Barb herself must keep the restriction even if, DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-11

190 Restrictions as a result, the restriction is itself broken by others. The restriction requires Barb to focus upon herself and her own action, downplaying the actions of others, giving them less weight than her own. If it is a good thing (as an agent neutral good) for Barb to keep the restriction, then it must be just as good for the dictator to keep the restriction. If Barb gives more weight to her own actions, then she must be treating the good (of keeping the restriction) as agent relative. More precisely, the reason for acting must be agent relative, even if the good is agent neutral (Mack 1998, 61–65). Restrictions are defined in reference to the overall good, typically taken to be an agent neutral good. They oppose the consequentialist norm requiring (or at least allowing) that agents seek the greatest overall good. Restrictions prohibit agents (at times) from following this possibility. Barb, for instance, is not even given the option of choosing that which benefits the overall good. It seems reasonable, however, that agents should at least have the option of pursuing the greatest overall good (Scheffler 1994, 80). The difficulties that restrictions pose for deontology seem to have a parallel within solidarity, for (within solidarity) those who share the good must avoid harmful using. Barb cannot kill Scott as a means to save the five or as a means to prevent five killings. By using him in a harmful way, she subjects him to an alien good and ceases to treat him as a possessing part. As long as she acts for the shared good, then, she will not want to kill Scott. At the same time, however, this “restriction” seems to be at odds with her desire for the shared good, which will lead her to want fewer murders rather than more (within the community that shares the good). It seems, then, that she should prefer her single killing to the five killings of the dictator. As is to be expected, the problem for solidarity is relative to the particular shared good being pursued. Barb has a problem only to the degree that she acts from her desire for the shared good. Other desires for other goods pose no difficulty. Perhaps she has a desire to get rid of Scott in order that she might gain the inheritance; while acting from this desire, she faces no conflict. The action of killing poses a problem for Barb only while she acts under the influence of the desire for a shared good that includes Scott, the five, and the dictator. Then it seems that her desire gives rise to conflicting recommendations. For solidarity, then, restrictions do not concern some kind of absolute that applies to all people in all situations. Rather, they present an apparent tension within the pursuit of a single good. Barb’s pursuit of the good she shares with the other seven seems to pull her in opposite directions. On the one hand, it discourages her from killing Scott. On the other hand, it encourages her to reduce the number of killings. Barb has a dilemma, we might say, over a relative absolute. Killing Scott is absolutely prohibited relative to her desire for the shared good. Relative to other desires, it might be permitted or even required.

Restrictions 191 Two influential ways of posing the objection against restrictions will prove helpful in understanding to what extent the tension of restrictions might be resolved for solidarity. First, Samuel Scheffler expresses the objection very simply, in terms of a conflict arising from a generally acceptable mode of practical reasoning, which he calls maximizing rationality. As he says, The core of this conception of rationality is the idea that if one accepts the desirability of a certain goal being achieved, and if one has a choice between two options, one of which is certain to accomplish the goal better than the other, then it is, ceteris paribus, rational to choose the former over the latter. (Scheffler 1985, 414). Restrictions seem to be at odds with this rationality. A reasonable goal—for those who advocate the restriction—is to reduce the number of violations against the restriction. The restriction itself, however, prohibits choosing the option that reduces violations. It is desirable for Barb, for instance, to have fewer murders rather than more, but she must not choose to murder even when her single murder is the best means available to reduce the overall number of murders. Second, Philip Pettit (2000) argues against restrictions through the role of universalizing within morality. The requirement to universalize moral norms seems uncontroversial. If it is wrong for Barb to kill Scott, then it is likewise wrong for all those in similar situations. If it is appropriate for Kirsten to visit Giuseppe, then it is likewise appropriate for all those in similar situations. Those who advocate restrictions, however, are forced to go against the spirit of this pervasive universalizing of norms. When Barb universalizes the norm against murder, for instance, then all similar murders become undesirable. Her own acts of murder are not special in this regard. In following the restriction, however, she must treat her own case as special; she must treat her own murder as more significant than the murders of the dictator. She cannot universalize the significance across all murders. Both Scheffler’s maximizing and Pettit’s universalizing seem to be unobjectionable. Any view that undermines them, then, appears problematic. In what follows, we will examine restrictions in two main parts. First (Sections 11.2 and 11.3), we will examine the motivations driving the problem (as seen in Pettit, Scheffler, and Kagan). We will discover that these motivations incorporate consequentialist presuppositions, presuppositions that do not apply to solidarity with its possession-based desires. Second (Sections 11.4–11.9), we will provide a positive rationale for restrictions within solidarity. This rationale will be founded upon the

192 Restrictions distinction between acting (in harmful using) and the absence of action. For reasons mentioned earlier (Section 3.5), we will set aside (as not relevant to solidarity) solutions to this problem that arise from what is called agent relative consequentialism. 11.2 Universalizability The place of restrictions within solidarity can be better understood by considering them within Pettit’s (2000) account of universalizability. Pettit identifies two fundamentally different kinds of universalizing: either prudential or prescriptive. Prudential universalizing is fairly straightforward and might be called simple logical universalizing. An individual merely realizes that a reason for action applies to everyone in a similar situation. Consider the following situation. Checkmate: Ben is playing chess with Louisa, and after making his last move he recognizes that he has made a blunder. If Louisa moves her queen to B4, then he will be checkmated. Ben recognizes that anyone in Louisa’s situation should move her queen to B4. Ben recognizes that Louisa has a reason for her move, and he recognizes that it applies universally to everyone in her situation. Prescriptive universalizing is different because it supplies a reason not only for the person in the situation (such as Louisa) but also for the one universalizing (such as Ben). If Ben universalizes normatively (or prescriptively), then not only would he recognize that Louisa has a reason to make her move; in addition, he himself would want her to make the move. As it is, of course, he wants no such thing. He recognizes that it is a good move for someone in her situation, but precisely for that reason, he does not want her to make it (Nagel 1986, 170). Prescriptive universalizing involves a positive act of prescribing for others (Pettit 2000, 179). With logical universalizing, Ben merely observes that people in Louisa’s situation should move the queen to B4. With prescriptive universalizing, he does something additional: he mandates that Louisa, and others in her situation, should move the queen to B4. Such a prescription would be rather odd for Ben, but Pettit does not think it would be odd when the reason for acting is moral. If Barb thinks, for instance, that morality prohibits her from killing Scott, then when she universalizes, she prescribes (and not merely observes) her reason as applying to others in a similar situation. Such universalizing is not simply a logical operation, in which the mind picks out the common features that apply to other situations of the same

Restrictions 193 kind (Miller 1992, 328; Wiggins 1998, 70–71). It is not the same as the commonly acknowledged universalizing. It is not the universalizing that must apply to all reasons for action. Beyond the logic of similarity, this universalizing gives a kind of universal efficacy to the reason. Not only does everyone recognize the force of the reason for the person in the situation; the reason is itself given force for everyone. What Pettit presents as an obvious logical function, acknowledged by everyone, is in fact a Trojan horse, smuggling neutrality into the reason itself. Prescriptive universalizing generates (or at least implies) two different kinds of normative reasons, what we will call first-order and secondorder normative reasons (Nagel 1970, 92–95). First-order reasons apply to the person in the situation who must perform the action. Barb, for instance, has a first-order reason not to kill Scott. Second-order reasons apply to third-party observers who are not in the situation and are not the ones to perform the action. From their perch of observation, for instance, the five (if restrictions are a reality) have a reason to prefer that Barb do the right thing, that she refrain from killing Scott. Secondorder reasons arise because the third-party observers are prescribing the behavior, and it seems rather odd to prescribe the behavior without preferring its realization. Only prescriptive universalizing generates second-order reasons. Prudential or logical universalizing recognizes first-order reasons but does not prescribe them; consequently, it does not generate second-order reasons (Darwall 1983, 118; Nagel 1986, 172). With logical universalizing, for instance, the five will recognize that people in Barb’s situation have a reason not to kill Scott, but the universalizing will generate no preference in them for the behavior (Mack 1998, 61). Ben, while recognizing the move that Louisa should make, prefers that she not make it, even after he has universalized her move to all those in her situation. Second-order reasons, which are essential to the universalizing trap that Pettit lays against restrictions, have a distinctively consequentialist flavor. With second-order reasons, a person wants the existence of an action. In other words, second-order reasons involve existence-based desires, which are intimately linked with consequentialism. This consequentialist element becomes all-consuming when Pettit (2000, 180) characterizes first-order reasons as simply a particular instance of second-order reasons (see also Nagel 1970, 86–87). When Barb has a reason not to kill Scott, thinks Pettit, she simply wants to instantiate the action, that is, she wants an instance (that happens to be her own instance) of refraining from killing. Barb prefers that the action of refraining—in the situation—should exist. Since she is in the situation, she prefers to bring about the action (or lack of action) herself. In short, Barb wants—with an existence-based desire—to avoid killing Scott.

194 Restrictions Pettit needs nothing further for the triumph of consequentialism. Prescriptive universalizing—supposedly the bread-and-butter of normative reasons—makes all reasons into consequentialist reasons, in which the person prefers the existence of goods. Pettit should conclude, it seems, that universalizability necessitates consequentialism. He reaches, however, a milder conclusion: non-consequentialist reasoning goes against the “spirit” of universalizability (Pettit 2000, 182). This milder conclusion recognizes that prescriptive universalizing is not the only option available. Nonconsequentialist reasoning might opt for logical universalizing instead. This option, thinks Pettit, comes at much too high a price. Non-consequentialist reasoning, claims Pettit, must oppose the “spirit” of prescriptive universalizing. With philosophical legerdemain, however, Pettit describes the “spirit” of universalizability in terms that appear wholly logical. The “spirit” denies that an individual’s own particular identity matters for the prescription. The irrelevance of particular identity, however, is a feature of logical universalizing and not merely of prescriptive universalizing. Even Ben, when he makes his universalization, disregards Louisa’s particular identity. If Ben begins with Louisa’s agent relative good and then logically universalizes it to all those in her situation, he does not generate secondorder reasons. If he is true to the spirit (or to the letter) of logical universalizing, then he will include all of those features—and only those features—that are relevant to the judgment that she should move her queen to B4. Among those features is her agent relative good of winning the game. Only those in Louisa’s situation should make the move, but the “situation” includes the agent relative good. Universalizing, then, does not make the good to belong to anyone else; it does not make the good to be agent neutral. If Ben makes the presumption that Louisa’s winning is an agent neutral good, then from the beginning others will have reason to desire it (with existence-based desires). In that case, universalizing does not work. From the very beginning, even before universalizing, the agent neutral good (of Louisa making a winning move) was desirable for others. In no way, then, does logical universalizing generate second-order reasons. If it appears to, then either it is a faulty universalization in which an agent relative good is changed into an agent neutral good or the good was agent neutral from the beginning, in which case second-order reasons were already present, even apart from universalizing. Solidarity has something like second-order desires, but they have nothing to do with universalizing. Louis, for instance, desires not only to play his own part on the piano; he also desires that Clare should play her part. He desires Clare’s action, however, not as the instantiation of some universal. Rather, he desires it as an action that completes the function of the two

Restrictions 195 of them united. His desire arises not from a universal predication; rather, it arises from a numerical unity of the subject of the good. 11.3 Maximizing Scheffler sets a similar trap for restrictions. He notes that “maximizing rationality,” which recommends the best option toward some goal, is generally acceptable (Scheffler 1985, 414). When Barb must choose between keeping and breaking the restriction against killing, it seems that breaking the restriction will maximize her goal, since she thereby minimizes the violations against the restriction. Those who wish to defend restrictions, therefore, must abandon maximizing rationality. Like Pettit, who thinks that abandoning prescriptive universalizing (and opting for merely logical universalizing) comes at much too great a price, Scheffler thinks that abandoning maximizing rationality is much too great a price to pay for the sake of restrictions. Scheffler’s choice of terminology—“maximizing rationality”—is the first indication that something is awry. Recommending the best option toward some goal is certainly unobjectionable, but are we apt to call this recommendation “maximizing” rationality? “Optimizing” rationality seems more appropriate. The point becomes clear if we consider the best option toward two possible goals that Matthew might pursue: (1) he aims to read War and Peace; (2) he aims at the realization of individuals reading War and Peace. When Matthew applies “maximizing” rationality to the first goal, he might decide to read War and Peace for a predetermined time slot each day. For the second goal, he might decide to give a large contribution to the Tolstoy Society. In the latter case, Matthew aims to maximize something, namely, the number of people who read War and Peace. In the first case, however, Matthew aims not at maximizing but at a definitive endpoint, namely, the completion of War and Peace. In neither case does Matthew choose to maximize the means. In both, he chooses to optimize the means. Since Scheffler’s rationality concerns the means, it seems rather odd to describe it as maximizing. This terminology seems appropriate only for certain goals, such as Matthew’s goal in the second scenario above. Scheffler’s terminology, then, suggests that he has such goals in mind. Scheffler’s rationality is really about the goal rather than the means (Hurley 2017, 36–41; 2020, 33). The case of restrictions, Scheffler seems to presume, concerns just such a maximizing goal. Those who defend restrictions, Scheffler argues, think that violations of restrictions are a bad kind of thing; therefore, they should be minimized as much as possible. This goal of minimizing violations is the goal to which Scheffler applies the maximizing rationality.

