The Guise of the Good: A Philosophical History [1 ed.] 9781003223689, 9781032120171, 9781032122304

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The Guise of the Good

This is the first book to trace the doctrine of the guise of the good throughout the history of Western philosophy. It offers a chronological narrative exploring how the doctrine was formulated, the arguments for and against it, and the broader role it played in the thought of different philosophers. In recent years, there has been a rich debate about whether value judgement or value perception must form an essential part of mental states such as emotions and desires, and whether intentional actions must always be done for reasons that seem good to the agent. This has sparked new theoretical interest in the classical doctrine of the guise of the good: whenever we desire (to do) something, we see it under the guise of the good; that is, we conceive of what we desire as good, desirable, or justified by reasons, in some way or another. This book offers a systematic historical treatment of the guise of the good. The chapters span from Ancient and Medieval philosophy (Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, and Aquinas), through the early modern period (Hobbes, Spinoza, Locke, Hume, and Kant), and up to Elizabeth Anscombe’s rediscovery in the 20th century after a period of relative neglect. Together they demonstrate how history can offer potential new models of the guise of the good—or new arguments against it—as well as give a sense of how the guise of the good can bear on other philosophical issues. The Guise of the Good: A Philosophical History is an excellent resource for scholars and students working on the history of ethics, philosophy of action, and practical reason. Francesco Orsi is Associate Professor of Theoretical Ethics at the University of Tartu, Estonia. He is the author of Value Theory (2015) and several articles on the guise of the good and the nature of value appeared in Mind, Philosophical Studies, Analytic Philosophy, and other journals.

Routledge Studies in Ethics and Moral Theory

Neglected Virtues Edited by Glen Pettigrove and Christine Swanton Incomparable Values Analysis, Axiomatics and Applications John Nolt Value Incommensurability Ethics, Risk, and Decision-Making Edited by Henrik Andersson and Anders Herlitz A Philosophical Defense of Misanthropy Toby Svoboda 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 For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge. com/Routledge-Studies-in-Ethics-and-Moral-Theory/book-series/SE0423

The Guise of the Good A Philosophical History

Francesco Orsi

First published 2023 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 © 2023 Francesco Orsi The right of Francesco Orsi 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: 978-1-032-12017-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-12230-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-22368-9 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689 Typeset in Sabon LT Std by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

Preface Acknowledgements 1 Introduction

viii x 1

The Project 1 Interrogating Philosophers and Their Work 2 Variations on a Theme 4 1. What the Guise of the Good Is About 4 2. The Good 5 3. Objective and Subjective 6 4. Appearing Under the Guise 8 5. Questions of Form, Status, and Scope 9 Overview of the Book 11 Notes 12 2 Socrates and Plato

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Introduction 14 The Guise of the Good and Socratic Intellectualism 14 What Version(s) of the Guise of the Good Did Plato Endorse? 18 Conclusion 22 Notes 23 3 Aristotle and the Stoics Introduction 24 Aristotle’s Classification of Desires 24 Aristotle’s Guise of the Good and the “Discovery” of Akrasia 29

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Contents Aristotelian Arguments for the Guise of the Good? 31 Coda. Stoicism: A Streamlined Guise of the Good 32 Conclusion 36 Notes 37

4 The Canon in Christian Philosophy

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Introduction 40 Prologue: Augustine and the Pears 40 Aquinas’ Guise of the Good 44 An Argument for the Guise of the Good 50 The Guise of the Good, Moral Theory, and Akrasia 51 Conclusion 55 Notes 55 5 The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600)

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Introduction 58 Cracks in the Canon: Duns Scotus 58 The Canon Disrupted: Ockham 62 Suárez: The Canon Reaffirmed 66 Conclusion 69 Notes 70 6 Descartes and Spinoza: Revision and Rejection

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Introduction 72 Cartesian Ambiguities 73 Spinoza: The Scholium Argument 78 Conclusion 84 Notes 85 7 Empiricism: The Guise of the Good Between Desire and Pleasure Introduction 89 Hobbes: An Empiricist Rejection of the Guise of the Good 89 Locke: An Empiricist Revision of the Guise of the Good 93 The Guise of the Good and Early Modern Political Philosophy 100 Conclusion 101 Notes 102

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Contents 8 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant

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Introduction 105 Hume: A Sentimentalist Guise of the Good 105 Kant and the Old Formula 111 Forbidden Desires and Diabolical Wills 118 Conclusion 121 Notes 121 9 After Kant, Before Anscombe

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Introduction 125 Hegel: The Guise of the Good and the Dialectic of the Will 126 Mill: The Guise in the Proof 130 Nietzsche: The Guise as Disguise 133 Brentano: The Guise as a Mode of Consciousness 137 Conclusion 144 Notes 144 10 Epilogue: A Fresh Start

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Introduction 149 Anscombe’s Guise of the Good 149 An Anscombean Argument 153 Conclusion 157 Notes 157 List of Claims Bibliography Index

159 160 172

Preface

In La Divina Commedia (Purgatory, Canto 17), Dante has Virgil explain to him: Ciascun confusamente un bene apprende/nel qual si queti l’animo, e disira;/per che di giugner lui ciascun contende—each confusedly apprehends, and desires, a good in which the mind may rest; thus, each strives to reach it. In Paradise Lost (Book IV), John Milton has Satan paradoxically exclaim: “All good to me is lost; Evil, be thou my Good”. The idea that in order to want something, or in order to do something intentionally, one needs to think there is something good about it, would probably earn a spot in an imaginary top ten ranking of the most frequently endorsed claims throughout Western philosophy—and it is often reflected in literature, as seen. To some, it may even sound trivial that you need to see something good in what you want. Perhaps surprisingly, the history of this claim has not yet received an extended, book-length treatment. The claim, recently dubbed as “the guise of the good”, is usually discussed within histories of related concepts—the will (freedom of the will and weakness of the will), agency, the emotions, practical reason, evil, the good and the right, etc.—and, for the most part, within the confines of a single historical author. The aim of this book is, for the first time, to focus historical attention on the claim itself: its meaning, role, and plausibility—as well as the attacks it received—in different periods and by different authors of Western philosophy from Socrates until Elizabeth Anscombe. (Despite its footing in ancient Greek and Christian philosophy, I do not think that there is something specifically “Western” about the guise of the good, but I leave it to specialists of other philosophical traditions to provide a more inclusive or comparative narration. Hopefully this work will be of use to any such project.) The timing of this book is not accidental. The guise of the good has resurged in contemporary philosophy at least since Anscombe’s Intention (1957), but during the past 30 years, it has become the centre of specific interest. This is in part due to a famous article by David Velleman (1992)—to whom the popularity of the label “guise of the good” is owed—but, more broadly, because of the increased attention to agency

Preface ix and the “turn to reasons” prevalent in so much recent Anglo-American philosophy. Joseph Raz said: From its earliest origins, whatever version of the Guise of the Good was viewed with favor was the keystone keeping in place and bridging the theory of value, the theory of normativity and rationality and the understanding of intentional action. (Raz 2010: 135) It seems like a sensible idea, while the theoretical debates on value, normativity, and action go on, to take stock of the rich history underlying, and sometimes informing, such debates, and thus to make good on Raz’s statement. The hope is that this book will engage both kinds of readerships: scholars working on the history of the guise of the good or of the related concepts mentioned earlier and participants in the contemporary philosophical discussion.

Acknowledgements

If I had never met Jonathan Dancy and his work, I doubt I would have written on these topics. For this book in particular, I owe special thanks to Aaron Wendland, Constantine Sandis, and Mike Karlsson. I am grateful to various audiences in Tartu and elsewhere (including both colleagues and students) for their feedback on early versions of some chapters, to Roomet Jakapi, Toomas Lott, and Uku Tooming for advice in earlier and later stages of this project, to Alex Davies for agreeing to replace me as Program Director, and in general to the Department of Philosophy in Tartu for providing a supportive home to my work. Research for this book has been supported by the European Union through the European Regional Development Fund (the Centre of Excellence in Estonian Studies, TK 145), and the University of Tartu, grant PHVFI21914. Special thanks also go to the authors of my edited special issue “The Modern Guise of the Good” (Philosophical Explorations, 2021), whose contributions convinced me that the history of the guise of the good also past its Scholastic heydays was well worth writing about. I thank the Routledge philosophy editor Andrew Weckenmann for believing in this project, two anonymous readers for their helpful commentaries, and the editorial assistants Allie Simmons and Rosaleah Stammler. Finally, I thank my parents for their constant support, my children Roberta and Enrico for regularly forcing me to take much-needed time away from the book, and my wife Julia for her understanding, patience, and encouragement. I dedicate this book to my family.