196 Restrictions We should maximize the good by minimizing violations. This maximizing goal, however, does not arise from “maximizing” rationality, which concerns the best means available for a given goal. Rather, it arises from the goal that has been set. Unsurprisingly, Scheffler’s goal—since it seems to involve existence-based desires—leads to consequentialist-like conclusions (Jollimore 2001, 99). The defenders of restrictions, then, might accept maximizing rationality— or optimizing rationality—but reject the goal that Scheffler has set for them (Annas 1993, 38; Scanlon 1998, 85–87; Jollimore 2001, 31). They might acknowledge that violations are bad but still deny that their goal is to produce a certain state in which there are fewer violations. If Don makes a promise to Anna, then he might think he has an obligation to fulfill the promise and that breaking it will be a bad thing. It does not follow that he wants to maximize the keeping of promises; rather, when he applies optimizing rationality, he simply looks for the best way to fulfill his promise (Heuer 2011, 247–56). Maximization never enters his mind. A similar problem applies to Shelly Kagan’s (1989, 15–19, 47–55) claim that even nonconsequentialist views must retain what he calls a pro tanto reason to promote the good, which is a kind of standing goal to bring about more good. This goal remains in the background, so to speak, even though it can be overridden by other considerations (such as a restraint against killing). This goal, then, must be at least part of the calculation that enters optimizing rationality. It may be one goal among many, but it is at least one goal. Indeed, it is not just one goal among many, because it must be applied to every good. In other words, if someone thinks that it is good to keep restrictions, then the pro tanto reason to promote the good requires that the keeping of restrictions must also be promoted. In effect, Kagan has built a certain end—a maximizing end—into all practical reasoning. As evidence for this pro tanto reason within morality, Kagan (1989, 49) suggests that there always remains some reason to promote any true good. Even when Kirsten visits her mother rather than Giuseppe, the reason to visit Giuseppe does not disappear. The visit is not required, but it still has something good about it. If “promoting” a good is simply bringing it into existence, then this argument is clearly inadequate, at least for solidarity (if not for morality). The value of Kirsten’s visit is found not simply in what it produces. The visit has value—in relation to possession-based desires—because it is an act of sharing the good with Giuseppe. Kirsten does not aim to produce acts of sharing; rather, she aims to possess the good with Giuseppe. Kagan seems to think that such an alternative value is unavailable to morality. Perhaps he was encouraged to focus upon promoting (or producing) the good, ignoring other possibilities, by the concessions of certain nonconsequentialists (Foot 1985b).

Restrictions 197 For both Scheffler and Kagan, then, restrictions are problematic on account of what they take to be a basic feature of rationality. Indeed, it is— for both—essentially the same basic feature: the idea that whatever is good should be produced and the more of it the better. In short, restrictions are problematic because all goods must be pursued with existence-based desires. At the very least, this rationality must be available to every agent at all times. Unfortunately, restrictions seem to preclude this productive rationality, at least in some circumstances. Pettit arrives at much the same conclusion by a slightly different route. His basic feature of rationality is universalizing, but this basic feature leads to second-order reasons, which are linked to existence-based desires. 11.4  Two Views of Actions If the problem with restrictions is tied to maximizing rationality and existence-based desires, then we should not be surprised to discover its resolution in the rationality of possession-based desires. Barb is not trying to produce or maximize the shared good. Rather, she is trying to share her good with others. Unfortunately, this divide is not as clean as we might hope. After all, we often share the good through acts of producing the good. The two rationalities have fundamentally different attitudes toward actions. Maximizing rationality perceives actions as bodily movements that have various consequences. These bodily movements have no order or direction to any particular consequences. Or, if they do, then this order is itself viewed as a particular consequence to be maximized. In contrast, possessing rationality perceives actions as directed, by way of our plans or desires, to particular goals. The good is possessed precisely through this direction. For maximizing rationality, Barb’s action of killing Scott is most fundamentally certain bodily movements, which then have the consequences of the death of Scott and the saving of the five. Actions themselves can also be viewed as consequences. A consequence of Barb’s bodily movement is the action of killing Scott. Another consequence is the absence of the dictator’s actions of killing the five. For possessing rationality, Barb’s action is directed to certain goals and certain goods. It is directed to the goal of the death of Scott; it is also directed to the goal of saving the five. Most fundamentally, her action is this directional reality. Actions will also have consequences outside the domain of this essential direction. Kenny’s action of pounding, for instance, is directed to securing nails in wood and to a shed. It also has consequences to which it is not directed, such as the frightening of crows and the waking of Sarah. Typically, the direction of actions is twofold. Actions are directed to some effect, and actions are directed upon some object. Barb’s action is

198 Restrictions directed to the effect of death, and it is directed upon Scott. Within the action, then, the subject (or object) is itself directed. When Don places the fire beneath the water, he directs the fire to the good of heating water. When Vince vandalizes Anna’s car, he directs Anna (who is an object of the action by way of her car) to his good of becoming a member of organized crime. When Kirsten visits her mother, she directs her mother to be a possessing subject of a shared good. Actions of using are directed to a change in a subject; the subject is then directed to a good other than the good of the subject. Izzy the moneygrubber, for instance, changes Giuseppe (by cheering him up), which she then directs to getting money for herself. When the using is harmful, then the change in some manner harms the subject, and consequently the good may be described as alien (and not just as “other”), since this new good destroys the subject’s good. Vince, for instance, changes Anna (by damaging her car), which he then directs toward initiation into organized crime, a good alien to Anna who loses the good of her car. Barb’s action of killing Scott is an act of harmful using. She changes Scott (making him dead) and directs his causality to stop the dictator from killing the five. Barb directs Scott to an alien good, to a good that is not his own, to a good that is destructive of his own. He is not directed as a possessing part; to the contrary, he is a producing part. Scott’s good becomes a subordinate part of Barb’s good. His good is not something in which she wishes to share; it is something she takes as usefully good for her own good. What is the alien good to which Barb directs Scott? We know very little about it, and most of what we know is negative. Most essentially, we know that it is not Scott’s good; it is not a good in which Scott shares. In addition, we know that it is a good that includes Scott (and his good) as a producing part. It might be a good that Barb shares with the five, it might be a good that Barb shares with the dictator, or it might be a personal good of Barb alone (perhaps she wants the glory of having saved many people). These positive details, however essential they may be to Barb’s action, are not evident from the description we have. We do know, however, that the good is alien to Scott and his good. He is not a subject of this good. We know that Barb directs the action to the goal of saving the five. We do not know in what way this result (the saving of the five) is good. The agent relative good is always defined in terms of the subject it completes. A private good completes a single individual; a shared good completes several individuals as united. Whatever the good Barb desires when saving the five, it is not a good shared with Scott. Barb directs her action not to share his good but to eliminate his good. Barb directs Scott himself not to be a subject of his good but to produce a good alien to his own.

Restrictions 199 The following argument will not work: Scott’s good includes the good of the five; since Barb seeks the good of the five, she thereby seeks Scott’s good (rather than an alien good). It is true that Barb seeks the good of the five in some manner or other. The good they share with Scott, however, includes Scott as a possessing part, not as a producing part. Whatever good Barb seeks in the five, then, is not the good that belongs to Scott. 11.5 Violations of Restrictions Are Not a Means to Anything Good Does Barb’s action maximize the good? Perhaps, but perhaps not. It depends upon which good is being maximized. If it is the agent neutral good, then possibly her action maximizes the good. Solidarity, however, is not concerned with the agent neutral good. A good shared by the five might also possibly be maximized by Barb’s action. If the good is shared by the five alone, or by the five and Barb, or by the five, Barb, and the dictator, then very plausibly her action maximizes the good. Other goods, however, are not maximized. If the good is shared by Barb, the five, and Scott (and perhaps others), then Barb’s action does not maximize the good. To the contrary, it undermines the good. It excludes Scott, who is an essential part of the subject of this good. It transforms Scott into a producing part. Barb cannot desire her action as maximizing this good. Under the sway of maximizing rationality, we are led to conclude that whatever produces a good is at least a possible means to the good. Surgery, for instance, is a possible means toward health, since it produces health. This seemingly incontrovertible idea, however, is not true for possessionbased desires. Some actions that (at least apparently) produce the good cannot possibly be a means toward the good. Barb’s action of killing Scott, for instance, apparently produces the shared good, since it reduces the number of killings, which themselves undermine the shared good. Nevertheless, Barb’s action of killing cannot be a means to the shared good. The point might be made in a slightly different way. Barb’s action does not in fact produce the shared good but only an element of it. It produces the good but not the sharing. It produces the good but not the possessing of it. The good can become shared only with another element. This second element, however, is excluded by Barb’s action with its underlying desire. Despite its productive qualities, her action can in no way be a means to the shared good. The different attitudes toward actions, mentioned above, clarify the point. On the one hand, Barb’s action is simply physical activity; on the other hand, it is a rational action, directed by Barb’s desires and deliberations. Insofar as it is physical activity, it can have some utility in relation to the shared good. It does, after all, save the lives of five members of the

200 Restrictions good. It does not follow that her action can be a means toward the shared good (that includes Scott), for a means is more than physical activity; it is rationally directed activity. By itself, physical activity produces various effects but it is not directed to any of them. In contrast, a means is directed to an end, but it can be so directed only by a mind that is aware of the end. Maximizing rationality is not concerned with the direction of the action. Or rather, its concern with the direction of the action, if it has any, views this direction as one more product of the undirected bodily movement. The direction toward the death of Scott might be viewed as one negative product of Barb’s action. The products of the action are good by existing. They are not good as possessing. In contrast, within possessing rationality, the individual elements of a shared good are not in fact good unless they are shared. The lives of the five, for instance, are important elements of this greater shared good. They do not belong to this good, however, just by existing. They belong to the good by the order found in actions and desires. Barb’s action is inimical to this order of possessing the good together. Her action, then, produces elements of the shared good, but it does not produce the shared good. To the contrary, it is destructive of the shared good. The restriction against killing Scott does not concern mere physical activity, of the sort that Jonathan Bennett (1966; 1995) investigates, which might sometimes be usefully good for the shared good. Rather, it concerns Barb’s rational action, which is in no way desirable for the shared good. It might be desirable for other goods, but not for the shared good that includes Scott. Barb’s rational action, an action of harmful using, directs Scott to be a productive part rather than a possessing part. In no way can Barb choose this action as a means toward a good that includes Scott as a possessing part. According to Kagan (1989, 50), some consideration must speak in favor of Barb killing Scott. Otherwise, thinks Kagan, one must concede that there is no reason at all to save the five. But of course there might be a reason to save the five that does not translate into a reason to kill Scott. Barb wants to save the five because she wishes to share the good with them. Sharing the good, then, is a reason to save the five. It does not follow that sharing the good is a reason to kill Scott. The action does save the five, but it is not an act of sharing the good, which was the reason to save the five. On the other hand, attempting to change the dictator’s mind is an act of sharing the good with the five, even if it will almost certainly prove fruitless. Sharing the good is not the same as producing an element of the good. Solidarity, then, displays an asymmetry between good and evil, which is sometimes thought to be problematic for restrictions (Kagan 1989, 101–25, 177–81; Mack 1998, 74–75). In her single action (so the argument goes),

Restrictions 201 Barb does two things: she kills Scott but she also prevents five killings. In relation to the shared good, the first seems to be evil and the second good. The restriction, however, focuses only upon the evil she does, seemingly giving no credit for the good she does. If killing one person is evil, then it seems that preventing five killings must be correspondingly good. Her action, then, is overall good. In relation to sharing the good, however, Barb is not, in her single rational action, doing two things. She is not rejecting Scott from the shared good and also sharing the good with the five. By rejecting Scott, she also refuses to share the good with the five, for the good she wishes to share belongs not only to the five but also to Scott. Doing good and doing evil, then, are asymmetrical because by doing evil, Barb precludes the possibility of doing good. The restriction against harmful using, then, does not target some really awful evil that must be avoided because it is so much greater than other evils. The magnitude of evil found in harmful using is not so great that it can never be outweighed no matter how many other evils are piled up against it. Rather, the restriction targets something that cannot be good, not even usefully good. This absolute evil (although still relative to the shared good) arises from the nature of possessing rationality. By its nature, Barb’s action of killing Scott is a rejection of Scott as part of the united subject, and when the united subject is rejected, so also is the united goal, which receives its numerical unity on account of the subject it completes. Barb’s desire to attain the shared good (which includes Scott), then, provides no reason whatsoever to kill Scott, not even a pro tanto reason to maximize the good. A desire for a good does not give rise to a desire to reject the good, even when rejecting the good produces some elements of the good. Once Barb has rejected the good, she cares not the least for any elements that her action might produce. 11.6  Foreseeing Violations Restrictions, however, still seem troubling. After all, if Barb’s action is a rejection of the shared good, then so also are the dictator’s actions. Indeed, they are more so, since they are greater in number. If Barb’s action can in no way be desired as a means to the shared good, then neither can the dictator’s actions. Yet in rejecting her own action of killing Scott, Barb sees the dictator’s actions as in some way more worthy of choice than her own action of killing Scott. Somehow, she desires the dictator’s actions as consistent with the shared good, while her own action is deemed inconsistent. From Barb’s perspective, however, the dictator’s actions differ dramatically from her own. She orders and directs her actions to certain changes and to certain goods. The dictator’s actions do not fall within this

202 Restrictions direction, for Barb foresees the dictator’s actions as unfortunate effects. She does not direct these effects to any good. In this regard, they are like the death of Mike (in Saving Jim), which Kay foresees as she saves Jim’s life. Kay does not direct the death of Mike toward the goal of saving Jim. Rather, she directs her action to the good of saving Jim and foresees that Mike will die. The terror bomber provides a contrast. He does direct the civilians and their deaths to a goal beyond themselves. They serve as the cause by which he will end the war. Within his action, which is an ordered reality, he imparts a useful order to the civilians. Kay imparts no such order to Mike. In her desires, Mike can retain the order of a possessing part, although her limitations force her to share the good with him only indirectly and for a time. The strategic bomber also provides a parallel for Barb. The bomber does cause the death of the innocent civilians. Nevertheless, he does not order or direct them to any goal. They do not cause the good that he seeks. In his desires, then, he does not take the role of the civilians as possessing parts and replace it with the contrary role of producing parts. The same can be said for Barb when she refuses to kill Scott. She directs her own action, but she does not direct the actions of the dictator. They are foreseen as unfortunate consequences. They are not taken up and directed to the goal of saving Scott. Like Kay, who sees a threat to the life of Mike, Barb sees a threat (from the dictator) to the life of the five. Like Kay, who is limited and unable (given her plans) to remove the threat to Mike, Barb is unable to remove the threat to the five. More precisely, she is not able to remove this threat as long as she keeps her plan to share the good with Scott. Barb’s action of killing Scott is objectionable (it has nothing desirable about it in relation to the good shared with Scott) precisely on account of the order that she gives to it. From Barb’s perspective, the dictator’s actions are different. She does not order them; rather, she foresees them. She does not direct them to the death of the five. She foresees them as unfortunate consequences outside the scope of her limited order. Ultimately, the difference between the actions (hers and the dictator’s) is like the difference between Kenny’s different “actions.” He pounds nails and he also frightens crows. He directs his action to the pounding of nails; he provides no direction to the frightening of crows. More aptly, the difference is like the different “actions” of the strategic bomber. He both destroys the munitions factory and kills the civilians. The first falls within the order of his action; the latter falls outside the order and may be called his action only in a secondary sense. Like the strategic bomber, Barb gives no order to the dictator’s actions. They are not her actions (McMahan 2009, 357). Most aptly, the difference parallels Kay’s situation. Kay chooses to save Jim, but on account of her limitations she fails to remove the threat to

Restrictions 203 the life of Mike. For Kay, the threat is not a consequence of her choice. The threat is already present, and her choice concerns whether or not she should remove it. Similarly for Barb. The dictator’s actions are not a consequence of her choice. They are a threat to the life of the five that is already present (in his plans). She does not order this threat to destroy the life of the five. Rather, she chooses not to remove this threat. Given her plan to share the good with Scott, she is unable to remove this threat. Ultimately, then, the difference between Barb’s action and the dictator’s actions is a difference between action, which is ordered, and the failure to act, that is, the failure to remove the dictator’s actions. For Barb, the dictator’s actions are not her own. The “act” of killing the civilians is not most precisely the action of the strategic bomber. Even more so, the dictator’s actions are not Barb’s actions. As such, they are not ordered by her. By foreseeing his actions, she does not direct the five to an alien good. 11.7  The Difference between Desire and Preference The opponent of restrictions might protest that Barb’s perspective is not the perspective of the whole. Admittedly, she herself does not direct the dictator’s actions. Nevertheless, his actions do have a direction. They do subordinate the good of the five to some alien good. The subordination is not Barb’s own, but the subordination is present nevertheless. Indeed, in the case of the dictator, the subordination is greater (being five) than would be the case if Barb were to kill Scott. From the perspective of the whole, then, it seems that Barb’s single subordination is preferable to the five subordinations of the dictator. Yet Barb chooses to keep her own perspective and rejects the perspective of the whole.1 Expressed in yet a different way, the objection claims that Barb is being narcissistic (Kamm 1996, 249–51; Tadros 2011, 124). She is more concerned with her own possession of the good, which she maintains by refusing to kill Scott, than she is with the good of others, such as the good of the dictator or the good of the five (Nelkin and Rickless 2015, 403). She is like the egoistic virtue ethicist who wants her own virtue not because it benefits others but because it is her own completion (Swanton 2015). For Barb, benefitting others is only secondary; primarily, she does not want to give up her own possession of the good. An important truth lies behind these ways of expressing the objection. Just as Barb’s action is in no way desirable in relation to the good that includes Scott and the five, so also the dictator’s actions are in no way desirable (for this same good). From this observation, however, it does not follow that the restriction should be abandoned. It does not follow that Barb’s action is more desirable (in relation to the shared good) than are

204 Restrictions the actions of the dictator. Rather, what follows is that none of the actions are desirable. In a sense, however, some actions might be preferable. Preferring must be clearly distinguished from desiring. We can prefer a lesser evil, without thereby desiring it. The truth behind this statement, however, must be approached with care. Consider the following case. Hostage: A terrorist holds Suzie, Tony, Joseph, Dominic, and Daniela as hostages. He now threatens to kill one of them in order to prove to his negotiators that he is indeed willing to kill the hostages to get what he wants. Suzie does not want the terrorist to kill any of the hostages. She recoils from all of the possible killings. Nevertheless, she does not flee them equally. She is more averse to the terrorist killing herself than she is to the terrorist killing any of the others. This greater aversion, however, does not lead her to hope positively that the terrorist will kill any of the others. She wants no killings, but she has a greater aversion to one killing. Her preference arises from aversion alone and not from desire (Dougherty 2013, 530–31). For agent relative goods, preferences are not monadic, involving only one term; rather, they are dyadic. Within the shared good of playing the musical piece, Louis has a smaller part than does Clare. In one way, then, he prefers Clare’s part, since it is greater within the shared good. His preference, however, is not so simplistic. He also prefers his own part, as that which he himself contributes. These apparently conflicting preferences do not in fact conflict because they do not concern the exact same object. The first concerns what is a greater good (or a greater part of the shared good); the second concerns what belongs most especially to Louis himself. Louis, then, can prefer Clare’s part in one way and prefer his own part in another way. By having a greater aversion to her own murder, then, Suzie does not perceive her murder as somehow a greater evil within the whole. Rather, her preference is based upon what belongs most especially to herself within the whole. For the agent neutral good, preference seems to be monadic. Agent relative consequentialism might be construed as an attempt to correct this deficit. The same good from different perspectives can be evaluated differently by different agents. Nevertheless, even advocates of agent relative consequentialism, such as Jamie Dreier (2011, 101), tend to maintain a one-to-one relationship between preference (on the one hand) and what is better (on the other hand). As a result, the differential evaluation of agent relative consequentialism remains obscure (Schroeder 2007, 291).

Restrictions 205 The resulting norms of behavior might mimic those of solidarity, but the underlying rationale, as well as the motivation of the agent, is entirely disparate (Schroeder 2017, 1478–79; Hurley 2020, 30–31). Part of the difference arises from the distinction between preference and desire. Preference is not the same as desire, at least not the full-fledged desire that leads to action. Louis has within him both the preference for Clare’s part (as greater within the whole) and the preference for his part (as more his own). Both these preferences can remain within Louis even while he chooses the action of playing his own part. This choice is precisely what the shared good demands of him. He would oppose the shared good if his preference for Clare’s part led him to attempt to play the cello, which is not his part within the shared good. Louis’s preferences, then, are different from the desire by which he orders himself to act. They are different from the desire by which he directs himself and those things around him to various goals. Preference does not provide direction. Desire does. The same applies to Suzie. When she prefers that she herself should not be murdered, she need not desire that the terrorist murder someone else. She need not direct the terrorist to an act of murder. Her preference abstracts from any such order or direction. Her preference arises from aversion toward all of the terrorist’s potential murders. It is just that the aversion toward herself being murdered is greater. Aversion from an evil seems to imply a good that is preserved. In this case, the good may be expressed passively and negatively: the good of not being murdered. This good applies to everyone involved, and not just to herself. Nevertheless, she prefers it in her own case, as being more connected with herself. When expressed in this negative manner, her preference can proceed to a kind of desire, but not to the desire that provides order. She can desire (and not merely prefer) that she herself will not be killed. The desire for an absence of action (not-being-murdered), however, provides no direction. By having a greater desire that she herself not be murdered, Suzie in no way desires that anyone should be murdered. For everyone involved, she can desire—to varying degrees—that he or she not be murdered. Her preference does not lead her to the positive desire that provides order. She does not desire that the terrorist should kill anyone. 11.8  Concrete Desires Let us return to Barb and the dictator. It seems that the dictator’s five actions of killing are a greater evil, within the whole, than Barb’s single action of killing. In some sense, then, his acts of subordinating are preferable to Barb’s. It does not follow that any of the acts are desirable.

206 Restrictions The five are in much the same situation as Suzie. They might well prefer that Scott be killed rather than that they themselves should be killed. It does not follow that they want Barb to kill Scott. What they desire is that no one should be killed. They desire neither Barb’s action of killing nor the dictator’s actions of killing, even if they prefer the former to the latter (Dougherty 2013, 530–31). The preference maintains a certain level of abstraction. Barb might be presented with the possibility of one killing undermining the shared good or five killings undermining the shared good, and she might well prefer the former to the latter. The possibilities, however, have abstracted from the concrete details. Who is doing the killing is left out. Why the killing is done is left out. Similarly, the preference of the five remains at a certain level of abstraction. It abstracts from the possibility (however remote) of there being no killings. This possibility is what they desire. Abstracting from this possibility, they can prefer one killing to five; they can prefer the killing of someone else to the killing of themselves. If there must be some murders (a counterfactual supposition), then they prefer Barb’s murder of Scott. With this preference, they do not move to desire concretely that Barb should kill Scott. This more concrete desire would be something like a choice by which they direct Barb to kill Scott. It would be a desire to subordinate Scott to their own good. It would be a desire for Barb to reject the shared good. In the end, it would be a desire to exclude Barb and Scott from the shared good (McMahan 2009, 357). Barb’s preference is more abstract than that of the five. She considers only the difference of one as opposed to five. She does not include, within her preference, the concrete detail of the agent acting. In the case of the single murder (as opposed to the five), she does not include the fact that she herself is the one who murders. When this detail is added, she can no longer remain at the level of preference. She must move to desire. Once she herself is added as an agent, then the order of the action is added, an order that she herself must provide by way of desire. Barb, then, cannot prefer her own act of murder over the five acts of the dictator; this preference would lead to desire and to the order (of her rational activity) that rejects Scott. Like the five, Barb desires only one thing, that no one should be murdered, that there be no acts of murder. Because of her limitations, she can achieve only part of this desire, only the part that she herself contributes. She can refuse to kill Scott. She cannot make the dictator cease from his murderous intent. Her desire is founded upon the shared good that includes everyone involved. She might hope, by choosing to kill Scott, to prevent the dictator from killing the five. In this hope, however, she does not desire the shared good. She directs Scott to become a producing part, thereby taking away

Restrictions 207 his role as a possessing part. From the shared good, then, she can desire only one thing: that no one murders. For both Barb and the five, then, none of the murders has anything desirable about them (in relation to the shared good). If the five desired Barb to kill Scott, then they would want the direction by which Scott is subordinated. If Barb desired the dictator to kill the five (so that she might preserve herself from killing Scott), then she would want the direction by which the five are subordinated. This exclusion of desire for any murder leads, in the case of Barb, to a preference that the dictator should murder rather than that she herself should murder. A preference for her own act of murdering (because it is lesser) would include herself as an agent who directs Scott to be a producing part. Her preference for the dictator’s murder provides no such direction. His actions are not her actions. Only in the abstract can Barb prefer one killing to five. The concrete detail of her own agency (in the case of the one killing) brings order—a destructive order—into the preference. Barb, then, is completely consistent in her perspective. She can recognize that no murder is good for the shared good. Indeed, the murders have nothing good about them. Nevertheless, she can prefer that there should be one murder rather than five. At the same time, she can prefer the five murders of the dictator to her own murder of Scott. In this preference, she does not choose for the dictator to kill. She does not direct him to kill. She does not direct him to subordinate the five. Rather, she fails to prevent him. Her desire for the shared good can lead to no other choice. Barb desires to play her part within the whole. She must share the good insofar as she is able. From the impartial perspective of Robin, the shared good directs Barb to protect Scott from the threat of her own (potential) action. Within this limitation, she might direct herself to change the dictator, trying to persuade him in some way or other, but in no way does she take the part of the dictator himself. After she does what she can, she must leave it to the dictator to play his part. 11.9  A Unified Relative Good The approach of Pettit—and that of Scheffler and Kagan as well—must flounder over restrictions, for it recognizes only comparisons of partial goods. It provides no coherent notion of a single unified good to be achieved. It has only partial goods that must be added up into an aggregate, which serves as something like a unified good. Pettit’s second-order reasons refer not to a numerically singular good; rather, they refer to numerically diverse goods that have only a unity of similarity. On his account, instances of keeping of restrictions serve as realizations of a certain kind of good. These instances are like quantized

208 Restrictions units, such as blocks of wood. They may be compared to one another as greater or lesser. When these distinct quantities are accumulated, no true unity arises. Each quantity has its separate existence and is united into an aggregate only through our mental calculations. The quantified parts serve to construct the fictional aggregation. Pettit’s prescriptive universalizing creates quantized units of the good. They exist independently of one another and are good independent of a particular subject. They attain a unity only by a kind of fictional aggregation. Scheffler’s maximizing rationality generates the same result, and Kagan’s (1989, 57) pro tanto reason to promote the good presumes that we are dealing with just such quantized units of the good. These goods are good as independent units and do not depend upon any united whole for their existence as good. In short, all three accounts give us agent neutral goods that are desired with existence-based desires. Within this framework, each violation of a restriction will be viewed as an independent unit that can be compared to other independent units. They do not depend upon the whole for their existence as particular evils. A unified good of the whole simply does not exist. The pseudo-united goal of the maximized aggregate is open-ended, having no clear or definite endpoint. It can be achieved only in part, always leaving some other part potentially yet to be achieved. Attributive goods cannot be atomized in this manner. They are good only through the relation to a unified subject. Anna’s health is good only because it relates to her overall good. Likewise, the knowledge of horses is good for the same reason. These goods are good precisely for Anna. They are not good for a hammer, nor are they good for Ariel, unless Anna and Ariel unite into a single subject of a new good. Within the good of solidarity, violations of restrictions are not viewed as quantized evils. No violation can ever be desired for the sake of the shared good. No violation has anything good about it (in relation to this good). Nothing is good for the united subject unless it is directed to that subject. In no way, however, can any act of harmful using be directed to the good of the whole. These violations, then, are absolute evils. Absolute, that is, relative to this particular shared good. In no way can they be desired. Barb does have desires concerning the actions of the dictator. She wants him to decide against killing the five. Her desire, however, has nothing to do with instantiating quantized units of universal goods. Rather, her desire stems from the numerical unity of the good. Her good is one with the dictator because the two of them are united in a single subject of the good. The good of this subject is realized most completely when no one commits an act of harmful using. Within the group, then, she has no desire for any killings, her own or the dictator’s.