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Introduction

The Project As a first approximation, the thesis of the guise of the good says: GG. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good. (Otherwise said: if x does not appear to A under the guise of the good, then A does not desire x.)1 Here is an illustration. If you desire to eat an apple, then eating an apple appears to you under the guise of the good—for example, it appeals to you as something delicious. Or perhaps it appeals to you because the doctor advised you to eat apples. Or again, maybe you promised your neighbour that you would taste her apples. These are all possible ways in which eating the apple may appear to you “under the guise of the good”. Suppose now that absolutely nothing about eating the apple appeals to you, neither its taste nor its benefcial properties. Nor do you care about keeping the promise to your neighbour. Can you still want to eat the apple? According to GG, you can’t. Whatever way you may feel about the apple, it’s not desiring or wanting to eat it. GG is an adaptation of Thomas Aquinas’ historically influential claim: quidquid homo appetit, appetit sub ratione boni (Summa Theologiae, I-II, question 1, article 6). Literally translated: whatever a human being desires, he/she desires it under the aspect/consideration/guise of the good. (I will later [Chapter 4] discuss what Aquinas exactly meant by his claim.)2 In a work with historical ambitions, it seems like a good idea to initially fixate a formulation of the guise of the good that does not significantly differ from one of its historically most fortunate versions—even if, later in this chapter, we will see that one important amendment needs to be made to GG. What follows is therefore a work in the history of philosophy—in particular, on the history of a range of claims which are close enough to GG to be seen as speaking to one common philosophical question, namely: Is it in the nature of desire (and, we will see, intentional action) to desire and intend only what seems good to us? Is some form of evaluation DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-1

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necessary—or perhaps, necessary for human beings—to want (and intend to do) anything at all? As far as I know, a comprehensive history of the guise of the good has not been written yet. And this is a gap worth filling, for two reasons at least. First, the guise of the good has been a recurring point of discussion over the entire course of Western philosophy at least since Socrates. Sometimes (often) assumed without argument; sometimes (rarely) defended by argument; sometimes attacked and rejected; often reinterpreted to suit the philosophical projects of this or that author—we would be hard pressed to find a period in which the thesis was entirely forgotten (though see Chapter 9). This should not surprise, since the guise of the good provides an attractive answer to a central question about the nature of desire and action, and ultimately about human nature. What is surprising is that such a staple idea of Western philosophy has not so far received a systematic historical treatment, even though fine scholarly work has been done on particular philosophers (and will inform my own discussions, whenever appropriate). Second, contemporary debates have brought the guise of the good forcefully back onto the philosophical centre stage, at first thanks to Elizabeth Anscombe’s Intention (1957), but more decisively in the last 30 years with the work of authors such as David Velleman (1992), Joseph Raz (2002a), or Sergio Tenenbaum (2007). The current resurgence of interest in what was, already for Immanuel Kant, an “old formula” naturally brings along the question of what this old idea actually amounted to. This question is significant not just for purely scholarly reasons but also in the hope that getting a better and comprehensive historical picture might offer new avenues of argument both for and against the guise of the good.

Interrogating Philosophers and Their Work In writing the history of an idea like the guise of the good, one has to make an assumption of sufficient intellectual continuity between authors who are spread far apart in time and philosophical culture. In other words, one has to present philosophers as different, say, as Socrates and Spinoza, Plato and Kant, Aquinas and Velleman, as players to the same game—debating the same issue, or at least the same family of issues, instead of arguing for or against disparate claims which are only superficially similar. I believe that the ensuing discussion in this book will justify making the assumption of continuity, so I encourage the sceptical reader to trust me here. Moreover, as will be sometimes noted, there are in fact intellectual genealogical trees linking the various authors, and this factually supports the assumption of continuity. What does it mean, however, to explore how the guise of the good is treated by a given philosopher? It means to be able to ask, and find answers to, a number of questions from an author’s work as well as from

Introduction

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relevant scholarship. Identifying these questions will also help us here by way of an introduction to the guise of the good, before launching into historical narration in the subsequent chapters. Here are the questions. 1. Which claims does author X make which at least seem to be worded like GG or its negation? If an author makes claims connecting desire and the (apparent) good, then they are at least prima facie candidates for a spot in this history, and there is reason to investigate further, by asking the next questions. However, the fact that an author does not make such claims doesn’t exclude them from the history of the guise of the good. As we will see, in some cases, a philosopher’s commitment in favour of or against the thesis can be inferred from other claims they make about desire, value, and so on. So a second question to be asked is: 2. Does author X make claims which (under constraints such as charity and simplicity) commit them in favour of or against something like GG? Further questions focus on the interpretation of the guise of the good in a given author: 3. What does author X mean by the key terms: “desire”, “will”, “(the) good”, “appearance”, and related terms (“aspect”, “perception”, “conception”, “idea”, etc.)? 4. What is the status of the claims made: purely conceptual, metaphysically necessary, or empirical? Besides issues of formulation and interpretation of the claims themselves, there will be related questions about the arguments offered for or against the guise of the good, and about the immediate and broader implications (made explicit or not in the original texts) of an author’s take on the thesis: 5. Does author X anywhere support (reject) the guise of the good with an argument? How do the arguments look like? 6. What follows from the guise of the good (or from opposition to it) as stated by author X? Does author X themselves draw any implication—for example, regarding our capacity to desire or do things without seeing anything good in them, our capacity to do evil knowingly, and the existence and nature of free will? 7. Does the guise of the good (or its rejection) by author X have broader philosophical implications, for example, for their moral philosophy, epistemology, and metaphysics?

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Introduction

This is admittedly an open-ended list of questions. Nor do I promise that for every single author I will ask and fnd an answer to all of these questions. But having the questions in view will greatly help to organize the vast material offered by source texts and secondary literature. Also, asking different philosophers the same questions will let us better appreciate the twists and turns of the guise of the good throughout its history.

Variations on a Theme There is plenty of room for variation within the guise of the good. For this reason, I speak of a range of claims like GG or close enough to GG, rather than one single claim that we may identify as the doctrine of the guise of the good. Here I will mention five points on which variation is possible—five “control knobs”, as it were, with which one can modulate the content of the guise of the good. These five points will clarify what is the relevant “range of claims like GG”; they will help to map different versions of the guise of the good, from intuitively stronger (i.e. philosophically more committal) to intuitively weaker (i.e. less committal) formulations; and, in the next chapters, they will help to search the relevant historical texts for answers to the questions listed earlier. 1. What the Guise of the Good Is About First, there can be variation even at the level of what the thesis is about. GG is about desire, or more precisely about the objects of desire in general, about what we desire. But one could (and many did) make parallel claims about other things in the vicinity of desire, instead of or in addition to making a claim about desire. Keeping fixed the consequent “then x appears to A under the guise of the good”, here’s a list of possible antecedents: “If A desires (wants) to do x/prefers x/chooses x/intends to do x/wills x/does x intentionally”. In fact, even the mention of a subject A could be removed, as in those formulations claiming that the (apparent) good is the object of the will. In this case, the primary topic would not be anyone’s desires, preferences, etc., but the nature of the will in general. The thesis would apply to desires, too, but as manifestations of the will. Now, the strongest guise of the good would say that all of these possibilities apply: everything from desires down to intentional actions is subject to the guise of the good. A weaker version would be more selective: say, perhaps only desires, or perhaps only intentions, always present their objects under the guise of the good. Such selective views would be less committal but, given a plausible dependence of intention on desires, probably also harder to defend. If intending to visit grandma depends on desiring or wanting to visit her, how can visiting grandma appear under the guise of the good when it is desired, but not when it is intended? And on the other hand, how can the same thing appear under the guise of the

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good when intended, but not when desired? Maybe only those objects of desire which are, in fact, presented as good qualify as potential objects of intentions: in this case, the guise of the good would apply uniformly to intentions, but only to some, not all, desires. This would be, nonetheless, a recognizable version of the guise of the good. In what follows, I am going to use the traditional connection of the guise of the good to a theory of the will in order to draw at least this dividing line: I will not include, in my discussion, historically important guise of the good theses about attitudes or mental states which either are not, on the face of it, practical (such as beliefs, perception, or “contemplative” emotions like wonder, surprise, and maybe pride and shame), or derive their practical nature from desire, preference, intention, etc. (“practical” emotions, such as anger, fear, love, and curiosity). I do not deny that there are obvious connections here—if you think of desire as an emotion, and accept the guise of the good about desire, then it’s natural to think that other emotions also involve seeing their objects under the guise of the good (or the bad, as is the case with anger or fear). Such connections will be noted, where relevant, but my primary concern is with desires, preferences, etc. as part of our practical nature. (These may include either any desire, as in GG, or more narrowly only desires to do something.)3 2. The Good Second, there can be variation in the evaluative predicates used to specify the “guise” under which the object of desire appears—and this kind of variation naturally interacts with the first one. For example, one could say, “we desire only and always what appears to us under the guise of the best, or at least under the guise of the better under the circumstances (as when we desire the least evil)”. This is a very strong thesis: whatever we want would always coincide with what, in some sense, we rank highest. But a weaker (hence more plausible) view might only say that what we want most or prefer (rather than generically desire) must appear to us as best or better. After all doesn’t preferring apples to oranges have to do with seeing something better about apples compared to oranges? However, there is room for an even weaker view, for even when we prefer or choose something, perhaps we need not rank it higher than something else, but only, at least, see something good or desirable about it. In this way, our preferences or choices would still track at least something we evaluate positively, even though they need not always align with our evaluative rankings. The smoker who chooses to smoke knowing that smoking is the worst thing she could do, at least, must take the pleasure of smoking, if nothing else, as something good about it. Here is also the place to mention that the “guise” could be specified in other ways, such as for example: “x appears to A under the guise of something there is (some good) reason to desire/do”. In the contemporary

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debate, the guise of the good is sometimes distinguished from the “guise of reasons” (Gregory 2013). And one could think of other similar expressions: “something one (to some extent) ought/should/is justified to desire/ do”. Even if evaluative predicates such as good and bad have historically been dominant in formulating the thesis, in what follows I include all of these other options within the relevant range, and will use the name “guise of the good” to cover them all. What is important is that the “guise” be specified with an unambiguously normative or evaluative predicate. In this sense, purely descriptive specifications like “x appears to A under the guise of what matters to A/what A cares about/what promotes A’s pleasure” seem to fall outside of the guise of the good, at least without further elaboration. (This will become relevant with authors like Locke and Hume.) As to the substance or content of what appears good, it can in principle range over a variety of goods or values. Certainly it is by no means restricted to moral goods like virtue or duty—indeed, for many authors, it is a nonmoral good like one’s own happiness that plays a unifying role among the multifarious things that appear good to us in desire. But one may as well hold a pluralist guise of the good, and treat one’s own happiness as one among many ultimate goods under which guise we desire and act. 3. Objective and Subjective Third, there can be variation regarding the objective or subjective understanding of the phrase “x appears under the guise of the good”. As far as I can see, there are two possibilities, each of which has been historically relevant. 1. Subjective + Objective. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good—A takes x as good—on account of some property P, which is something objectively good or sufficiently related to something objectively good. For example, if I desire to eat avocados, then eating avocados might appear to me under the guise of the good, on account of their providing gustatory pleasure. This is, objectively, something good about eating avocados, if and because pleasure is a good. This version of the guise of the good is rather strong, since it implies that one does not really desire x, if the property P, on account of which one seems to desire x, does not fall within the range of objective values. This version also commits its advocates to holding some view about what is, in fact, good or bad. Moreover, this version implies that, no matter how bad or misguided our desires or intentions might be, to some extent, we always desire something that is in fact worth desiring, or that at least belongs to the range of things that are generally worth desiring. Think about the Marquis