Restrictions 209 That which cannot be desired, however, can be preferred, at least at some level of abstraction. What is preferred is not necessarily ordered or directed. Violations of restrictions, however, are repugnant to the good precisely insofar as they are ordered against the good. What is preferred— just like what is foreseen—does not enter into the order of an action. Restrictions, then, are paradoxical when the good is agent neutral, when it is realized in quantized units. They raise no paradox, however, for a good that is unified by the subject. Rejecting the subject can in no way be for the sake of the whole. On the other hand, an agent can foresee the loss of some part without subjecting this part and transforming it into a producing part. The agent can still desire this part as a subject of the good, for however brief a time. Only when we embrace relativity without reserve, then, does the paradox of restrictions disappear. Any attempt to maintain relativity while clinging to some aspect of neutrality is doomed to schizophrenia. Restrictions leave no middle ground. Either we must abandon them, or we must walk confidently in the direction of relativity, never looking back. Note 1 This way of expressing the objection is similar (but not identical) to Michael Ridge’s (2005) case against relativity within collective agents. Collective agents, claims Ridge, can have no consistent (universalizable) agent relative principle by which all agents must act. The collective whole must itself be an agent that would, by hypothesis, fall under the universal principle. Such systems (thinks Ridge) will sometimes have conflicts between the whole and the part, for what is advisable for the agent relative good of the whole will not be advisable for the agent relative good of the part. Such seems now to be the case for Barb and the shared good. For the whole group, fewer violations—which requires Barb’s violation—are better than more. For Barb (the part), more violations are better than her own singular violation. For several reasons, Ridge’s arguments do not in fact apply to solidarity. First, solidarity is not concerned with universalizing some principle. Rather, it is concerned with a numerically singular goal. Second, solidarity concedes that Barb may have other desires besides her desire for the shared good. Some of these desires—and perhaps the greater desires—may conflict with the shared good. In other words, the desire for the shared good is not necessarily overriding, but such overriding desires (which Ridge calls “insistent”) are a condition of Ridge’s argument. Furthermore, if we stipulate that Barb is driven by an overriding (insistent) desire for the shared good—that is, if Barb desires the shared good in everything—then Ridge (2005, 49–50) concedes that there will be no inconsistency in universalizing an agent relative principle, since there will be only one agent (the whole) with which to reconcile the principle.

12 Ethics

We have investigated some aspects of an entirely agent relative world, a world in which neutrality has been left behind. Because some agent relative goods are shared, this world is not isolating. It does not leave each agent to his or her own personal good. These shared goods—these goods of solidarity—provide many features present within common sense morality. Something like dignity (or worth), for example, arises for the members of a particular shared good. Within the same limited domain, something like charity or benevolence arises; those who pursue a shared good should seek to share it with their fellow members. For the most part we have focused upon what might be called the ethics of harm. Within the domain of solidarity, for instance, using others harmfully excludes them from the shared good. Failing to help, on the other hand, does not exclude an individual from the good. We can still share the good with those whom we fail to help, at least by desire and at least indirectly. For those who cut themselves off from the good, something like punishment makes sense, in which the person is put down, being returned to his or her proper place within the group. Finally, the ethics of harmfully using can also be viewed from the perspective of partiality, which leads to something like agent centered restrictions. These parallels with morality ultimately retain crucial differences. Most strikingly, they remain relative to the shared good. They do not extend to all human beings but only to those who share in the good. Furthermore, the pursuit of the shared good is not overriding, or at least it need not be. It can be outweighed by other goods that an agent might pursue. These defining features of morality—its universal scope and its overriding character—escape solidarity, or they apply to it only in limited special cases. 12.1  The Hope for an Ethics of Solidarity Perhaps—at least one might hope—some particular shared good can meet these two elements of morality. Might there be some shared good that is DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-12

Ethics 211 in fact universal to all human beings? And might this good be overriding, such that its pursuit must always outweigh the pursuit of other goods? Then solidarity might give rise to something that is like morality but is not morality. It might give rise to what could be called ethics. This chapter investigates the possibility of a universal ethics of solidarity. It makes no attempt (moving beyond the possibility) to establish this ethics. It considers two possible foundations upon which a universally overriding shared good might be established. The first possible foundation (Sections 12.2 and 12.3) will prove to be inadequate (Sections 12.4–12.6). The second foundation (Sections 12.7–12.9) will provide solid support for an agent relative ethics, but only at a great price, a price that the modern age is unwilling to pay (Hardie 1968, 23; Williams 1985, 30–53; Fitzpatrick 2000). The modern mind staggers at the thought of this price. It is inclined to reject this overriding shared good and settle for fragmented morality instead. At what price can this overriding shared good be found? At the price of Aristotle’s teleology. Universal ethics can arise only from a good established upon an Aristotelian human function. If this function is rejected—as it was at the beginning of the modern era—then we are left with only isolated particular goods, goods endorsed by some individuals but not by others. One might hold out hope that ethics can be purchased at a less prohibitive price. Perhaps a universal good can be found without a human function (Section 12.2), and perhaps this good can obtain something of an overriding character (Section 12.3). The search for such a good has motivated some recent work in virtue ethics. Ethics, in this schema, is founded upon human nature but not upon a functional human nature. This vision settles upon a nature of commonality, a nature of shared features, features found in all human beings or at least most human beings, but features that in no way include a human function. In particular, this vision emphasizes human reason, a reason embedded in our animality. Upon this commonality, we might hope to construct ethics (Hursthouse 1999; MacIntyre 1999; Foot 2001). In this chapter, perhaps more than in others, we merely paint a picture. We do not hope to establish the existence of a universal good or of an overriding reason for action. Rather, we hope to understand what such a good might look like. We will begin by making a case for this latter claim, the claim that reason as common—as opposed to reason as functional—can establish an overriding ethics of solidarity. We will then consider weaknesses in this case (Sections 12.4–12.6). Finally, we will show how reason as a function can overcome these weaknesses (Sections 12.7–12.9). 12.2  Reason: A Good Universally Shared Some goods that can be attained individually are able to be shared with others. Kenny can watch a movie by himself, but he can also choose to

212 Ethics share it with Krystyna. The two of them can watch it together and discuss it afterward. While Kenny can attain the good by himself, he thinks it is better to attain it together with Krystyna. Other goods, such as the good of Clare and Louis playing the musical piece together, can be attained only by sharing; they cannot be attained individually. Clare by herself can play only part of the piece, and Louis by himself can play only part. The good encapsulated in rational activity appears to belong to the second category. Any one individual is adequate to only part of the good. Reason has a rich diversity. On the one hand, it involves the investigation and discovery of the world around us, exemplified in fields as diverse as physics, biology, philosophy, and economics. On the other hand, it involves the deliberate construction of human artifacts, exemplified in fields as diverse as medicine, architecture, engineering, music, and poetry. In addition, human beings use what they have discovered to modify their own actions and the world around them. We praise many human beings for their accomplishments in these diverse fields, but no single individual fully captures all of the potential found within reason. Even the greatest polymath only scratches the surface of the depths of reason. Those who wish fully to attain the good of reason, then, must do so in union with others (MacIntyre 1999, 108–109). Indeed, the needed companions are quite extensive. Plausibly, the entire human race is still inadequate for the task. The good of reason, then, can never be attained completely. It can be attained with some measure of success through a union with others; it can be attained most completely through a union with all those other human beings who pursue the good of reason. And since reason is common to all human beings (or at least to most human beings), the good of reason extends to the whole human race. Indeed, some would argue that reason is common to many other animals as well, although to a lesser degree (Singer 2009, 568–569). The sharing of the good of reason is more extensive than suggested so far. It is shared not only in the accomplishment but also in the bringing about. Suppose that all human beings are well-educated and versed in some field within the good of reason. These human beings must unite, as do Clare and Louis, because each attains only a part of the overall good. Now add the reality of how we, as human beings, must become educated. We do not grow naturally to knowledge, the way a tree might grow in the presence of sufficient water and sunlight. Rather, we must be educated by other human beings (MacIntyre 1999, 63–79). Indeed, we must be nourished and protected from the environment. This need for physical support does not cease, typically, when coming to full maturity. We still depend upon others for food, clothing, warmth, and other necessities (MacIntyre 1999, 97). Human beings must unite, then, not only so that multiple individuals might possess together what each has attained separately. In addition, they

Ethics 213 must unite in order to bring about the conditions in which any individual can attain even some small part of the good. Plausibly, this latter union would include the coercive tools of punishment, by which those who oppose the shared good can be restrained and their destructive actions can be corrected, so that individuals who are put down—treated merely as productive parts— can be lifted up, restored to their proper place as possessing parts. In other words, this union could include something like a state or government. Throughout human history, the masses of people have done little more than toil for the basic necessities of life, often so that the wealthy can lead a life of luxury, or worse yet, a life in pursuit of power by way of the violence of war. The claim regarding a universal shared human good, however, is no claim that its pursuit has been carried out for the most part, or that when it has been carried out, it has been carried out well (Hursthouse 1999, 223). One might add, by way of amelioration, that even a life of labor can be a life sharing in the good of reason. With our reason, we grasp the means by which to attain our bodily needs. With our reason, we share what we have with those who are close to us. And with our reason, we raise and educate the next generation, thereby sustaining the good of reason as an ongoing project that continues into the future. Although the good of reason is universal, it is shared at the parochial level. We may share the good with all human beings, or at least with all of good will (those who have not turned against the good), but we share it by way of those who are close to us. We attain our part, however small, and we share it with our family and friends. Through these friends, our good belongs not only to ourselves but to others, and through these others to a yet wider community. 12.3  Reason: An All-Pervasive Good So much for the claim that the good of reason is a universally shared good. It remains to consider the case for the overriding nature of this good. This good, if it is a parallel to morality, must outweigh other considerations. It must be the first and primary pursuit, rather than just one more pursuit among many. In some manner, it must enter into all of our pursuits (MacIntyre 1999, 77). This last claim, since it seems to be the easiest to sustain, will be central to the argument, presented below, for the overriding nature of the good of reason. Reason enters into all our pursuits precisely because we pursue anything only by using our reason to determine the means to achieve our goals (Korsgaard 2008, 140–43). We cannot set aside reason and simply pursue the good of bodily nourishment. We must pursue the good of nourishment in a rational way. Even if we were to try to set aside reason, we could do so only by using our reason to determine how to accomplish this desire. Every

214 Ethics good that we pursue, then, partakes in reason. Some goods we do not pursue, but they simply come to us, even as we might acquire vitamin D simply by walking in the sunlight. These goods have some independence from the good of reason, but even they fall under the good of reason (Hursthouse 1999, 206–207). The health we have on account of vitamin D, for instance, we desire as ordered to other goods that we do pursue rationally. Not only is every good pursued by way of reason. In addition, every good, or at least nearly every good, is possessed (or at least possessed fully) by way of reason. We attain a good completely when we know it and most of all when we know it with the understanding of reason. We might have bodily integrity, but if we are comatose, then we do not possess this bodily health as fully as we might. We most completely possess a good meal not only by the sensible knowledge of it but also by our rational awareness. We are not simply dung beetles that sensibly enjoy the taste of our meals (Kass 1999). Likewise, goods such as material wealth are also possessed most fully through reason. Our material possessions provide satisfaction through the rational understanding that we are able to use these material goods, a use that is itself made possible by way of reason. Furthermore, we share goods by way of reason, most of all by way of communication, using some form of language that engages reason (MacIntyre 1999, 68–74). We tell others about our day; we tell them about our joys and our sorrows; we tell them about our rational musings. Our goods become the goods of others through our rational communication, which is fulfilled in the rational understanding of those others. In addition, we share our goods only by rationally devising the means to share them. We determine, by the use of our reason, how best to help our friends attain their goods. It is difficult to imagine how we could share any good without our reason. Indeed, we cannot desire a good as shared—which is essential to the very sharing—unless we can understand what it means to have a good as possessed together. In no way, then, can we possess any good, nor share any good, without the good in some way partaking in reason. Every good must be pursued as a rational good. Reason must outweigh other goods, then, because without reason we could neither pursue nor possess the good. We cannot decide to set aside the good of reason in favor of some other good, for then we would lose even this other good. 12.4  Two Different Ways of Being Overriding The good of reason, it has been argued, is both universally shared and overriding. Between these two claims, the second—that the good of reason is overriding—is by far the weaker. The argument falters upon an ambiguity on what it means to be overriding. In some way or other, an overriding

Ethics 215 reason is one that must enter into all of our deliberations. But in what manner does it enter our deliberations? On the one hand, it might enter as the reason to act, or at least as a potential reason to act. On the other hand, it might enter our deliberations as a tool or instrument. Morality is overriding in the first way; reason, as presented in the argument above, is overriding in the second way. Morality must always enter our deliberations as a reason for acting, which is what troubled Bernard Williams (1981b) so much. In contrast, reason must always enter our deliberations as the tool we use to deliberate. For attributive goods, it must also enter our deliberations as an instrument for possessing the good we seek. Reason enters our deliberations in the first way—as a reason for acting—not simply in terms of the power or capacity of reason, which can assist us in various ways, but in terms of the good of reason. The completion of reason itself, such as knowing the truth, must provide a motivation within our deliberations. The good of reason is far more complex than simply knowing the truth. We are completed through our reason in many other ways as well. The ability of reason to solve practical problems, for instance, can itself be a good of reason. As a doctor, Dan is completed through using his practical knowhow in medical matters. The good of reason can be taken broadly to refer to human activity that engages reason (Lawrence 2006, 48, 53). More precisely, the good of reason is this activity insofar as it completes our human capacities. Most especially, of course, the capacity of reason itself is completed, but typically other capacities are completed in concert with reason. The example of Dan highlights the difficulty of sorting out the two different ways in which reason enters our deliberations, either as a reason for acting or as a tool. Dan uses his reason as a tool in order to solve the medical problem with which he is faced. This very use of reason, however, completes himself as a reasoning being. As such, he might solve the medical problem, in part, in order to be fulfilled as a reasoning being. In other words, the good of reason might provide one reason for his deliberations, in which he uses the tool of reason. On account of the intricate overlap of these two roles, one might well provide an argument for one role, thinking that it applies to the other. Disentangling the two roles is complicated yet further because the instrumental role is itself twofold. Reason is both a power by which we deliberate and (in part) the power by which we possess various goods. As Pablo pursues culinary pleasures, for instance, he uses his reason, in deliberation, to calculate how best to satisfy his desires. He also enjoys—and possesses— the food not only by way of his senses but also by way of his reason. This last point raises a further ambiguity with regard to the good of reason itself. What is Pablo pursuing when he seeks culinary pleasures? Is he seeking a sensible good of pleasure, which is attained, in part, by way

216 Ethics of his reason? Or is he seeking a rational good that is realized, in part, through his powers of sensation? Both possibilities seem plausible. The answer may depend upon Pablo’s use of reason (as a tool) in deliberations. Do Pablo’s sensible desires set the goal for which reason becomes a mere instrument? Or does the good of reason, which is sometimes realized in various sensible pleasures, set the goal? In the first case, the good of reason (as opposed to the tool of reason) does not enter his deliberations. On the other hand, he does use reason as a tool, both to figure out how to attain his goal and in the very act of attaining or possessing his goal. In the second case, the good of reason itself provides the motivation for the deliberations. Given these multiple overlapping ambiguities, the two ways in which reason can be overriding within our deliberations might easily be confused, especially if the two have not been clearly delineated. The case made above concerns the overriding role of reason within our deliberations as an instrument or tool. It leaves open the possibility that the good of reason is not overriding (although the tool of reason is). 12.5  Absolute and Hypothetical Necessity Another ambiguity muddles the issue yet further. It is unclear in what way a reason for acting is overriding. In what way “must” this reason enter our deliberations? Not even the pretensions of morality would claim that morality always does in fact provide the decisive reason for acting. When individuals make a wrong choice, morality does not in fact outweigh other goods, even if it should. When Chuck steals a car, he gives greater weight to his own possessions than to morality. The manner in which morality “must” outweigh other considerations is weaker than absolute necessity (or a necessity without qualifications). This observation provides further evidence that the case made above in favor of reason misses the mark. The case above provides evidence for a necessity without qualification. We cannot get by without reason (as a tool) when pursuing various goods. Even the libertine who outright rejects the good of reason in favor of sensible pleasures still uses reason as a tool to achieve his pleasures. Sometimes, perhaps, reason is present virtually, by way of past deliberations, but it is present nevertheless. Indeed, as John McDowell (1998, 169–73) suggests, precisely his reason allows the libertine to step back and affirm or reject various goods—including the good of reason—as he sees fit. The libertine rejects the good of reason by way of his reason. Unfortunately, the manner in which the reasons of morality “must” be overriding in our deliberations has never become clear. Once absolute necessity has been eliminated, it is unclear what kind of necessity remains.

Ethics 217 Is it hypothetical necessity? Given a certain end, certain means are then necessary? Given that Pablo wants to lose weight, for instance, he must go on a diet and exercise. This possibility—of hypothetical necessity—has typically been rejected, at least since the time of Kant. Agent relative goods are another matter. They swim only in the ambience of hypothetical necessity. As Elizabeth Anscombe (1981a) pointed out, these goods do not generate an absolute or “moral” ought. They generate only hypothetical ought-statements. Ancient ethics, as presented by Aristotle and others, look for nothing else besides hypothetical necessity. Given the human end—which is the good of reason—certain means follow necessarily. Certain behaviors, and certain virtues, are necessary for the good human life. Just such a hypothetical argument was provided above to suggest that the good of reason is a shared good. Those who really pursue the good of reason must also—with a hypothetical necessity—pursue this good as shared with other human beings. They cannot attain it in an isolated manner. Just as Clare can attain the good of the musical piece only together with Louis, so human beings can attain the good of reason only together with others. The question before us now, however, concerns the good of reason itself. In what way is it necessary? It is one thing to say that a certain means is necessary, given the good of reason as an end. It is another thing to say that the good of reason is itself a necessary end. We might conceive the good of reason as the human end by a kind of absolute psychological necessity. All human beings, by their psychological makeup, must always pursue the good of reason. This conception is patently false. By no absolute necessity do we pursue the good of reason (Lott 2014, 766–68). Furthermore, this conception would place the good of reason at extreme odds with morality. The reasons of morality are overriding, but we do not follow them necessarily on account of our psychological makeup. If the good of reason were psychologically necessary, then it would look nothing like morality. If the good of reason is not set as the end by way of absolute necessity, then in what way is it necessary? By another hypothetical necessity? Is there some higher good that demands—by hypothetical necessity—that we pursue the good of reason? This possibility poses a potential infinite regress. Do we desire this higher good with absolute necessity or with yet another hypothetical necessity on account of some yet higher good? We can avoid an infinite regress, it seems, only by positing (at some point) a good that we pursue with an absolute necessity, a good that we cannot help but pursue. Once this absolute good is posited, however, then it seems that everything else will follow with an iron necessity to the conclusion that—barring ignorance—the good of reason itself must be desired.

218 Ethics At any rate, this higher good has not been identified. It has only been posited and left mysterious. The good of reason, however, was supposed to be the highest good. Is this not the conclusion that Aristotle reaches? Is this not the conclusion suggested by the arguments above? Now, reason turns out to be subordinate. Worse yet, it is subordinate to something unknown. 12.6  The Overall Good The agent relative good may present a way out of this tangle. It provides a kind of higher good, a good that is pursued with some sort of psychological necessity. In all of our pursuits—at least of agent relative goods—we must pursue what we have called our overall good (Section 4.6) (Lawrence 2006, 37, 49; Badhwar 2014, 29–32). When Pablo seeks culinary pleasure, for instance, he pursues it as part of his overall good. Likewise, he pursues knowledge as part of his overall good. Health, friendship, and possessions are all parts of his overall good. Every good is a partial realization of his  overall good. For every attributive good, Pablo must perceive it as completing himself. He himself, then provides, a kind of unity for all of these diverse goods. They are all goods of his. This kind of amorphous good—all that completes himself—he desires with an absolute necessity. This ultimate goal, pursued with a psychological necessity, is not the good of reason. Nor does it seem particularly to favor the good of reason. Rather, the good of reason is one good among many others, each of which partially constitutes Pablo’s overall good. Pablo recognizes that he has a variety of capacities and that he is fulfilled by realizing these various capacities (Kraut 2007, 131–204). He has the capacity to understand with his reason, so he is fulfilled through this understanding. He has the capacity to experience the world through his senses, so he is fulfilled through this experience. He has the capacity to take pleasure in various objects, so he is fulfilled through this pleasure. Each capacity, with its realization, provides a partial fulfillment for Pablo. No capacity, however, entirely completes Pablo. The word “fulfill,” in this context, does not have a particularly strong meaning. It expresses the idea of providing some completion, however minimal. It does not express psychological contentment or ultimate achievement. Even pleasure in some inadequate object, such as drugs, provides fulfillment in this minimal manner. It may not be psychologically fulfilling, but it does provide some completion, which Pablo can pursue in his actions. The overall good is not “higher” in that it is better than other goods. Rather, it encompasses other goods. It is a kind of amalgamation. It is not a consequentialist collection, for it receives its unity precisely insofar as it completes a subject. Pablo’s overall good is that which completes him. It turns out that he is partially completed by a variety of things, so that his overall good is constituted by this variety. These various definite goods,

Ethics 219 such as the good of reason, the good of pleasure, the good of friendship, and so on, are constitutive means to his overall good (Section 4.8). The overall good, then, provides necessity with diversity. It is a psychologically necessary starting point. At the same time, it does not lead, through a string of hypothetical necessities, to the pursuit of a single good. Rather, it leads to the pursuit of a variety of goods. On the face of it, we often pursue various goods according to our own set priorities. Pablo can decide which of his capacities are more important to him. For this very reason, Pablo does not pursue any one of his capacities with an absolute necessity (Lawrence 2006, 39). Perhaps he will choose to prefer the good of reason, but perhaps he will choose to prefer the good of culinary pleasures. Both complete him to some extent. Placing culinary pleasures above reason, however, seems in some manner askew. Both may be parts of Pablo’s good, but they do not appear to be equal parts. It is more fulfilling—far more fulfilling—to understand the world around us than to take pleasure in foods. Indeed, the good of theoretical reason, at least when shared with others, seems to be greater than any of the other goods that Pablo might seek (Nagel 1972, 257–58). His overall good, then, does not appear to be a haphazard collection of goods. Rather, it has a coherent order to it. Pablo might protest, however, that his overall good is found in a collection of a variety of goods (Nagel 1972, 256–57). The priority of reason, if there is any, arises only from personal preference. By itself, the good of reason has no particularly exalted place within Pablo’s overall good. It is unclear what it would mean to say that reason, or any other good, is highest by its nature. The omnipresence of reason, argued for above, does not establish its priority over other goods. It merely establishes its universal utility. 12.7  A Human Function Such is the conclusion, at any rate, if we leave the human function out of the equation. We now wish to see whether the human function can succeed where the mere capacity of reasoning has failed (Foot 2001, 25–37). Can the human function, identified with reason, transform the good of reason into an overriding good? As noted above, we pursue this question not to establish whether or not human beings have a function. Rather, we wish to see what the shared good of reason might look like if there is in fact a human function. A human function provides what was lacking in the argument above; it provides a unity to Pablo himself. With a function, he is not simply a collection of capacities and desires. He is a unified whole that is directed to some particular goal (Nagel 1972, 256–59). We can use the analogy of a car to clarify the point. We should keep in mind, however, that a car does not have

220 Ethics an inherent function. Rather, we simply designate some function for which we use it. A human function, if there is one, must be inherent to what we are. A machine such as an automobile could be conceived as a collection of various capacities, such as the capacity to provide music through speakers, the capacity to provide cool or warm air, the capacity to provide movement, the capacity to provide shelter from the environment, and so on. Viewed in this manner, the car is an odd assortment. Typically, however, we view the car as a unified machine because the car has a function that unifies all these capacities: the car is meant to transport individuals (and perhaps cargo as well). All the other capacities contribute to this one function. The music, for instance, makes the transportation more enjoyable, the protection from the environment makes the transportation safer and more pleasant. At times, we might use these particular capacities even apart from the transportation. We might sit in a parking lot listening to music or waiting out a rainstorm. In those cases, however, we are using the car but not precisely insofar as it is a car. On account of its function, the car has one primary unifying good. A good car provides good transportation. A car with an excellent stereo system but with a malfunctioning engine is a bad car, but a car with an excellent engine and no stereo system is still a good car, although perhaps it could be better with a stereo system. It would not be better by the mere addition of another good, as if the car is good by piling up a variety of goods. Rather, it would be better by elevating its essential good, which is transportation. The addition of the stereo qualifies the one essential good, making the transportation to be better. The good of transportation is not one among many goods piled up alongside each other. Rather, it is overriding. It can never be trumped by some other good, for any good that excluded the good of transportation would destroy the car’s function. The same may be said for human beings—if they have a function. If Pablo has the function of reasoning, then this one good is essential. Other goods might make his life better, but not by mere addition. Rather, they would qualify his good of reasoning. Pablo’s culinary pleasures, for instance, would extend and heighten his essential good of reason. In this manner, reason becomes an overriding good. The pursuit of every good is the pursuit of the good of reason, which can be realized in a variety of other capacities. Even his continued existence is good insofar as it is an existence for the activity of reason. Any pursuit of a particular good that excludes the good of reason must be rejected (Foot 2001, 52–65). If Pablo’s pursuit of his culinary pleasures prevents him from helping Daniela move, an action demanded (let us suppose) by his shared good of reason, then Pablo must reject his culinary pleasures. The argument may be summarized as follows. Pablo begins with an absolutely necessary desire (at least in the realm of possession-based desires):

Ethics 221 he must seek his overall good; he must seek what fulfills or completes him. But just as a car is fulfilled through transportation, which is its function, and not through the completion of secondary capacities, so also Pablo is fulfilled through reasoning, which is his function. Pablo’s overall good is identified with reason. All other goods are particular realizations of this rational good. The identity of a human function, if there is one, is not immediately clear. We must, like Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics, I.7, 1097b23–1098a17), search for this function. For Aristotle, a sign of the human function is its peculiarity to human beings: reason is not shared with other animals. We might add some of the arguments provided above. Reason, for instance, is found in the pursuit of every good; in addition, the possession of any good requires it. The need to search for the human function might explain why many human beings, throughout history, have pursued other goods instead of the good of reason. All human beings desire their overall good, but not all conclude that their overall good is found in reason. They might suppose that it is realized most of all in some other capacity, such as the capacity to feel pleasure. 12.8  Function versus Desire In the account given above, function transforms the good of reason—making it overriding—on account of its directive role. Function differs from capacity—which implies mere ability—by adding a kind of direction. The car’s function of transporting, for instance, indicates more than the ability to move items; it implies that the car, as a whole, is directed to this action of transporting. Similarly, Pablo’s function of reasoning indicates more than the ability to reason; it implies that he, as a person, is directed to the activity of reasoning, that he has reasoning as his purpose. Like desire, a function reaches out to the good. Dan has the good of medical skill, but he possesses it as an inherent good only if he desires it as such. With his desire, he directs himself toward his skill under the formality of some good. Similarly, through its function, a car is directed to the good of transportation. Through its function, then, transportation belongs to the car as its good. Absent its function, transporting people or items is simply something that happens to the car. With its function, the car is directed to this action as its good. Unlike a car, human beings have conscious desires. They are directed to an end both by their function (supposing they have one) and by their conscious desires. They can choose to direct themselves to this or that good (Korsgaard 2013, 19–22). The two directions—arising either from desire or from function—might not coincide. Pablo’s function directs him to the

222 Ethics good of reason. With his desires, however, he might direct himself to bodily pleasures, even when these pleasures are opposed to the good of reason. The two directions to an end help to spell out the manner in which the good of reason is overriding. Early in her career, Philippa Foot (1972) suggested that morality might be simply a system of hypothetical imperatives, beginning with an end desired by human beings. Later, she concluded— following Warren Quinn (1992)—that hypothetical reasoning initiated by the desires we happen to have can be subject to moral criticism. Morality, then, is not a Humean construct of hypothetical imperatives (Foot 2001, 62–65). In short, Foot rejected hypothetical reasoning that begins with our desires. She did not, thereby, reject all hypothetical reasoning, for hypothetical reasoning is not necessarily linked to desire. Most essentially, it is linked to an endpoint. The endpoint might arise from desire, as Foot originally thought, but it might arise from some other source as well. It might arise, for instance, from nature. Later in her career, therefore, Foot (2001, 25–37) concluded that we can speak of how animals “ought” to behave, given their nature. A good wolf, for instance, ought to hunt in the pack. Rosalind Hursthouse (1999, 197–98) has emphasized that these ought-statements also apply to plants. A good sunflower, for instance, ought to turn toward the sun. Given the end of its own growth and flourishing, and the further end of reproducing, the sunflower has a required means, or at least the most effective means, which involves turning toward the sun. Since the human function directs an individual to an end, this end can be used as the starting point for hypothetical reasoning. On the part of his function, for instance, Pablo is directed to the good of reason, which (as we have seen) requires a union with others, which in turn requires that he seek his good as belonging to others and that he does not use them harmfully. Pablo can have two distinct sets of hypothetical ought-statements, one based upon his human function and another based upon the goals of his conscious desires. These two sets of hypothetical ought-statements need not overlap. The hypothetical requirements that follow upon his culinary desires might conflict with the hypothetical requirements that follow from the good of reason. The two sets of requirements can be divorced from one another because Pablo does not necessarily desire that to which his function directs him. Pablo necessarily desires his overall good, but (as we have seen) he might seek to realize this good in diverse ways. He might judge that his overall good is realized in his human function of reasoning. Alternately, he might judge that it is realized in some other good, such as culinary pleasure. In what way, then, does the function of reason provide an overriding good for Pablo? It is not overriding because it always wins out over other goods. After all, Pablo might side with his culinary appetites instead of his