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de Sade’s desire for someone else’s humiliation. According to this view, someone else’s humiliation appears to de Sade under the guise of the good, on account of some property P: presumably the property of affording him sexual pleasure. Now, sexual pleasure need not be a good thing in this particular case: the positive value of pleasure can be cancelled by the fact that it is caused by someone else’s humiliation. But if pleasure is otherwise a good thing, then even de Sade’s desires are not too wide off the mark—and otherwise they would not even count as desires, on this version of the guise of the good. If a mental state or an action does not appear to the agent as latching onto anything even remotely valuable, then it does not count as a desire or as an intentional action, like in the cases of wanting the proverbial saucer of mud (Anscombe 1963) or turning radios on and off for no further reason (Quinn 1993). We literally cannot have crazy desires (unless as a value theorist one is ready to accept crazy theories of what’s good and bad!).4 This version of the guise of the good thus leaves room for three sorts of “mistakes in desire”. (1) The agent may make a purely factual error—the object of desire actually does not have property P (avocados turn out to taste bad). (2) The agent may desire something that is worth desiring on account of P, but desire it too much or too little (the pleasure of eating avocados is a good thing, but perhaps I shouldn’t desire eating avocados very much, or anyway not more than, say, I desire to play with my children). (3) Finally, as in de Sade’s case, the property P may fail to be good on the particular occasion, and so the object of desire is not at all worth desiring on account of P, even though P is within the range of things that make generally something worth desiring (pleasure is generally worth desiring). 2. Subjective Only. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good—A takes x as good—on account of some property P, which need not be something objectively good or sufficiently related to something objectively good. On this view, the guise of the good is a purely subjective affair, and it is thus a less committal version: in order to desire x, we only need to think that some property P makes x good. Going back to the aforementioned “crazy” cases: as long as I think of the saucer of mud as good on account of something, no matter how valueless, irrelevant, or even puzzling (say, its foul smell or its indefnite colour), I can be said to genuinely desire it. There is no need to back up particular stories about what you and I desire with any account of what is in fact valuable. There is no objective value constraint here. On this version, the three sorts of mistakes in desires pointed out earlier are also possible, but the third sort (desiring something that is not at all worth desiring) can on this view be a much more radical mistake

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than on the previous view, because we may be mistaken about the value of something altogether, rather than only about its value in a certain context. We can have crazy desires, as long as they are under the guise of the good. There is, however, also a potential third view here that needs to be mentioned: 3. Objective Only. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of some good. On this view, subject A can desire x without entertaining any evaluative thought about x, as long as x presents itself to A under a description that matches some objective value. For example, I can desire to eat avocados without thinking that there is anything good about avocados, as long as avocados simply appear to me, say, pleasant to eat, and pleasure is objectively good. In this book, I will regard such a purely objective reading of “appears under the guise of the good” as lying outside the range of claims like or close enough to GG. Why? Because this view rejects what seems to be one central element of the guise of the good: the connection between desire, intentions, etc. and the subject’s evaluative outlook. If desire and the like are to make sense of our actions, and ultimately, make sense of ourselves, then desire, as such, had better refect our perspective on the world. And in the guise of the good tradition, this must be an evaluative perspective, because (so one of the arguments goes) only when we think we have some good reason or justifcation—something in view as good—can our actions make sense to us, or to us as rational beings (see later for this distinction).5 In this sense, understanding ourselves as (rational) agents requires, on this line of argument, understanding ourselves as evaluating beings—beings possessed with evaluative capacities. 4. Appearing Under the Guise Fourth, the phrase “x appears under the guise of the good” brings forth another dimension of variation besides the one just discussed. What does “appearing” amount to, psychologically? Two main options are possible. First, one could interpret it as referring to a psychological state furnished with a certain evaluative content: an appearance or perception that x is good, or a belief or judgement that x is good. Call this the content view. There are stronger and weaker versions of the content view: it seems very demanding to ask that every single desire come equipped with (or identify with) a fully formed, conscious judgement that the object of our desire is good. Moreover, cannot we sometimes desire something, for example, to hit our dog, against our judgement that there is nothing at all good about doing that (not even our own relief)? Content views in terms of evaluative appearances would seem to be weaker, and thus more plausible, as

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they allow for the possibility of conflicts between desires (i.e. evaluative appearances) and evaluative judgements. The second option is to interpret “appearing under the guise of the good” as referring to an attitude that has evaluation built into it: not thinking that x is good, but rather having a thinking-as-good attitude towards x. The model here is the way that a proposition appears “under the guise of the true” when you believe it. It might seem odd to say that, whenever you believe that p, you also believe the content “p is true”. Appearing under the guise of the true seems better understood as having a taking-as-true attitude towards p. Call this the attitude view (Tenenbaum 2018).6 Content views, in general, may seem stronger, because they require that any desiring agent possess an evaluative concept (or something like it, a proto-concept, perhaps), or else one would not be able to desire anything. The attitude view, as such, need not require that. However, the attitude view must be careful to define thinking-as-good attitudes in a way that illuminates the nature of desire. Thinking-as-good cannot be defined in terms of psychological states or dispositions that presuppose the concept of desire; otherwise, the attitude view would yield a trivial version of the guise of the good: If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good = A has a thinking-as-good attitude towards x = A (inter alia) desires x. (A trivial guise of the good is no more a genuine version of it than a fake banknote is genuine money.) The distinction between content views and attitude views, and distinctions within the family of content views have not been historically in clear focus (not until Franz Brentano, Chapter 9), but in what follows they will help us to better understand certain authors. 5. Questions of Form, Status, and Scope Fifth, a final set of “control knobs” serves to modulate the logical form, the status, and the scope of the guise of the good. GG mentioned earlier is a conditional statement, essentially saying that x appearing to A under the guise of the good is a necessary condition for A to desire x. One cannot desire x without x appearing good to them—though, as far as GG goes, x could appear good without one desiring x. But one could hold something stronger: x appearing to A under the guise of the good could be both a necessary and a sufficient condition for A to desire x.7 In this case, desire and evaluation would be bound up together, and on this basis, it would be tempting to make an even stronger claim: desiring x is identical with x appearing under the guise of the good. Whichever of the three versions one chooses (only necessary condition, necessary and sufficient condition, identity), one must further decide what kind of role is played by evaluation. None of the three versions establish any kind of priority between desire and evaluation. But if the

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guise of the good is to throw light on the nature of ourselves as agents, evaluation must be understood to play some kind of explanatory role with respect to the related desire (intention, etc.). It must be at least in part because (in some sense of “because”) something appears under the guise of the good that we desire it, and not the other way around. So we need to amend our initial formulation: GG+. If A desires x, then A desires x because x appears to A under the guise of the good. For obvious reasons, I will continue to take GG as the baseline for the relevant “range of claims”. However, should it turn out that a given philosopher explicitly or implicitly rejects GG+, that will be suffcient reason to classify them as opponents to the guise of the good. (The difference between GG and GG+ will be especially salient in connection to critics like Spinoza and Hobbes.) The next question is what sort of “because” or explanation could be meant in GG+. It could be, broadly speaking, causal: x appearing to me under the guise of the good is necessary (or necessary and sufficient) to cause, or at least is causally relevant, for desiring x. In this case, the guise of the good would be stating a relation between two different states or attitudes, so it would be incompatible with an identity version. If one endorses the guise of the good as an identity thesis, the “because” would have to be rather constitutive or conceptual. The fact that x appears under the guise of the good would be more fundamental, metaphysically or conceptually, than the fact that one desires x; for example, in the way that being H2O is sometimes said to be metaphysically more fundamental than being water (while H2O and water being one and the same substance), or in the way that “having exactly three sides” could be said to be a more fundamental concept than “being a triangle”. As for scope: all the versions mentioned so far (the guise of the good as a necessary condition claim, as a necessary and sufficient condition claim, or as identity claim) are as a whole rather strong, as they leave no room at all for the possibility that someone, sometimes, perhaps under well-specified circumstances, may desire something—hitting their dog—without this appearing at all to them under the guise of the good. Nor do they leave room for the “Satanic” possibility that one may desire something—say, again, hitting their dog—not only while nothing appears to them under the guise of the good, but also precisely on account of this being a bad thing to do, or “under the guise of the bad”, as it were. It is debatable whether allowing such possibilities would mean totally abandoning the guise of the good. But it seems to me wise to include certain weaker or qualified versions of the guise of the good. For example, one could decide to limit the scope of the thesis to the desires or actions of rational beings qua rational beings, and argue that evaluation-free or

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Satanic desires are just not meant to be covered by the thesis thus understood. Alternatively, one could take the thesis as defining the typical or central cases of desire, thus making room for evaluation-free and Satanic desires as real, though marginal, deviant, or degenerate cases, and for the respective actions as less than fully intentional ones. Finally, one could further weaken the guise of the good to a generic claim about the desires of human beings. Generic claims tolerate explainable exceptions, on the model of “birds lay eggs”: due to genetic or environmental factors, some individual birds don’t lay eggs, but this fact does not falsify the generic claim about birds, nor does it make these birds somehow “less than fully” birds. In all these qualified versions, the guise of the good would presumably still tell us something important about the nature of desire. What would then be too weak a claim—so weak that it falls outside the relevant range? First, a purely statistical claim that some people, or even most people most of the time, desire things under the guise of the good would not tell us something about the nature of desire. Such claims are usually accepted as true by the critics of the guise of the good, so this is not where the philosophical dispute lies (as suggested earlier, a guise of the good advocate has to make at the very least the further claim that most people’s desires are typical or central cases of desire). Second, the guise of the good, as understood here, is not the normative or prescriptive claim that we ought to desire what appears to us under the guise of the good, or that we ought to prefer what appears under the guise of the better or the best. Whatever the merits of such normative claims, the guise of the good has traditionally been offered as a descriptive or explanatory view about desire and the will. Even when it is qualified to “rational beings”, “rational being” should be understood as a descriptive, not normative qualification: a being possessed with rational capacities, contrasted with an arational (rather than irrational) being. (This point will be important, among other places, when discussing Kant’s “reformulation” of the guise of the good.)

Overview of the Book In Chapters 2–5, I explore what I call “the classical canon”. I begin the narration in Chapter 2 with Socrates and Plato, who can in many ways be said to be the initiators of the guise of the good in Western philosophy— not because nobody had held such views before, but because of Plato’s obvious influence on Aristotle and the latter’s influence on everyone who wrote about the guise of the good ever since. In Chapter 3, I discuss Aristotle’s version(s) of the thesis and its role in his moral psychology, his virtue theory, and his general metaphysics, with a brief coda on Stoicism. In Chapter 4, the focus will be on Aquinas, his formulations of the guise of the good (a standard for all future references to the doctrine), the theological background, and the ethical implications. I also devote

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some space to Augustine, in connection to his autobiographical account of stealing pears “for the sake of doing wrong”. Chapter 5 illustrates some prominent challenges to the classical canon from within medieval Christian philosophy (Duns Scotus, Ockham) as well as highlighting the late reaffirmation of the canon by the Spanish Jesuit Francisco Suárez at the end of the 16th century. In Chapters 6–8, I discuss some of the rejections and revisions undergone by the thesis in early modern philosophy. Chapter 6 witnesses Descartes (as an ambiguous advocate) and Spinoza (as a direct critic) as protagonists. Chapter 7 looks at Hobbes’ implicit rejection as well as Locke’s empiricist and hedonist revision. Chapter 8 takes on the difficult task of placing Hume and Kant within our narration: while Hume never mentions the thesis, Kant calls it “the old formula of the Schools” and proceeds to adjust it to his own philosophical project. In Chapter 9, I show how, despite the thesis mostly receding from view during the 1800–1950 interval, we can see (often implicit) signs of life in disparate authors such as Hegel, Mill, and Brentano, as well as in Nietzsche as a distinctive kind of opponent. Chapter 10 concludes our narration with the fresh start given to the guise of the good by Anscombe in her Intention (1957), which greatly influenced the subsequent and contemporary revival. As can be seen from this overview, I have mostly confined my attention to some of the conventional “classics” of Western philosophy. The hope is that what I have done here may lay the basis for scholarly work on the contributions by “minor” figures in Western philosophy, as well as for investigating the guise of the good in non-Western philosophical traditions. Furthermore, to keep things manageable (but also in view of the likely readership), I have consulted almost exclusively scholarship in English from roughly the second half of the 20th century onwards. That said, references to relevant literature in other languages or from previous decades can sometimes be found in some of the scholarly work I have used. Finally, I have not paid more than occasional attention to the wider network of historical influences, both intra- and extra-philosophical—what follows is history of philosophy by textual analysis and reconstruction.

Notes 1. In this book, “GG” refers to exactly this claim, whereas “the guise of the good” or “the thesis” refers to the range of claims which, like I say, are close enough to GG (including GG itself). 2. At least since Velleman (1992), the expression “under the guise of the good” has become an immediately recognizable stock phrase, and for this reason, I have chosen to stick to it. However, it is not the best translation of Aquinas’ own sub ratione boni. It might be an acceptable rendering of the other Latin phrase sub specie boni (which Aquinas himself hardly ever uses). Species here

Introduction

3. 4. 5. 6.

7.

13

means not “species” or “kind” but rather an aspect of something qua represented in sensory or intellectual ways (therefore not necessarily corresponding to reality—hence “guise”). One more option is to apply the guise of the good (or the guise of “normative reasons”) not to a certain state or attitude, but to motivating reasons (Singh 2019). But see Clark (2010) and Stocker (2004, 2008) for the difficulty of exactly pinning down the “objective value” aspect. See Tenenbaum (2013, 2020) and Orsi (2015a) for an outline of this argument. The ideas that “good is the formal object of wanting, as true is the formal object of believing” (De Sousa 1974: 538) or that “[t]he good is . . . the formal end of practical inquiry in the same way that truth is the formal end of theoretical inquiry” (Tenenbaum 2007: 21) may be part of either content or attitude views, depending on how they are unpacked. See Saemi (2015). Note that the claim that x appearing under the guise of the good is a sufficient, but not necessary, condition for desiring x, falls outside the relevant range of claims, because it leaves (too much) room for desires that don’t involve a guise of the good.

2

Socrates and Plato

Introduction For reasons of convenience, our narration starts with Socrates, though this is not to imply that philosophers before Socrates did not hold (or criticize) views like the guise of the good. Moreover, since I will only deal with Socrates’ philosophy as reported in Plato’s dialogues, I make no suggestion that what Socrates held is not, also, what Plato held in the concrete dialogue I comment on. In what follows, I will ascribe claims to either philosopher as I see fit. In this chapter, I first clarify the relation between the guise of the good and Socratic intellectualism. Then I discuss the place of the guise of the good in the context of Plato’s later theory of the tripartite soul, inquiring what kind of thesis Plato held, in particular, in the Republic. In both cases, I illustrate the role that the guise of the good had for Plato’s ethics, as well as with reference to Plato’s metaphysical distinctions between reality and mere appearances.

The Guise of the Good and Socratic Intellectualism The guise of the good makes many appearances in Plato (429?—347 BC), and its interpretation is hotly debated. But probably the most famous context in which it is used is to support the so-called doctrine of Socratic intellectualism: nobody willingly does or pursues what is bad. Or otherwise said: anything bad that we end up doing is involuntary. This is a shocking thesis, but one that Socrates appears to hold on the basis of a version of the guise of the good. In some passages, Socratic intellectualism and the guise of the good are even presented next to each other: No one goes willingly toward the bad [Socratic intellectualism] or what he believes to be bad [guise of the good]; neither is it in human nature, so it seems, to want to go toward what one believes to be bad instead of toward the good [again, guise of the good]. (Protagoras, 358c6–d2)1 DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-2

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The difference should be clear from what was said in Chapter 1. One thing is to say (i) We never desire, want, or pursue anything we only think bad or think worse than the alternatives [guise of the good, in at least some version]. Quite another is to say (ii) We never really desire, want, or pursue anything that is actually bad [Socratic intellectualism]. The latter view goes beyond the guise of the good, since it imposes a purely objective constraint on the possible objects of desire: if something is objectively bad, we do not desire it. Note that a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good, presented in Chapter 1, may allow that what we desire (and pursue, and do) is objectively bad: for example, wanting another’s pain for one’s own pleasure is wanting something objectively bad, even if we are capable of wanting it thanks to pleasure being, by and large, a good thing. By combining (i) and (ii), Socrates’ overall view thus seems to be a form of Subjective + Objective guise of the good, where the objective element is at its purest: not only do we only desire what we take to be good, but we also only desire what is actually good. How does Socrates argue for Socratic intellectualism on the basis of the guise of the good? In the Meno, Socrates provides a controversial argument which appears to do the double job of justifying both (i) and, in turn, (ii). (I largely rely on the analysis in Barney 2010.) Let’s start with (i). Meno claims that some people desire what appears bad to them. This, as such, is not a counterexample to the guise of the good—because as long as what appears bad also appears good in some respect, one’s desires are in line with the guise of the good. In fact, Socrates replies that, as long as these people also believe that they receive some benefit from the admittedly bad things they pursue, their desires are just like the desires of those who want bad things believing them to be good (Meno, 77d4–7). But what about those who, apparently, do not believe that they get any benefit from what they desire, but rather believe that they only receive harm? Here Socrates halts the discussion with a sweeping psychological claim: nobody desires their own unhappiness, at least not for its own sake (78a4–5). So, either these people do not really desire what they claim or appear to desire, or they desire something harmful which, unbeknownst to themselves, they also regard as instrumentally or otherwise good. In either case, (i) is demonstrated. In the Protagoras (around lines 351–358), Socrates similarly argues from an identification of pleasure with good (and pain with bad) to the