Ethics 223 good of reason. Rather, the good of reason, like morality, is overriding because it always should win. The natural good might be overriding—contra McDowell (1998, 169–73)—despite its frequent failure to motivate. Although Pablo deems the culinary good as more important, the good of reason is in fact more important. The good of reason, and not his culinary good, is that which truly does complete him. It may not be most important in relation to Pablo’s desires, but it is most important in relation to his function. As Foot noted, Pablo’s desires can then be criticized as defective. By necessity, Pablo seeks his overall good; he seeks that which completes him. What actually completes him, however, depends upon his human function; it does not depend merely upon his desires. Supposing he has a function, Pablo is not a haphazard collection of capacities, each providing some partial completion. The choice between these capacities is not left to the whim of his desires. Rather, Pablo is an ordered whole, directed to one primary activity, the activity of reason. As an individual, Pablo will truly be completed through a life lived in accord with reason. On this picture, when Pablo satisfies his desires in opposition to his function, he is left ultimately unfulfilled. Despite the satisfaction of his culinary desires, he is left with a profound discontent. He has failed to satisfy his deepest longing, the longing for his overall good. Such talk may leave an unpleasant taste on the palate of the modern mind. Talk of something being “most important” independent of an individual’s subjective judgments leaves the impression that the universe itself is ranking things. For precisely this reason, talk of a human function is unsettling. It implies that we have a function—a purpose—independent of our desires (Fitzpatrick 2000; Buchanan 2011, 3–4). The arguments above are based upon a conjecture. No argument has been made, and no argument will be provided, that human beings do have a function. Rather, we have tried to understand what the world might look like if human beings do indeed have a function. We have tried to understand how a function might transform the good of reason into an overriding good, how it might take one good among many and transform it into the one chief good, to be pursued in all that we do. We have tried to understand how agent relativity without a human function, being left with subjective preferences, can provide no overriding good. 12.9  The Universality of Reason Morality not only provides overriding reasons; it is also universally applicable to all human beings. The arguments presented above attempt to establish that reason has both of these features: the good of reason is overriding, and it is also universally applicable to all human beings. The first of these two claims has been found wanting. More precisely, the arguments

224 Ethics in its defense were found wanting. Lacking a human function, the good of reason has no firm foundation through which it can become overriding. What about the second claim, the claim that the good of reason applies to all human beings? This claim fares better. Nevertheless, the commonality of reason is not quite as extensive as the scope of morality, at least not as usually conceived. Morality extends to all human beings. In contrast, the shared good of reason extends not quite as far. It includes most human beings but not all. Some human beings, after all, lack the capacity to reason. Newborn infants, for instance, are as yet unable to reason. Similarly, someone with severe brain damage is unable to reason. These individuals, it seems, must be excluded from the shared good of reason (Singer 2011, 71–95). They cannot share in the good of reason if they themselves cannot reason. In contrast, morality does not have such a limited reach; as commonly understood, it extends even to these impaired individuals. This section briefly argues that function can play a similar role for universality as it did for the overriding nature of morality. Just as the good of reason can become overriding by way of some function, so also the universality of reason can be extended to all human beings by way of function. As we have seen, activity and desire are essential for sharing goods. Louis can share the good of music with those who can somehow possess the good. He possesses the good with others by way of coordinated activity. He can share the good of playing music with Clare because she also can play music together with him. Following upon the similarity (of playing music), Louis and Clare can also share by way of desire. Louis desires his good as belonging to Clare, and Clare desires her good as belonging to Louis. Even apart from coordinated activity, then, Louis can share the good of music with those who can at least desire the good. On the other hand, those who can neither attain to the good of music nor desire it must be outside his shared good. Sharing by desire is further limited by an awareness requirement. Those with whom Louis shares the good of music must be aware of the good. Dan possesses his medical skill as inherently good when he desires it as such. If he has no understanding of it as inherently good, then neither can he desire it as such. Neither, then, can he possess it by way of his desire. When applied to the good of reason, these requirements for sharing the good seem to exclude those who lack reason. They cannot possess the good of reason through activity, since they do not have the capacity to reason. They cannot possess the good through desire because without reason they cannot understand this good, and without understanding they cannot have desire. The shared good of reason, then, seems to be limited to those who actually can reason. Those who are unable to reason, such as newborns and the comatose, are excluded. A partial exception might be made for the comatose. Suppose that Louis and Clare have shared the good of music over the years, but following an

Ethics 225 accident, Clare is left in a coma. She can no longer engage in the activities of music, nor can she desire them, since she has no capacity to understand them. Nevertheless, in the past Louis has been united with Clare in the good of music. His good has become her good. After she falls into a coma, then, he can still desire his own good of playing music not only as his own but also as belonging to Clare, who is united with him. The same applies to the good of reason. Louis can share the good of reason with Clare, who is now in a coma. On the other hand, if he had not known Clare before the coma, then he could not begin to share the good with her. This exclusion seems to apply to a newborn infant. When Bridget gives birth to her son, he cannot yet reason, nor can he desire the good of reason. Consequently, Bridget cannot share the good of reason with him, even by desire. This statement, however, is clearly contrary to experience. She very much does want to share this good with him. She even talks to him and points things out to him. This common experience can be explained by way of benevolence (Section 9.5). She does not actually share the good with him, even by desire (since he cannot desire the good), but she can hope that someday she will share the good with him. Despite these qualifications, the good of reason remains limited to a subset of human beings. These restrictions on sharing the good of reason, however, can be lifted by way of function. If the shared good is based upon the function of reason, and not just the capacity of reason, then it is no longer limited to those who actually can reason. As we have seen, function plays a role similar to that of conscious desire. Both through function and through desire something is directed beyond itself. Through her desire, for instance, Clare directs herself beyond her own good to the good that resides in Louis. Through her desire, she is no longer an isolated subject of the good. She is now united with Louis, forming with him a new subject of a greater good. Similarly, function directs a thing beyond itself. Function directs to a completion that is found outside the thing itself. Within a car, the wheels have a function, the axles a function, the pistons a function, and so on. In each case, the function directs the part beyond itself to the whole car. The function of the wheels is not simply to turn but to turn in order that the car might move. The function of the axle is not simply to hold the wheels but to hold them in order that they might turn and then move the car. The good of the wheels and the good of the axles, then, are not found simply in the parts by themselves. On account of their functions, which reach beyond themselves, their good is realized in the whole car. Similarly, with his human function, Pablo is directed to reason as to his good. This good belongs to him on account of his function, which directs him beyond himself. His function is realized beyond himself, in a greater subject that includes other human beings. Since other human beings have the same function of reason, they also are directed to a good beyond themselves,

226 Ethics to a good shared with other human beings. Consequently, they themselves are part of the greater subject to which Pablo is directed by his function. This function of reason does not depend upon actual reasoning. It is present in Pablo when he sleeps, and it would be present in him if he were to fall into a coma. It is present in Pablo, throughout, because of his functional nature. Likewise, it was present in Pablo as an infant, even before he began to reason. We typically suppose that function remains even when damage prevents the execution of the function. If a car is damaged, such that it currently cannot run, we suppose that the function remains. In other words, even if it is broken, a car is still directed to the end of transportation. Likewise, the purpose or function of reason remains within Pablo even if he happens to have brain damage, such that he is unable to perform acts of reasoning. Through the human function, then, the subject of the shared good of reason includes all those with the function, that is, it includes all human beings. It includes those human beings who, on account of some defect, cannot actually perform acts of reasoning. These incapacitated individuals retain their function. They are still directed to a shared good; they are directed to a good beyond themselves. Once Pablo reaches the age at which he begins to desire and make choices, he can choose to reject the shared good. If he kills Matthew, for instance, then he directs Matthew to an alien good, a good other than Matthew’s and a good that excludes Matthew’s. He rejects Matthew as a possessing part of any shared good, including the good of reason. Even then, Pablo retains his function of reason, which directs him to a shared good. Pablo now has a conflict of orders or directions. By his function, he is directed to the good of reason; by his conscious choice, he has directed himself away from it. While he rejects the good, he cannot share in it. No defect in his reasoning capacity has excluded him from the shared good; rather, his own desires have excluded him. As we have seen (Section 9.2), he must be put down by way of punishment, for he has elevated himself above the human community, the community that shares in the good of reason. He still might be loved with benevolence, by which we want him to return to the community so that he can once again share the good (Section 9.5). His function, which remains, adds an element of necessity to this benevolence. Without a function to a shared good, benevolence remains an option but not a requirement. With the function, benevolence is no longer optional. Pablo is at least moving toward the shared good in his function, although he has rejected it in his desires. Those of us who seek the shared good must hope, as long as he is able, that he comes to realize his function.

13 Unity

At the dawn of the modern era, functions were expelled from nature. A new conception of nature arose, in which nature does not act for an end but is simply pushed about by external forces. An early casualty of this conception was the good, which is the completion of some movement to an endpoint. If nature is not moving to an endpoint, then neither are there natural goods. With time, the new conception of nature spread from inanimate things to living things. Correspondingly, the domain of the good— the agent relative good—was further reduced. Human beings, without a natural good, were left with the good of fulfilling their desires, the only movement to an endpoint that remained within them. Often, however, this good has little to do with ethics. Our desires draw us, time and again, to goods that cannot be reconciled with ethical principles. Hume’s attempt to build ethics upon our conscious desires floundered. His imagined desire of universal benevolence or sympathy could not be found, at least not with sufficient strength to justify ethical principles. Similar attempts, usually arising within utilitarianism, have also floundered. Ethical principles, then, cannot be founded upon the good corresponding to our desires. Some other source for these principles must be established. Either the principles must have a foundation outside the good, in something like duty, or a new kind of good must be discovered. Consequentialism, while it has often emphasized the goods of our conscious desires, has ultimately asserted—apart from any identifiable desire—the fundamental norm to produce the greatest good for the greatest number. This principle relies upon another good, an agent neutral good, a good that is not the completion of any movement to an endpoint. It is founded upon an absolute good that is good by mere existence (Kraut 2007, 83–88). This neutral good might happen, at least sometimes, to overlap with the fulfillment of our desires, but the pursuit of this good is independent of the pursuit of the fulfillment of our desires. Once this

DOI: 10.4324/9781003397687-13

228 Unity pursuit is established—by existence-based desires—then hypothetical reasoning can give rise to more detailed rules of ethics. Deontology, setting aside hypothetical reasoning, attempts to discover absolute rules, rules that are not founded upon the good, at least not the good that completes some subject moving to an endpoint. They might be founded upon another kind of good, such as the absolute worth or dignity of the rational being. This new worth, however, is not related to a movement to an endpoint. Like the agent neutral good of existence-based desires, it is a kind of absolute good that attaches to some subjects (typically called persons) just by their existence. These divergent attempts to found ethical principles have each taken a part, and only a part, of the agent relative good, which is the completion of some subject, a subject moving to an endpoint. The good makes no sense by itself, but only together with the subject. Being sharp is not good by itself, but only as a completion of a knife, which is directed toward cutting. If the function disappears, then the good is no longer tied to the knife. The notion of this good, then, includes two elements: an attribute or completion and the subject that it completes. Either one by itself, without the other, can provide only a deformation of the good. Upon the demise of a natural function, goods were liberated from the subject, and the subject was liberated from the goods. The agent relative good—at least the natural agent relative good—disappeared. A new good needed to be constructed. This new good was a fragmentation of the agent relative good. It took only part of the united good. It took either the completion without the subject or it took the subject without the completion. Consequentialism latched onto the good liberated from a subject; deontology latched onto the subject liberated from the good. Consequentialism has given birth to the monstrosity of the agent neutral good. Deontology has given birth to a mutant dignity, severed from any shared good. The resulting fragmentation has produced distorted ethics. The distortions appear less in deontology, at least at the surface. Principles arise, within deontology, similar to those found within solidarity, which utilizes the whole good and not just part of it. Without the proper underlying rationale, however, these principles become incoherent. When the human function was lost or forgotten, the fragmentation of ethics was inevitable. Without a function directing him to a particular good, Pablo is only a collection of various capacities. He has a variety of goods, which complete these various capacities, but he is not directed to any particular good above the others. He is left to his own designs, to his own desires. Whatever he desires most of all becomes primary in his life. He might change his pursuits as the mood strikes him. Aristotle argues that if Pablo’s parts, such as his eyes and his heart, have a function, then it is reasonable to suppose that Pablo himself has a

Unity 229 function (Nicomachean Ethics I.7, 1097b 30–33) (Whiting 1988; Barney 2008). Following the modern departure from the ancient mindset, however, Pablo might suppose that his parts—or his capacities—have some function but he himself does not. His eyes have the function of seeing, his heart the function of pumping blood, and his mind the function of understanding the world, but he himself has no function (Hardie 1968, 23). In that case, his capacities have some completion and some good, but he does not. Pablo knows what makes for a good eye and a good heart, but he has no idea what makes himself good. Without a function, he himself has no definitive good. Nevertheless, Pablo is a conscious being with conscious desires. Therefore, he can direct himself to the goods of his various capacities. He can desire to understand the world and he can desire culinary pleasures. Although he himself has no function by which he is directed to an end, he can direct himself to an end through his conscious desires. He can set his own goals. Thereby, the goods of his various capacities become his own. He makes himself to have a good by pursuing various goods as his own (Korsgaard 2013, 10–11; 2014, 422–24). He is not given the direction to an end through some function; rather, he gives himself direction to an end. Pablo may pursue some goods as shared, others as private, but in general he is apt to conceive his overall good as his own personal affair. He has no function directing to a good beyond himself. He has only the completions of his own particular capacities, some of which he is able, if he wishes, to share with others. Whether he shares, and those with whom he shares, is at his discretion. Absent a function, he is naturally solitary and social only by choice. Modern moral philosophy, in both its consequentialist and deontological incarnations, attempts to overcome the subjective isolating force of the new human being, the person adrift in an empty cosmos. Both assert a universal obligation disconnected from Pablo’s fragmented ego. As a result, both have difficulty with motivation. Pablo appears to have no personal reason to adopt the principles of ethics. He desires his own personal good, but he has no motivation for the impersonal good of the greatest number. He might desire a respect from other people, but he lacks any inherent motivation to respect others, who pursue goods independent of his own. Consequentialism devises a new kind of desire, an existence-based desire, a desire not to possess various goods but simply for the existence of goods. This desire becomes overriding by a kind of analogy with the possession-based desire for one’s overall good. With this latter desire, it seems, we always seek what is best, that is, what is best for ourselves in the framework of our agent relative goods (Section 4.6). Similarly, existencebased desires must always seek what is best; they must always seek the