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conclusion (quoted earlier) that nobody willingly chooses what they believe bad or worse—because nobody can willingly choose what they believe to be harmful, or more harmful (or less pleasant) than something else. This is why people who seem to choose what they think is worse must, instead, be choosing what appears to them, at the time, as the best, that is, most pleasant or least harmful, course of action. They are not “overcome by pleasure” into choosing against their own value judgement, as if pleasure were an independent psychic force, bypassing considerations of value. Rather, they are overcome, if by anything, by their own (short-sighted) judgements of value, that is, of overall pleasure. As we will see, both Plato in later dialogues and Aristotle will challenge this, extremely strong, version of the guise of the good, whereby it is not possible to desire against one’s (simultaneous) value judgement.2 Before moving to Socrates’ inference from (i) to (ii), it is important to note the interplay between the guise of the good and psychological claims about the actual content of (human) desires. The guise of the good is not, as such, about the actual content of desires: it does not state or require that “the good” or “to do what seems good” be the object of each of our desires, as opposed to particular contents such as “to eat an apple”, “to become a doctor”, and “peace in the Middle East”. As seen in Chapter 1, it is a claim about the nature or about a necessary condition for desire: whatever our objects of desire happen to be, they must appear as good. The guise of the good might or might not set further constraints about the possible contents of desire, depending on whether one adopts the Subjective + Objective version, whereby only what is by and large good can appear good to us, and be desired. But another set of constraints (not implausibly) can come from psychology: if nobody desires their own unhappiness for its own sake, then nobody desires harm for oneself for its own sake, and if desiring something as bad is or at least requires desiring one’s own harm, then nobody desires something as bad (for its own sake, at least). In Socrates’ reasoning, then, the guise of the good is partly supported by a certain psychological view, and a fortiori the former is not identical with the latter. The claim that desiring something as bad is or at least requires desiring one’s own harm, as Rachel Barney points out, is a conceptual one that Plato’s audience would have taken for granted (Barney 2010: 68–69). But as such, it shows that Socrates’ argument, even at this first stage, depends not only on the psychological assumption that nobody desires one’s own unhappiness, but also on a controversial conceptual claim. To us, unlike to Socrates’ contemporaries, it seems that, if I can desire something as bad, I may think of it as bad on account of its harm to others (or injustice, etc.), and be indifferent as to whether it harms me or has any impact on my happiness. Be that as it may, how does Socrates in the Meno move from (i) to (ii)? As noted earlier, (i) allows for the possibility that what people desire,

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despite being thought of as good, is actually bad. Moving to (ii) requires an additional premise. This premise cannot be the hopeful assumption that just thinking of x as good always makes x good. More likely, Socrates is identifying someone’s object of desire with the intended object of desire (something good, as seems to the agent, e.g. gaining more power for oneself) and not with the corresponding reality (something actually bad and harmful to oneself, e.g. committing injustice) (Vlastos 1991: 148–154). In other words, the description of the object of desire that fixes the identity of a given desire is the agent’s own description, and since, as per (i), the agent’s description can only be of something as good, it follows that desires are never for something other than good. It also follows that, if my actions are bad, the bad I have done is involuntary, that is, it did not proceed from my desires.3 How to explain then apparent desires for something bad? They cannot be cases of “mistaken desires”, because they are not cases of genuine desires in the first place. If any mistake is made, it is a cognitive one: thinking that the object of my desire is good when it really isn’t. Socrates puts it in terms of knowledge: It is clear then that those who do not know things [that is, the things they desire] to be bad do not desire what is bad, but they desire those things that they believe to be good but that are in fact bad. So that those who have no knowledge of these things and believe them to be good clearly desire good things. (Meno, 77d8–e3) In other words, our predicament is as follows: wanting is always wanting the good, both apparent and—consequently—actual good, but what appears good is often not what is good, so we often want the good while lacking knowledge of what is good. This is what is wrong with us: not that we end up desiring something bad, but that such desires are based on lack of knowledge of what is good. When the target of our desire (where “target of desire” is different from “object of desire”, and doesn’t contribute to fxing the identity of our desire) or the outcome of our actions (though not the outcome of something we voluntarily do) is something bad, we must be ascribed a lack of evaluative knowledge. From this, Socrates immediately derives a consequence for ethical theory. If we always desire the actual good, then virtue cannot consist in desiring what is actually good, as Meno proposes in the dialogue. Since we all, always, desire what is actually good, it would follow that we are all, to some extent, already virtuous. And this is an unacceptable implication. A different conception of virtue instead emerges here: virtue consists in knowledge of the good, exactly what is missing from the (otherwise blameless) desires of tyrants, bad people, and probably most of us (e.g. Protagoras, 360c–e; Meno, 87d–89a5). We can see in Socrates’ discussion

18 Socrates and Plato an early example of how the guise of the good, far from being an isolated claim about desire or action, gets to do crucial work in motivating a specific ethical view.

What Version(s) of the Guise of the Good Did Plato Endorse? Formulation (i) only says that we never desire, want, or pursue anything we only think bad or worse than the alternatives. As we learned in Chapter 1, there are further questions to answer in order to pinpoint a specific version of the guise of the good. In this section, I focus on three such questions: (1) Who does “we” refer to? All human beings as such? Only human beings as rational? In Plato scholarship, there is significant disagreement about this point. (2) Does Plato uniformly hold a Subjective + Objective version of the thesis, as seen so far? (3) Why does (i) hold—what is the relation between desires and thoughts about good in virtue of which (i) holds? I will start from the first question. In dialogues like the Phaedrus and the Republic, Plato famously argues for the claim that the human soul has three parts: the appetitive, the “spirited”, and the rational. What is immediately relevant here is that each part generates or stands behind certain basic desires: the rational part desires truth or knowledge, the spirited part desires honours and power, and the appetitive part desires satisfaction of hunger, thirst, and bodily pleasures in general (Moline 1978, see e.g. Republic, 580d-581c). Since Plato also says, “every soul [hapasa psuchê] pursues the good and does its utmost [panta prattei] for its sake” (Republic, 505e, my emphasis), it seems to follow that all desires, no matter which part of the soul they originate from or manifest, are under the guise of the good. And so Plato’s guise of the good would be a claim about human desire, in general, not only about “rational” desire. Also in the case of desires coming from the appetitive and the spirited parts, the objects of desire would be presented as good. Scholars such as Jessica Moss further support this conclusion with the claims that the appetitive and spirited parts of the soul differ from the rational for being “cognitively limited to the perception and acceptance of appearances” (Moss 2008: 39), and that in Plato’s texts, such appearances typically include evaluative appearances: when the appetitive part desires sexual pleasures, or the spirited part is averse to defeat, sexual pleasures seem worth pursuing to us, while defeat appears bad and worth escaping (see also Moss 2006). The rational part has the task of ruling over the other parts—because it allows us to transcend appearances and “calculate” the real worth of things as well as their real nature—but it has no prerogative on the guise of the good as characterizing its own desires only. Other scholars however disagree with this picture, and argue that in the Republic, unlike in earlier dialogues, Plato only holds a guise of the

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good thesis restricted to the desires of the rational part (Woods 1988: 41–47) or to those of the spirited and the rational parts (Irwin 1977: 191–195, 227; Irwin 1995: 207 and ff.).4 Here is how such a view can be motivated. The Republic’s main argument for the division of the soul is that we are often in a state of motivational conflict. For example, when thirsty, we can have a desire to drink, while also having a desire to avoid drinking (because, say, we believe that any drink would be bad for us right now). Or we may have a reaction of anger or shame towards our desiring certain sexual pleasures—the reaction of anger or shame thus manifesting a desire not to obtain those sexual pleasures. Plato further endorses what has been called the principle of opposites: no single thing can do or undergo opposites regarding the same thing at the same time (436b-c, 439b). Thus he concludes that these conflicting desires, qua opposites regarding the same thing at the same time, must belong to different parts of our soul.5 It is not important, here, to follow exactly Plato’s reasons for distinguishing three (as opposed to two, or four, etc.) parts of the soul. What is relevant for this line of interpretation is that, in all such conflicts, it is tempting to read one class of desires as oriented towards the good and the conflicting class of desires as not oriented towards the good. In particular, the desires of the appetitive part (expressions of hunger, thirst, sexual impulses, etc.) would appear to be conflicting with the valuedriven desires of either the rational or the spirited part. This may be supported by Socrates making the point that, qua expression of thirst, a desire to drink is merely a desire for a drink, not a desire for a good drink (nor is it for that matter a desire for a cold as opposed to a hot drink, for much as opposed to little drinking, etc.) (438a1–5). And when the spirited part conflicts with the rational—for example, when we desire revenge while knowing that revenge is wrong, and thus while desiring not to take revenge—the desire of the spirited part might seem to be devoid of an evaluative orientation, and be an expression of a “blind passion”, as it were. It follows then that some desires are under the guise of the good, but not all are or need to be, and certainly not those of the appetitive part. And when Plato claims, “every soul pursues the good”, he might have meant that only when we desire something with our whole soul—rational part included—do we then pursue the good. I do not propose to solve this interpretive issue about Plato’s Republic. However, it is worth making two remarks. First, a small but important point about Plato’s claim that appetitive desire for a drink need not be a desire for a good drink: this claim is actually irrelevant to whether such a desire for a drink presents its object as good or not, and thus to whether the guise of the good includes appetitive desires. The guise of the good does not require that our objects of desire be qualified as “a good x” (or that objects of aversion be qualified as “a bad x”).6 In fact, the guise

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of the good doesn’t require that any particular content be the object of desire, so a fortiori it should not require that objects of desire be qualified as good of their kind. The guise of the good is, as such, a constraint on the objects of desire, whatever they may happen to be: drinks simpliciter, good drinks, cold drinks, etc. Thus it is certainly possible that thirst presents drinking as something good, even when the object of desire is drink only and not “a good drink”.7 Second, if part of the aim of this “restricted guise of the good” interpretation of Plato is to make sense of motivational conflicts, this can be achieved also by seeing both soul parts in conflict as manifesting opposing evaluative perspectives, even if one part’s evaluative perspective (say, the perspective of the “thirsting part”) may be confused, superficial, or “arational” when compared to the perspective of the other part (say, the perspective of the rational part). In fact, it can be argued that if the appetitive part did not present drink and its other typical objects of desire (e.g. bodily pleasures) as something good, it would be harder to make sense of a genuine conflict with the rational part, which the rational part has, for Plato, the task to resolve in its own favour. For the rational part to rule over the whole soul is, in general, for it to correct deceptive perspectives, whether those offered by the five senses or those offered by non-rational sources of motivation. But a perspective stands in need of correction only to the extent that it does present things in a way things, really, are not: in the case of appetitive and spirited desires, therefore, certain things (bodily pleasures, honours, etc.) are presented as good, which are really not good or at least not good (not worth pursuing) for their own sake. Let’s move to our second question: Does Plato uniformly hold a Subjective + Objective version of the thesis? It seems that appetitive and spirited desires can be purely subjectively under the guise of the good, when in conflict with or unaided by the rational part. And this means that these desires can go very wrong, assigning a given value to objects which either cannot have that value (physical pleasure doesn’t have value for its own sake) or always have the opposite value (escaping just punishment is always bad). In Plato’s Republic, many desires, and the people ruled by these desires, that is non-philosophers, are constitutively cut off from getting at what is really good—our orientation towards the apparent good does not, as such, offer hope that any of us, as an individual, may be already pursuing, or be brought to pursue, what is actually good.8 On the other hand, it does seem that being guided by rational desires will ensure an orientation towards what is objectively good, given the rational part’s concern for truth and ability for long-term thinking. (To be sure, sometimes the capacity for reasoning may be co-opted by the appetitive or the spirited part, thus resulting in “rational” desires for objects that are far from the Good. But in these cases we are not guided by the rational part.) Thus we have a mixed answer to our question: Subjective Only holds for some desires, Subjective + Objective holds for others. In

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the earlier dialogues, instead, where there is no division of the soul, and where, as per Socrates’ arguments, if something is bad we cannot really want it, a Subjective + Objective version seems uniformly favoured about all desires. The third question—what is the relation between (all or only a subset of) desires and thoughts about good in virtue of which (i) holds?—has not received as much attention in Plato scholarship. But two possibilities have emerged in recent literature, both of which are tightly connected with the previous interpretive issue. One possibility is that all desires (or only rational desires) are in fact identical with evaluative thoughts. In the case of rational desires, the identity is presumably with a judgement about what is good overall or best. Non-rational desires (in case one accepts the guise of the good also for these) would be, instead, identical with “lower” kinds of cognitive states: appearances, impressions, or immediate (not “calculated”) beliefs about the value of the object of desire, analogous to the immediate perceptual belief that the desk here in front of me is white. It has been argued that, for Plato, states of pleasure in fact are or involve self-vindicating appearances: my pleasures appear to me good, and in desiring pleasures, I cannot help seeing the pleasure as something good (Moss 2006). The same holds for the objects of emotions like pride and shame, which are typical of the spirited part of the soul (Moss 2005). The other possibility is that all desires (or, again, only rational desires) for an object x are caused (as a matter of exceptionless psychological laws) by a separate state of believing or judging that x is good (Barney 2010: 73–74). On this picture, (rational) desires are necessarily for the apparent good, but they borrow their orientation towards value from elsewhere—from a relation to a distinct cognition about the good. Why hold such a view? Barney argues that, for Plato, we can only desire what we lack. But if desiring x were identical with, for example, believing that x is good, then we would also desire things that we already have, because presumably we can believe that x is good while already having x (e.g. decent health) (ibid.: 73). It follows, then, that desires would be caused not just by any old belief that x is good, but by the belief that x is good and that we lack x. Again, I will not try to settle this disputed question—which seems even harder than the previous one to resolve on purely textual grounds—but I will make two broader remarks. First, the view that desire is not identical to, but necessarily caused by, belief about the good still allows for a full, unrestricted guise of the good, as the one clearly held by Socrates in the earlier dialogues. But it also opens the door to the restricted guise of the good attributed by many commentators to Plato’s Republic. Why? Because the fact that desires are not identified with evaluative thoughts makes it at least conceivable that some desires may fail to present their object as good—which is what many

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argue about the appetitive desires in the Republic. If one can conceive of an effect independent of its cause (even when the causal relation is necessary), then some desires can simply be regarded as impulses driving us towards or away from certain actions or states of affairs, independent of whether they originate from evaluative thoughts. We are not conceptually forced to view all desires as being bound up with evaluation. Second, once we take into account the different parts of the soul, there is room for yet a third, pluralist view about the metaphysics of desire: desires of some parts (e.g. of the rational part) are not identical to, but are necessarily caused by, evaluative cognitions, while desires of other parts (e.g. of the non-rational parts) may be identical to evaluative appearances. While it would be difficult to find exegetical support for this view in Plato’s texts, it is worth bringing it out, if only for the sake of completeness. In fact, one may speculate that when the non-rational parts are operative, a person cannot divorce her desires (and more generally her passions) from an evaluative appraisal: pleasures and honours cannot fail to appear good, because they feel good. The rational part, on the other hand, allows us to step back from our desires quite generally, even while it generates its own rational desires. There is a clear sense in which “calculated” judgements of good and bad are the basis on which we get to desire truth, knowledge, wisdom, or whatever the overall good may consist in. The rational part establishes a relation of priority of knowledge about value over desire, and in turn this may require a metaphysical distinction between such knowledge states and conative or affective states. What is important to note is that the guise of the good, even when true about all desires, does not demand a monist metaphysics of desire: as long as all desires present their objects as good, there can be more than one “deep explanation” for why this is so, with different explanations being appropriate to different kinds of desires. But there is more. The entitlement of the rational part to govern over the non-rational parts, as suggested earlier, has to do with its superior powers of discernment. But if rational desires were one of a kind with non-rational ones, it is not clear what claim they would have to rule over the latter. The pluralist picture just sketched, on the other hand, makes sense of their superiority: the evaluative content of rational desires is the result of “calculation” about good and bad, rather than being no more than a stamp of approval (or disapproval) unreflectively imprinted on by our pleasures, pains, or spirited passions. The very heart of Plato’s ethics may thus rest precisely on a view of desire that both attributes the guise of the good to all desires and countenances different kinds of desires.

Conclusion In this chapter, I distinguished Socratic intellectualism from the guise of the good, and investigated their possible relation. I then moved on to

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Plato’s later views in the Republic, presenting and shedding light on some interpretive issues regarding the nature and scope of his commitment to the thesis.

Notes 1. References to Plato’s works include dialogue title followed by the customary Stephanus number (edition used: Plato 1997). 2. The Protagoras argument for (i) thus appears to be analogous to the one in the Meno, but in the Protagoras there seems to be no independent move towards claim (ii). 3. Commentators have tried to get around the apparent implausibility of this claim. Barney herself, after outlining Socrates’ “argument” for (ii) in the Meno and a similar one in the Gorgias (468b-e), argues for a different reading, whereby, for Plato, we can desire bad things, and these desires motivate genuine actions, but these actions are involuntary as in “less than fully autonomous”, not as in “not wanted” (Barney 2010). Segvic (2009a) instead argues that, for Socrates, if A wants to do x, then x must be actually good, because wanting is a special kind of desire that implies evaluative knowledge. Other modalities of desire are only subjectively under the guise of the good. See also the analysis in Irwin (1977: 78–82, and 300 [fn. 51]). 4.

Socrates [in earlier dialogues] believed that no action is explicable unless it reflects the agent’s beliefs about the good; but, contrary to Socrates’ view, we can explain without reference to the agent’s reasons why he pursues food, drink, or sex, even when he sees overriding reason to avoid them. (Irwin 1977: 193)

5. See the clear analysis in Lorenz (2006: ch. 2). 6. Though it can be held limitedly to such objects, see Geach (1956: 38–39) (discussed later in Chapter 10). 7. See Moss (2011), and Moss (2006, fn. 50) for a brief but informative review of the literature on this particular passage. Among others, see Lorenz (2006: 28–30). 8. Contrast the “optimistic” picture offered in the Symposium about the ascent of desire (qua love) from bodily beauty to the very Form of the Good (although the Symposium is sometimes placed next to the Republic as a “middle period” dialogue; see Kraut [2022, section 11], for a discussion of Plato chronology). See Bobonich (2002) for the view that, in the later Laws, Plato believes the good to be within reach of non-philosophers too.

3

Aristotle and the Stoics

Introduction Aristotle (384–322 BC) has an obvious pride of place in the history of the guise of the good for a number of reasons. First, he reworks Plato’s theses in a systematic, more nuanced, and less intellectualistic (and according to many, more plausible) direction. Second, he makes the guise of the good an essential premise in establishing his virtue ethics. Third, he provides the historical link and a large part of the inspiration for later developments of the guise of the good by Scholastic philosophers (in particular, by Aquinas). In this chapter, I will illustrate the first two points. In the final section, I briefly examine the guise of the good as held by the Stoics, who presented a “streamlined” version of the thesis which in some respects looks back at Socrates’ intellectualism.