230 Unity greatest good. In the realm of agent neutral goods, then, the desire for the greatest good becomes overriding. Deontology is more complicated. It focuses upon a subject that is not tied to a good; it focuses upon a subject that has the power to make goods its own (Korsgaard 2014). In short, it focuses upon the autonomous subject. This subject is autonomous from any prior goods, including the union of subjects to a shared good. How does Pablo, as an autonomous subject, become subordinated to overriding rules or guidelines? Only by subordinating himself. Only by making the rules himself, to which he must subject himself. He does not make the rules haphazardly; rather, he makes them according to a certain logic. With his reason he can direct himself to various goods, making the goods his own. With his reason, he makes the goods truly worthy of pursuit. Thereby, he treats himself as a kind of absolute good, an end in itself (Korsgaard 2013, 24). When he sees other reasoning beings, who also assert their own goods as worthy of pursuit, then consistency demands that he recognize them also as absolute goods, as subjects of the good. By making himself the subject of the good, Pablo treats himself as significant. To the same extent, he must treat others, who also make themselves subjects of the good, as significant (Korsgaard 1996c, 121; 2013, 24). Consequentialism becomes overriding through an analogy with the possession-based desire for one’s overall good. Deontology becomes overriding through an analogy to the united subject of the good. For Pablo the deontologist, morality is overriding because of his nature as a subject. He is not by nature a part. To the contrary, he is by nature independent. His very independence, however, becomes overriding. He must affirm his independence, and he can do so only by recognizing the independence of others. Consistency becomes his overriding rule. Without it, he loses his nature as an independent subject who determines his own good. The independent subject can be taken to a further extreme. The subjective egoist can be transformed into a Nietzschean Ubermensch. Consistency is thrown to the winds. All that matters is self-assertion. The denial of function is applied not only to Pablo, the person, but to his capacities as well. Pablo cannot discover any goods that are out there, even goods that he might then define as his own. Pablo cannot discover any nature to his capacities by which they might be completed. Rather, Pablo must define even his capacities. Reason itself has no nature except what Pablo gives to it. Pablo, then, cannot be subject to the demands of reason, for reason is subject to himself. The only “nature” that remains is Pablo’s self-assertion, Pablo’s will to power. Even this far extreme, however, is haunted by the remnants of a function. Self-assertion becomes a kind of completion. The will takes on the function of asserting itself (Foot 2001, 99–115). The human good has not

Unity 231 been entirely forgotten. It has merely been transformed into self-assertion. When the human function is lost, the love of solidarity is mocked and scorned as weakness. Self-assertion, identified as strength, has become a function of its own. The love born of a shared good, if it is to be overriding, rests upon the function of reason. What happens when this function is denied? Then we have the pursuit of an independent agent neutral good; we have the autonomous affirmation of an independent subject; or we have the selfassertion of an Ubermensch. Pablo, as a subject without a function to which he is beholden, can find no good—in himself or in others—to which he must answer. If Pablo’s function is restored, then he is once again a unified subject directed to an endpoint. He is a subject who has a definite overall good. He is a subject directed beyond himself to a good shared with others. He is a subject bound to others, both at the parochial level and at the broader level. By loving the neighbor that he knows, he comes to love the neighbor that he does not know. This human function was presumed in the premodern era. To the modern mind, however, it seems much too high a price to pay. Perhaps it is time, however, for another Copernican revolution, one in which we do not discover some new wisdom but in which we rediscover some ancient wisdom. Perhaps it is time to rediscover an agent relative good that unites the good and the subject. Perhaps it is time to rediscover ethics.

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Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” refer to end notes. abstraction 136, 205–7, 209 actions: concrete 135–38; consequences of 39, 94, 148, 167, 197, 203; coordinated 52, 65–68, 71, 163, 224; directed 91–94, 118, 137–39, 144, 197–98, 200–203, 209; effects of 130–31, 137, 139, 200; joint see united; physical 94–97, 101, 123, 126, 137, 142, 169, 197, 199–200; rational 95, 98, 101, 126, 137, 169, 200–201, 206, 212; united 53, 63, 65, 68, 72– 73, 85–87, 89, 117–18, 164 alienation i, 4–29, 42 allowing harm see harm Alm, David 164, 169n1 altruism 43, 45, 51, 55–56, 70, 145, 184, 186–87 Annas, Julia 61, 170, 196 Anscombe, G. E. M. 4, 38, 95, 109, 133–34, 166, 217 Aristotle 1, 58, 144, 153, 187, 211, 217–18, 221, 228, Arneson, Richard J. 46, 50n5, 176, 180, 186 Atkinson, Gary 134 Audi, Robert 61, 83 autonomy 79, 81, 104–6, 230–31 Badhwar, Neera K. 7, 25–26, 28n2, 36, 56, 58, 70, 218 balance 149–51, 166 Barney, Rachel 229 Baron, Marcia 180 Batson, C. Daniel 70n1 Becker, Lawrence C. 175

Benbaji, Yitzhak 168 benevolence 158–59, 165–69, 210, 225–27 Bennett, Christopher 148–49, 151, 153, 157, 160, 162 Bennett, Jonathan 98, 100–101, 109, 111, 117, 121, 131–33, 137, 142, 200 Bishop, John 100 Bostock, David 127n2 Boyle, Joseph 166 Brandt, Richard B. 172 Bratman, Michael E. 52, 65, 71, 73–75, 96, 108n2, 109–10, 115, 136 Brink, David Owen 14 Brock, Stephen L. 133–34 Brown, Stephanie 55 Bruers, Stijn 146–47 Buchanan, Allen 223 Cambridge change 91, 93 Cannold, Leslie 45 A Canticle for Leibowitz 1 Card, Robert F. 18, 22, 24, 26, 28n6 causality 92–93, 101, 106, 110, 119, 121–22, 126–27, 130–31, 137–38, 140–42, 147, 198 Cavanaugh, Thomas A. 83, 94, 99, 108n2, 109, 129, 133–34 Champlin, T. S. 62 Chappell, Timothy 44, 95, 100, 108n2, 127n2, 129, 146 Cialdini, Robert B. 55 circumstances 15–19, 22–23, 114, 197 closeness 79, 131–33, 137 Cocking, Dean 7, 24, 28n2

Index  247 combatants 167–69 commitments 7–8, 20, 22, 71, 73–74, 86, 125, 149 completion 32–40, 42, 46, 51–57, 62–63, 69, 72, 82, 84–87, 105, 107, 125, 129, 151–52, 162, 167, 173, 194, 198, 201, 203, 215, 218–19, 221, 223, 225, 227–30 consent 93, 143–45 consequentialism 1–7, 14, 30, 39–43, 46–50, 54, 58–60, 64, 84, 129, 138, 172–73, 186–88, 190–91, 193–94, 196, 204, 218, 227–30; agent-relative 37–41; sophisticated 8–24, 48, 188, 192 consistency 42–46, 50n8, 80, 104, 128, 209, 230 Copp, David 63, 132 Corlett, J. Angelo 153, 159 Cottingham, John 176, 180 craniotomy 132–33, 139, 142 damage 47, 81, 91, 94, 103, 115–16, 134, 140–41, 147–48, 151, 167, 224, 226 Darwall, Stephen L. 44–45, 170, 193 Davidson, Donald 94–95, 100 Davis, Michael 159–60 Davis, Nancy 93, 136 Delaney, Neil 99, 109, 132–33 deliberation: subjective standards of 8–11, 13–22, 27, 28n3, 28n6; virtual 15–17, 20, 25, 27, 172, 183–84, 216 deontology 1, 3, 5, 14, 79, 84, 88, 90, 117, 143–44, 189–90, 228–30 desert, 160 desire: existence-based 38–39, 41, 43, 45–47, 193–94, 196–97, 208, 228–29; idle 76; possession-based 38, 40–41, 43, 45–46, 68, 76, 84, 173, 191, 196–97, 220, 229–30; sharing by 71–89, 224; standing 76; universal 45 deterrence, 158–59, 164 Dieterich, Jörn H. 147 dignity, 79–81, 83–84, 88, 161, 210, 228

dispositions 10–12, 14, 18–19, 20, 22–27, 37, 83; flexible 22–23, 28n7 double effect 127n2, 128–47, 166–67 Dougherty, Tom 189, 204, 206 Dreier, Jamie 204 Drum, Peter 82 Duff, R. A. 148, 151–52 Duncan-Jones, Austin 82 egoism 18, 51–52, 54–58, 69, 176, 179, 203, 230; sophisticated 55, 68–69, 85 Einstein, Albert, 3, 40, 178 end, treating as an 60, 79–80, 83–84, 88, 90, 104, 117, 230 endpoint 41, 195, 208, 222, 227–28, 231 ethics 1, 42, 50n3; 51–52, 89, 176, 210–229, 231; ancient, i, 217; virtue, 211 Ewing, Benjamin 160 expressivism 148, 160 Feinberg, Joel 160 Finnis, John 109, 134, 166 Firth, Roderick 172 Fischer, John Martin 132 FitzPatrick, William J. 132, 211, 223 Fletcher, George P. 149, 156, 159 Foot, Philippa 34, 40, 49–50, 109, 111, 120, 123, 126, 133, 196, 211, 219–20, 222–23, 230 foreseeing i, 88–89, 95–97, 99, 102–3, 108n2, 109–127, 129, 131–32, 140–42, 144–45, 167, 169, 201–3, 209 forfeiture of rights 164–69 fragmentation i, 1–7, 28, 30, 37, 42, 89, 123, 211, 228–29 friendship 4, 7–11, 19–26, 28, 29n8, 30, 40–41, 51, 53, 54, 70, 78, 87–88, 105, 148, 159, 218–19 Frim, Landon 177 fulfillment 34–35, 41, 44, 50n4, 51, 54, 58, 72, 84, 88, 175–76, 181, 215, 218–19, 221, 223, 227 Fumerton, Richard 62

248 Index function 31, 34–37, 41, 50n2, 53, 71–72, 83, 86, 173, 175, 181, 193–94, 211, 220, 225–29; design 34–35; human 1, 211, 219–31 Geach, P. T. 30–32, 34–35, 37–41, 50n7, 82 Gert, Bernard 80, 171, 174, 179 Gert, Heather J. 160 Gewirth, Alan 3 Gilbert, Margaret 52, 65, 71, 86, 164 Gleeson, Andrew 44 goals 8, 11–12, 14, 17, 19–20, 33–35, 41, 53, 60–62, 68, 72, 78, 83, 91–94, 96–103, 105, 113, 123–26, 136, 139–45, 147, 151, 153, 157–59, 162, 167, 184, 191, 195–98, 201–2, 208, 209n1, 213, 216, 218–19, 222, 229 Gold, Natalie 52 Goldman, Alan H. 178 Gomberg, Paul 26, 28n3 good: absolute i, 24, 32–34, 40–42, 47–49, 62, 83, 129, 153, 161, 217, 227–28, 230; agent neutral 3–4, 6, 9, 12, 14, 18– 21, 23–24, 26, 28, 30, 38–39, 41–43, 45–52, 58–59, 62, 64, 71, 73, 80, 84, 89, 124, 129, 173, 177–78, 182, 184, 188, 190, 194, 199, 204, 208–9, 227–28, 230–31; agent relative, i, 3–6, 18–22, 26, 28, 30–54, 59–60, 64–65, 76–78, 80–82, 84, 90–91, 128–29, 139, 153, 161–62, 173–74, 177, 182, 186, 190, 194, 198, 204, 207–8, 209n1, 210, 217–18, 228–29, 231; aggregate 9, 17, 46–47, 59, 64, 207–8; alien 41–42, 48–49, 59, 64, 106–7, 125–26, 130, 139, 142–44, 146, 156, 187, 190, 198–99, 203, 226; attributive 30–33, 35–41, 47–48, 50n10, 53, 62, 72, 79, 81–83, 86, 151, 175, 208, 215, 218; impersonal 2, 46, 170, 229; inherent 9, 22, 25, 53, 55, 61–64, 72, 106,

160–61, 221, 224; instrumental 25–26, 41, 72, 215; personal 4, 26, 57, 78, 90, 104, 124, 170, 180, 198, 210, 229; predicative 31–33, 36, 38, 40, 48, 50n7, 82; productive 33, 47, 49, 82, 105, 108, 167; sum total 46–47, 173; useful 33–34, 39, 42, 48–49, 53–55, 59, 65, 72, 79, 92, 94, 103–4, 124–26, 139, 143, 156, 169, 198, 200–201 gratitude 149–50 Grisez, Germain 166 guilt 98, 148, 166, 168–69 Haines, William A. 82 Hampton, Jean 148, 150, 154, 156, 159–60, 166 Hand, Michael 160 Hanna, Nathan 152, 154, 160 Hanser, Matthew F. 126 Hardie, William 211, 229 Hare, R. M. 43, 172 harm: allowing 109–11, 116, 121–23, 126–27; causing 110, 119–121, 123–27; doing 109, 122–23, 126; foreseen 88–89, 109–27, 129, 144; harmfully using i, 88, 90–110, 122–31, 139–44, 146, 190, 192, 198, 200–201, 208, 210, 222; intending 88, 109–10, 128–33, 139–43, 167; non-punitive 166–69; without using 110–11, 122–23, 126, 128; see also foreseeing Harman, Gilbert 32 Helm, Bennett W. 52–54, 60, 72–73, 106, 146 Henberg, M. C. 183 Henden, Edmund 29n8 Herman, Barbara 175 Heuer, Ulrike 196 Hieronymi, Pamela 156 Hills, Alison 99, 101, 132 Holroyd, Jules 166 Hooker, Brad 175 Howard-Snyder, Frances 28n4 human nature 211 Hume, David 222, 227 Hurka, Thomas 36, 77