Aristotle’s Classification of Desires Let’s begin by dismantling one doubt. Aristotle starts off his Nicomachean Ethics with the claim that “every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim” (NE I, 1, 1094a1).1 After reading Chapter 1, the reader might ask whether this is a real or only verbal affirmation of the guise of the good. Suppose Aristotle is providing a definition of good such as “x is good = df. x is aimed at”. First off, this will not do, since clearly not everything we aim at is in fact good. What we aim at might be good, or only apparently good. This in fact is recognized by Aristotle himself: “absolutely and in truth the good is the object of wish, but for each person the apparent good” (NE III, 4, 1113a23–25).2 So, suppose now Aristotle is defining “x is good or appears to be good” as “x is aimed at”. On the basis of this definition, the guise of the good becomes trivial: to say that if A aims at x, then A sees x as good (or x appears good to A) would be to say that if A aims at x, then x is aimed at by A. The real good as well as the apparent good would be doing no explanatory work with respect to aiming at and by extension wishing, DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-3

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desiring, intending and other psychological concepts. By the same token, the opening sentence of Aristotle’s text would amount to a tautology: every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at something that is aimed at. A more plausible hypothesis is that Aristotle doesn’t mean to endorse a definition of the good. In the context of Book I, he is better seen as deriving a methodological principle from (a version of) the guise of the good: 1. Every action aims at some (real or apparent) good [guise of the good]. 2. Given 1, the only way to know what is good (i.e. the real, ultimate good) is by knowing what all actions (ultimately) aim at. The methodological principle is not spelled out by Aristotle, but it coheres well with the gist of the arguments in Book I, and is later somewhat defended by an analogy with what is true and what everyone thinks (NE X, 2, 1172b35). The good he is trying to uncover is not a Platonic idea or form (see later), but is something attainable by human beings and therefore, even if never actually attained, presumably at least aimed at as the (ultimate) object of people’s desires. In other words, in an inquiry about the good there is nowhere else to start from but the things people actually regard and aim at as goods. If what we do didn’t appear to us under the guise of the good, we would hardly have any notion of a real good to be found. The guise of the good therefore plays a “kick-off” role for Aristotle’s ethics. His inquiry soon reveals that there is indeed one single good that everybody ultimately aims at—one’s own eudaimonia, variously translated in English as happiness, flourishing, or fulfilment. Whatever else we desire, we desire it for the sake of eudaimonia, nor is there something else for the sake of which we could desire eudaimonia. Quite another matter is to determine what eudaimonia consists in, but this is not relevant for the present purposes. What is relevant is to see that Aristotle keeps distinct three claims: (a) an entirely formal truth about human desire and action (and that’s where the guise of the good belongs), (b) a substantial psychological truth about what is ultimately desired (eudaimonia) (and together with it, the axiological proposal that only eudaimonia, and not pleasure or honour or something else is ultimately desirable), and (c) a concrete, ethical proposal about what eudaimonia consists in.3 Aristotle certainly expects and addresses challenges to claims (b) and (c). Does he also expect the guise of the good to be challenged? The answer depends on exactly which version of the guise of the good Aristotle is putting forth. In De Anima, Aristotle repeats the claim quoted earlier within the context of explaining the origin of self-movement (in both human and non-human animals): [M]ovement is always brought about by the object of desire, but this is either the good or the apparent good. Not every good, however,

26 Aristotle and the Stoics but the good to be done; and that which can also be otherwise is a thing to be done. (De Anima III, 10, 433a28–31)4 He also suggests that how a thing is presented as good or as something to be done depends on the workings of pleasurable or painful perception, of imagination and, at least sometimes, on those of the intellect or reasoning. Now when something is perceived as pleasant or unpleasant, as a result the object appears good or bad (see De Anima III, 7, 431a, and III, 10, 433b; NE II, 4, 1113b; Eudemian Ethics II, 10, 1227a37–40).5 Aristotle calls an “appetite” (epithumia) a desire which is in a direct way dependent on perceptions of pleasure or pain. Appetites are by and large shared with other animals, because the relevant pleasures are of the bodily kind. As for the role of the intellect, in De Anima, Aristotle reserves a term usually translated as “wish” (boulēsis) for desires which depend on a rational judgement or on conclusions of practical reasoning. In the Nicomachean Ethics, he further distinguishes between wish and “choice” (prohairesis), while holding that both (as well as appetites) are types of desire (orexis). Wishes can have objects known to be impossible, for example, one’s own immortality; they can have general objects, like health; and they concern ends. Choices on the other hand concern only actions in our power, involve deliberation about particulars, and are about ways to bring about the ends presented in wishes, thus being the practical counterpart of wishes (NE III, 2, 1111b20–30). It should be remarked that, even though the object of a wish or of a choice can be the obtaining of some physical pleasure or the avoidance of some physical pain, in order for a desire to qualify as a wish or choice (and not just as an appetite), one must have gone through some intellectual or deliberative process. The object of desire still appears good (and if the deliberative process got things right, it is good), but in this case, one had better talk of an intellectual appearance or better a judgement proper that x is good.6 Now, Aristotle clearly claims that appetites and intellectual desires can and do conflict with each other (De Anima III, 10, 433a-b), and the very possibility of such conflicts is evidence that the faculty of desire is “one in form” (ibid.: 433b12)—different types of desires must be fighting for the same territory, as it were. Moreover, the gap between these two types of desire—between two modes of things appearing good—is somewhat reduced by the remark that “all imagination is either rational or perceptive” (ibid.: 433b29–30). Appetites, given their connection to perceptions of physical pleasure and pain, depend on the latter. Wishes and choices, qua desires of a more intellectual kind, seem to involve the rational type of imagination, by means of which one can “make one image out of several” (ibid.: III, 11, 434a9–10, my emphasis), that is, one can compare the pros and cons of alternatives to arrive at a conclusion regarding what

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to do. Whether or not Aristotle intends wishes to include further intellectual, non-imaginative elements over and above “rational imagination”, still imagination plays a central and unifying role as the faculty responsible for presenting things as good, and therefore for something to be a candidate object of desire, no matter whether it is an object of appetite, wish, or choice.7 There is, moreover, a further type of desire usually translated as “spirit” (thumos) (De Anima II, 3, 414b2). In the Nicomachean Ethics, spirit (here, exemplified by the anger-fuelled desire for revenge) is distinguished from appetite thus: [R]eason or appearance informs us that we have been insulted or slighted, and anger [spirit], reasoning as it were that anything like this must be fought against, boils up straightway; while appetite, if reason or perception merely says that an object is pleasant, springs to the enjoyment of it. Therefore anger [spirit] obeys reason in a sense, but appetite does not. (VII, 6, 1149a32-b2)8 In the case of spirit, reasoning plays a role—“in a sense”—which it does not play in the case of appetite. Specifcally, we “as it were” reason towards the kind of evaluative or normative thought that sets the desire going; in the case of a desire for revenge, this is the thought that “anything like this must be fought against”. However, this does not mean that, in the case of appetites, there is no evaluation, nor that spirit is tantamount to wish or choice. Rather, the sources of evaluation are different in each case. In the case of spirit, there is a belief-like evaluation produced by an emotion (here, anger) rather than by actual reasoning. Or, if there is actual reasoning towards the conclusion “this must be fought against”, it is one entirely driven by the emotion, hence the “as it were” qualifcation. In the case of wishes and choices, we could say it is instead reason itself guiding the reasoning. As for appetites, as seen, there is presumably only a (physical) pleasure-driven (or pain-driven) appearance of something as good (or bad) or to be pursued (or avoided). In each case, however, there is an appearance of something as desirable or undesirable which feeds the relevant desire.9 It is important to note that, despite their intellectual pedigree, wishes or choices have no claim to getting things right (hitting on real goods, or on the actually best thing to do) more often than other types of desires do. In fact, Aristotle seems to suggest that, while at bottom we all desire (wish for) what is indeed the ultimate good (eudaimonia), there is room for all sorts of mistaken appearances of the good, whatever type of desire we consider. In the terms introduced in Chapter 1, Aristotle’s guise of the good sits closer to a Subjective Only version of the thesis, whereby what appears good to us need not have even an indirect connection to what is

28 Aristotle and the Stoics actually good—unless, of course, we happen to be virtuous persons, in which case our objects of desire both appear as and are good. For example, he writes: “that which is in truth [i.e. correctly] an object of wish is an object of wish to the good man, while any chance thing may be so to the bad man” (NE III, 4, 1113a25–26, my emphasis). It may be tempting, however, to read Aristotle as holding a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good also for the less than virtuous ones, based on two considerations. First, Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean—whereby virtues are intermediate states between excess and defect of a given emotion or desire—implies that bad or mistaken desires, as manifested in vices or in less than virtuous character traits, do not have random objects. This is made clearest in the Eudemian Ethics. What happens to bad desires is explained as a deviation from a natural norm: “The end is by nature always a good. . . . However, contrary to nature, and through perversion, something that is not the good but only apparent good may be the end” (II, 10, 1227a18, 22–23, my emphasis). And the course of the deviation is somewhat predictable rather than inclining us towards “any chance thing”: “when a thing is corrupted and perverted, it changes not into some random state, but into the contrary or intervening states” (ibid.: 1227a32, my emphasis). Furthermore, such deviations are in turn regularly explained by the influence of pleasure and pain: “Pleasure and pain are to blame; we are so constituted that the pleasant appears good to the soul, and the more pleasant better, while the painful appears bad and the more painful worse” (ibid.: 1227a36–40). (Compare: “In most things the error seems to be due to pleasure; for this appears a good when it is not. We therefore choose the pleasant as a good and avoid pain as an evil” [NE III, 4, 1113a35-b2].) The predictable course of mistaken desires, and their connection to pleasure and pain, however, do not mean that even mistaken desires get something right—pleasure being after all always a good, and pain always an evil. Aristotle is no hedonist. On the contrary, pleasure and pain here have the effect of turning desire and action as far from the right target as possible. Second, Sarah Broadie (2002: 317–318) argues that while good people’s wishes are for what is “good without qualification”, bad people’s wishes are nonetheless for what is good for them, that is, for what is fitting for them to wish given their “rotten condition”, just like certain substances (harmful “without qualification”, because harmful to healthy bodies) are healthful for sick bodies (NE III, 4, 1113a28). From this, too, it may be tempting to conclude that Aristotle’s thesis tends towards a Subjective + Objective version: even the worst desires get at least something right, in that satisfying them benefits the desirer, given her condition. However, it is far from clear why one should not instead conclude from this same fact (bad desires being, in some sense, good or suitable for the bad) that such desires have nothing to do with genuine value (except, as

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mentioned, insofar as they are ultimately aimed at eudaimonia), thus in fact strengthening the case for ascribing to Aristotle a Subjective Only thesis.