Index  249 Hurley, Paul 39, 174, 195, 205 Hursthouse, Rosalind 211, 213–14, 222 identity view 133–34, 137, 139, 142 ignorance, veil of 178–79, 182 impartial observer 172–74 impartiality i, 46, 89, 128, 170–88; agent 179–81 imperative, hypothetical 222 impersonality 2, 4, 44–46, 170, 182–84, 229 independence 56, 105–7, 214, 230 instinct 9, 15–16 intention 65, 71–73, 88, 100, 108n2, 109–10, 114, 123–24, 126, 128–146, 166–67 isolation 4, 6, 49, 51–52, 62, 71, 119, 151, 153, 185, 210–11, 217, 225, 229 Jackson, Frank 11, 28n4 Jensen, Steven J. 28n1, 134 Jeske, Diane 62 Johnstone, Brian 129 Jollimore, Troy A. 7, 23, 30, 42, 59, 68, 72–73, 104–5, 170, 180, 188, 196 judgment: moral 3, 78, 108n2, 111; prudential 3 justice 148–49, 161 Kaczor, Christopher 134 Kagan, Shelly 46, 48, 62, 116–17, 124, 129, 143, 145, 167, 170, 178, 189, 191, 196–97, 200, 207–8 Kamm, Frances M. 108n1, 147n1, 203 Kant, Immanuel 20, 90–91, 104 Kass, Leon 214 Kaufman, Whitley R. P. 152, 155, 160 Kershnar, Stephen 164 Kerstein, Samuel J. 79, 81, 91–93, 108n1 Klocksiem, Justin 40, 47 Korsgaard, Christine M. 3, 30, 35, 46–47, 49, 50n2, 53, 61–62, 72, 79–80, 160, 173, 189, 213, 221, 229–30 Kraut, Richard 3, 32–33, 35–37, 40, 47, 50n10, 57, 62, 82, 218, 227

Kristjánsson, Kristján 185 Ku, John 50n6 Kuhse, Helga 45 Kutz, Christopher 52 Lawrence, Gavin 215, 218–19 Lazari-Radek, Katarzyna de 36, 172 Lemos, Noah M. 46, 62 letting die 122 Lewis, Brian P. 55 Lewis, C. S. 159 Liao, S. Matthew 147n1 limitations 23, 53, 57–58, 68–69, 74–75, 85, 107, 115–19, 121, 125, 127, 145, 202, 206–7 Lott, Micah 217 love 4, 7–8, 11–12, 15, 24–27, 30, 41–43, 45–46, 48–50, 57–58, 70, 85, 114, 150, 159, 165, 184, 187, 226, 231 Luthra, Yannig 70n1, 70n2 MacIntyre, Alasdair i, 1, 211–12 Mack, Eric 3, 30, 36, 124, 189–90, 193, 200 Mackay, Alfred F. 50n7 Mangan, Joseph T. 129 Marshall, John 43 Masek, Lawrence 133 Mason, Elinor 8, 13, 17–20, 22–23, 26, 28n5, 28n6, 184 May, Joshua 56 McDowell, John 216, 223 McIntyre, Alison 108n2, 110, 123–24, 129, 145 McMahan, Jeff 146–47, 169, 202, 206 means: constitutive 61–62, 70n2, 105, 125–26, 218–19; productive 167; treating as a 4, 26–27, 41, 58–60, 83, 88–91, 94, 97, 100, 103–5, 108n3, 161 Mele, Alfred R. 73, 76, 100 Milkman, Kenneth Alan 44 Miller, Richard W. 170, 174–75, 193 Miller, Walter 1 Monroe, Kristen R. 57, 70 Moore, G. E. 41, 62 Moore, Michael S. 159–60 morality 4–6, 14, 37, 43, 46, 49–50, 78, 88–89, 103, 109, 123–24, 128–30, 148, 163, 174, 176,

250 Index 183–84, 186, 189, 191–92, 196, 210–11, 213, 215–17, 222–24, 230; absolute 4; common sense 4, 71, 88, 210; modern 1; three features of 170–72 Morris, Herbert 159 Mother Teresa 186–87 motivation 2–4, 14–15, 17, 19, 26–27, 28n5, 55, 135, 151, 159–60, 166–67, 191, 205, 215–16, 229 motives 8, 12–14, 17–19, 25–26, 94, 166, 170–71 Murphy, Jeffrie G. 153–54, 156 Nagel, Thomas 2, 38, 43, 51, 78, 121, 124, 172, 174, 179, 189, 192–93, 219 necessity 13, 15, 21, 23, 27, 48, 98–99, 101, 125, 131–32, 136, 142, 159, 166, 217, 226; absolute and hypothetical 216– 19; psychological 218–19, 223 negligence 111–16 Nelkin, Dana Kay 98–99, 131–33, 137, 141, 203 Nesbitt, Winston 122 Newton, Isaac 36, 40, 48, 178 Nietzsche, Friedrich 155, 230 non-consequentialism 3, 194, 196 Norcross, Alastair 8, 12, 15, 20, 22–23, 28n5, 188 Nozick, Robert 154, 160 Nussbaum, Martha C. 160 Nye, Howard 50n6 Oakley, Justin 7, 24, 28n2 objectivity 8–10, 13–14, 19–20, 22, 27, 36–37, 77, 174–75, 177, 181–82 one thought too many 4, 28n5, 183 Otsuka, Michael 147, 169 ought statements 217, 222 Pallikkathayil, Japa 92, 107 Parfit, Derek 8, 30, 92, 188 partiality i, 4, 46, 71, 78, 89, 128, 170–72, 175–77, 180–84, 186–89, 210 parts, constitutive 63–65, 68, 105, 107, 125; possessing 103–5,

107, 119, 125, 156–57, 159–62, 165–67, 169, 190, 198–200, 202, 207, 213, 226; producing 64, 103–5, 106, 125, 156–57, 161, 198–200, 202, 206–7, 209, 213 person 1–2, 7, 28, 32, 35, 41, 43, 45– 46, 49, 51, 76–78, 80–81, 84, 88, 91–93, 100, 103, 106–7, 110, 112, 116, 123, 126–31, 139, 150, 152–53, 160, 163– 64, 167, 170, 185, 201, 210, 221, 228–29 Petersson, Björn 52 Pettit, Philip 2–3, 5, 16, 28n5, 30, 36, 43–44, 50n8, 50n9, 51, 73–75, 106, 191–95, 197, 207–8 Pigden, Charles R. 36, 40, 47, 50n7, 82 plans 16, 18, 73–77, 83–84, 86, 94–104, 108n1, 110, 113–120, 122–23, 125–127, 129, 135– 39, 142, 156, 169, 185, 197, 202–3 Plunkett, David 50n6 policies 73, 75–76, 116 Portmore, Douglas W. 37, 39 possession 38–41, 43–46, 50n8, 51, 54–55, 57, 63, 65–73, 76, 84, 86–87, 103–7, 117–19, 125, 138–39, 144, 155–57, 159–62, 164–67, 169, 173, 176–77, 181, 187–88, 190–91, 196–203, 207, 212–16, 218, 220–21, 229–30 predication 45, 195 preference 24, 28n2, 50n9, 100, 152, 171–73, 178, 181, 186, 189–90, 193–94, 203–7, 209, 219, 223 principal 179–82 Pruss, Alexander R. 109, 132, 134, 136, 141, 143 punishment 71, 148–69, 180, 210, 213, 226; proportional 165–66; relative 161–62 Quinn, Warren S. 103, 107–9, 111, 122–23, 126, 132, 169n1, 222 Quong, Jonathan 169

Index  251 Rabinowicz, Wlodek 62 Rachels, James 122–23 Radzik, Linda 160 Railton, Peter 4, 8–11, 13, 15, 20–22, 25–26, 28n5, 170, 188 rationality, maximizing 191, 195–97, 199–200, 208; possessing 197, 200–201; productive 197 Ravizza, Mark 132 Rawls, John 178 reactive emotions 148, 160 reason, power of 22–23, 43, 80–81, 211–27, 230–31; pro tanto 196, 201, 208 reasoning, backward 99, 102, 123, 125, 132, 141, 167; consequentialist 3, 8, 9–23, 27, 28n3, 28nn5–6, 29n8, 129, 194; deontological 20, 80, 228; hypothetical 222, 228; practical 80, 191, 196, 215 reasons: absolutely binding see overriding; first and second order 193–94, 197, 207; moral 2, 20, 43, 170, 192, 216, 218; neutral 3, 30, 41; normative 3, 50n9, 193–94; overriding 12, 20, 25, 89, 170–72, 183, 209– 11, 213–17, 219–24, 229–31; personal 3, 4; relative 2, 3, 4, 30, 38–39, 41, 78; ultimate 80; universal 2, 3, 4, 43, 192–93, 213, 223–24, 227 Reba, Marilyn 44 Reed, Philip A. 135 rehabilitation 151, 158–59, 164 relativism 3, 50n3 resentment 148–55, 159 respect 1, 81, 83, 105, 153, 162, 229 restrictions 89, 128, 166, 168, 189–210, 225 retribution 157, 159–61 retributivism 159–61 revenge 154–55, 160–61, 167 Rickless, Samuel C. 98–99, 111, 131–33, 137, 141, 203 Ridge, Michael 209n1 Rind, Miles 31 Rogers, Kelly 46, 50n4 Ronnow-Rasmussen, Toni 62

Rosebury, Brian 164 Ross, W. D. 62 Roth, Abraham Sesshu 52, 65 Rovane, Carol 52 Rowland, Richard 40, 47 Scanlon, Thomas M. 92–94, 102, 108n3, 146, 156, 196 Scheffler, Samuel 78, 189–91, 195–97, 207–8 Scheid, Don E. 159 Schlosser, Markus E. 100 Schmid, Hans Bernhard 52 Schroeder, Mark 30, 37, 204 Schroeder, S. Andrew 205 Searle, John R. 52, 71 self-assertion 230–31 self-defense 166–68 self-interest 51, 53, 55 self-sacrifice 57–58, 144, 186 Sen, Amartya 174 Shaw, Joseph 135 Sidgwick, Henry 28n3, 36 similarity 66–70, 88, 109, 112, 128–30, 193, 207, 224 Singer, Peter 43, 45–46, 129, 146, 172, 212, 224 Sinnott-Armstrong, Walter 40, 47–48 Smith, Ian A. 99 Smith, Michael 37–39 Smith, Tara 55, 184 solidarity 6, 54–56, 58–60, 66–72, 77, 81, 83, 87–89, 91, 100, 103–5, 107–12, 115, 117, 120, 122–26, 128–30, 138–39, 142–45, 148, 150, 155, 158–61, 163–65, 168–74, 176, 178–80, 182–92, 194, 196, 199–200, 205, 208–11, 228, 231 Southan, Rhys 44 Stocker, Michael 7–8, 15, 20 strategic bomber 97–98, 101–2, 109–12, 114–15, 119–20, 125–27, 129–33, 137–39, 141–42, 167, 202–3 Strawson, Peter 148, 155 Stroud, Sarah 48 Sturgeon, Nicholas L. 32, 34, 40, 42, 44, 47

252 Index Sugden, Robert 52 Sullivan, Thomas 122–23, 134 Sumner, L. W. 106 Swanton, Christine 203 Tadros, Victor 150, 159–60, 162, 165, 168–69, 203 Tedesco, Matthew 7, 20, 28n6 teleology 1, 211 terror bomber 97–99, 101, 109, 125, 129–32, 142, 202 Thomson, Judith Jarvis 31–35, 40, 50n7, 50n10, 89n1, 94, 146, 164, 166 Tillinghast, Lauren 31 Tollefsen, Christopher 134–35 Tomkow, Terrance A. 127n1 Tooley, Michael 122 Trammell, Richard L. 122 Tuomela, Raimo 52, 64 Turp, Michael-John 35 union i, 4, 52–54, 56–57, 63–71, 77, 79, 86–87, 104, 152, 158, 174, 176, 178–79, 185, 212–13, 222, 230 unity 104, 195, 201, 207–8, 218–19, 227–31 universalizing 2–4, 42–46, 89, 170–71, 175, 191–95, 197, 208, 210–11, 213–14, 223–26 Upton, Candace L. 28n7, 29n8 using 91–103; harmfully using see harm utilitarianism 22, 28n5, 227

value 3, 30, 35, 45, 47, 88, 160, 177–78, 184; extrinsic 47, 62–63; intrinsic 61–63, 196 Velleman, J. David 60, 79–81, 84, 185 Vihvelin, Kadri 127n1 violations 89n1, 90, 191, 195–96, 199, 201, 208–9 Waldmann, Michael R. 147 war 1, 35, 97, 99, 102, 112, 115, 169, 202, 213 Wedgwood, Ralph 132, 141 Wellman, Christopher Heath 164–66 Whiting, Jennifer 229 whole 5, 53–56, 58–60, 63–64, 66, 68, 82–83, 86, 146, 153, 156–57, 159–64, 169, 175–86, 188, 203–5, 207–9, 212, 219, 221, 223, 225 Wiggins, David 172, 174–75, 193 Wilcox, William H. 7, 14, 20, 28n2 Williams, Bernard i, 2, 4, 7, 14, 44, 78, 121, 183–85, 211, 215 wish 73–74, 76, 86, 139 Wolf, Susan 7, 26, 121, 176, 178, 183–84, 188 Wolfsdorf, David Conan 33, 35, 50n1 Wood, Allen W. 79 Woodcock, Scott 16, 28n5, 29n8 Woodward, P. A. 129 Woollard, Fiona 111 worth 76–79, 81–85, 88, 112, 114–15, 118–19, 128, 139, 149, 151–56, 158–62, 171, 210, 228 Wringe, Bill 155 Zimmerman, Michael J. 62