Aristotle’s Guise of the Good and the “Discovery” of Akrasia Even though Aristotle shares with Plato a commitment to some version of the guise of the good, we should note three important differences. First, Aristotle’s psychology is built around different mental faculties rather than different soul parts. Desire is one such faculty alongside perception, imagination, thought, and others. Appetites, spirit, and wishes are different species of one and the same genus—they are all expressions of, and naturally compete for mastery over, the faculty of desire (which Aristotle denotes with the generic term orexis). In Plato, by contrast, each soul part comes equipped with “its own” desires, usually translated as appetitive, spirited, and rational desires. This picture suggests a fragmentation of sorts, because presumably each soul part must then possess its own set of faculties in order to produce its own mental activity. Consequently, each type of desire would in fact express a different faculty of desire: the appetitive faculty, the spirited faculty, and the rational faculty. Even if (as illustrated in the previous chapter) there are ways in Plato to make sense of conflict among desires hailing from different soul parts, it seems that Aristotle’s picture, where desire is characterized as it were by unitywithin-variety, has no such explanatory burden. Moreover, on Plato’s view, there seems to be no guarantee that desires hailing from different soul parts should all be “under the guise of the good”—hence, the scholarly disputes about the extent of the thesis in Plato. Aristotle’s psychology presents no similar obstacles.10 A second difference comes out quite explicitly, if in passing, when Aristotle criticizes Plato’s doctrine of the Form of the Good. Whether or not such a Form exists, Aristotle argues, this is not and cannot be what is at stake in desiring or aiming at something qua good: [E]ven if there is some one good which is universally predicable of goods or is capable of separate and independent existence, clearly it could not be achieved or attained by man; but we are now seeking something attainable .  .  . [T]hat all the exponents of the arts should be ignorant of, and should not even seek, so great an aid is not probable. (NE I, 6, 1096b33–35 and 1097a6–8) Aristotle makes two points here. First, the Form of Good as an object is as such unattainable, but, as seen before, we aim at things qua good with the presupposition that they are attainable. Relatedly, as he puts it in the Eudemian Ethics, the Form of the Good “is not within the scope of action . . . what is within the scope of action is the kind of good that

30 Aristotle and the Stoics provides a purpose, and nothing of the kind is to be found in things that are unchanging” (I, 8, 1218b) as the Form of the Good is held to be. Second, as a matter of fact, expert “practitioners of the good” (doctors, carpenters, but also judges and politicians), who deliberately aim in their daily activity at something good, seem to have no use for the Form of the Good—they are perfectly fne without it. In summary—and this is certainly valid for all desires, including the most intellectual of “wishes”11— we are neither pursuing the Form of Good as such as our object of desire (on top of, say, pleasure or health), nor do we somehow apply this Idea to qualify the concrete objects of our desires. Whatever exactly the guise of the good is for Aristotle, it is not the guise of a Platonic Idea. The third difference has to do with Aristotle’s “discovery” of akrasia (variously translated as lack of self-control, incontinence, weakness of will).12 Aristotle famously takes issue with the Socratic intellectualism described in the previous chapter: we never really desire, want, or pursue anything that is actually bad (NE VII, 2). However, not only does Aristotle argue that it is possible to voluntarily do what is actually bad (that is after all partly what vice consists in, and vice is no less voluntary than virtue: NE III, 5). He also suggests that sometimes—when subject to akrasia—we voluntarily do what we think is bad or worse than the alternatives. And if we voluntarily do so, then these actions must be the result of a desire, in some sense. So, it follows that, sometimes, we have a desire to do what we think is bad. Note, first, that this is not a denial of the guise of the good as such. It is a denial only of very strong theses such as: to desire x is to see x as the best, or: to desire x is to see x as good through and through (i.e. spotless, with nothing bad about it all). Nor does Aristotle suggest that in cases of akrasia, it is the very badness of an action which feeds our desire for it.13 More prosaically, in akrasia, there is a conflict between the thought that x is bad overall (e.g. because unhealthy, or unjust)—to which a wish to avoid x is attached—and an appetite or spirit-desire attracting us to x—which, as noted, brings along the thought or appearance of x as good or to be pursued. In the incontinent person, appetite or spirit wins over wish. In the continent one, instead, conflict is resolved in favour of wish. The distinction between wish and other types of desire is crucial here: the incontinent person does desire—in the sense of having an appetite or spirit-desire for—something he (in some sense to be shortly discussed) knows or judges to be bad overall, but he “acts contrary to his wish; for no one wishes for what he does not think to be good, but the incontinent man does do things that he does not think he ought to do” (NE V, 9, 1136b6–9, my emphasis). Aristotle’s guise of the good thus requires different formulations depending on just which psychological item is at stake. Appetites and spirit always include an appearance or a thought of something as good or as what ought to be pursued, but this need not always be judged as good,

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or as the best, or as what we ought to do, or else akrasia would not be possible.14 By contrast, wish cannot fail to include a judgement that its object is good, while choice—the deliberative output of wish—includes the judgement that an action is what, all-things-considered, we ought to do (although neither wishes nor choices are identical with such evaluative judgements: NE III, 2, 1112a1–12). From this distinction, it also follows that incontinent actions, though voluntary and hence worthy of blame, are not the result of choice (if they were, then by definition the person would do what she judges best to do, and so she would not be incontinent): “the incontinent man acts with appetite, but not with choice; while the continent man on the contrary acts with choice, but not with appetite” (NE III, 2, 1111b13–15). This is one grain of truth that Aristotle is willing to grant Socrates: we can voluntarily do what we take to be bad, but not by choice. Another, more controversial, concession to Socrates is that Aristotle describes the incontinent person as not quite knowing, or not judging in the right way, that this particular action, say, stopping eating the sugary cake, is what she should do right now (NE VII, 3). At the time of acting, the incontinent is in a sense both having and not having the relevant knowledge, “in a similar condition to men asleep, mad, or drunk” (ibid.: 1147a18). Even if she is being pulled in opposite directions, her better judgement supporting her wish to stop eating cake right now seems either temporarily out of use, or limited to a more general evaluative judgement, say, that eating cake would be bad for certain kinds of people. If so, then some kind of ignorance or cognitive deficiency about evaluative matters is indeed involved when we voluntarily do something we think bad, as Socrates had it.15

Aristotelian Arguments for the Guise of the Good? Let us now return to the question whether Aristotle expects any challenge to his guise of the good. The only significant challenge is one internal to the tradition, namely the Socratic-Platonic view that voluntary action requires more than just some appearance of the good, but a full-blown judgement that the action is indeed the best. Nor (to my knowledge) does Aristotle ever consider potential counterexamples to the thesis that all we desire is or appears good to us. It is noteworthy that in his most direct discussion of this point (NE III, 4) he only distinguishes between those who identify the object of desire with what is actually good,16 and those who identify it with the apparent good. Any alternative view whereby the object of desire has no necessary connection to the good (real or apparent) is not even taken into consideration. It might be worth asking why, but the fact is that Aristotle never provides an argument against any such view, nor does he offer arguments to the effect that the guise of the good (real or apparent) must be the right way to look at desires.

32 Aristotle and the Stoics Arguments could be reconstructed from various parts of Aristotle’s philosophy. For example, as seen earlier, at least insofar as appetites (and maybe spirit) are concerned, Aristotle could argue that to perceive x as pleasant or painful is tantamount to seeing x as good or bad—and that’s the reason why the objects of appetite (and maybe spirit) cannot fail to appear as good or bad. As for wish and choice, Aristotle could argue that wish and choice distinctively involve means-end thinking, and that one cannot knowingly choose means M for the sake of an end E without also seeing E as good. These are piecemeal arguments, differing according to the type of desire. Alternatively, an all-encompassing argument in favour of the guise of the good might be put together on the basis of Aristotle’s teleological approach to all “things of nature”. If all entities tend towards their own goal or final cause, then it will be good, at least as far as that entity is concerned, if such a goal is achieved, and bad if it is not—teleology brings along evaluative standards.17 Now, cognitively sophisticated beings like us have their own goals in addition to nature-given ones, but as final causes, our goals will share in the evaluative character of all final causes in nature. At the same time, as our final causes, the evaluation in this case belongs to us rather than to “nature”—it is carried out at a cognitive (albeit not always reflective) level, with the ensuing and always present possibility of mistaken evaluations. The guise of the good would follow at once for all of our goals, be they appetites or other types of desire. Interestingly, such an argument partly depends on an essential continuity between our goals and “nature’s” goals. It thus stands in stark contrast with contemporary arguments, which make the guise of the good follow from the rather special human capacity to offer reasons why one has acted in certain way or wants certain things.18 However, these are just speculations. For clearly laid out arguments in favour of the guise of the good, one has to wait for the kind of intellectual milieu where challenges to the guise of the good are more than abstract possibilities—this will be evident in Chapter 4 with Augustine and Aquinas.

Coda. Stoicism: A Streamlined Guise of the Good Regarding the metaphysics of desires, Aristotle would seem to distinguish desires as such from their associated evaluations: imagination, with or without some support from the intellect, provides the cognitive materials (both factual and evaluative appearances or thoughts) which feed desires (appetites, spirited desires, wishes, and choices), but no type of desire is simply identical with such cognitive materials. Moreover, in the explanation of action, several psychological faculties must be at work together—the outputs of neither imagination nor intellect seem sufficient to produce action, but they must be included in, or give rise to, a further, desiderative state.19 Thus, appetites and the other desires must have a

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causal reality of their own, not reducible to that of certain evaluative judgements or appearances. The Stoic picture of motivation markedly differs from Aristotle’s. The general doctrine is that “impulses” (hormai, which include but are not limited to desires, e.g. they include passionate reactions) are, in adult humans, identical with acts of assent given to evaluative “impressions” or appearances (phantasiai, the same word used by Aristotle for the outputs of imagination)20: An impression is formed by the approach of an external object which strikes the mind through sensation. Impulse, the close relation of impression, is formed by the tonic power of the mind. (Philo, 53P)21 What activates impulse . . . is precisely an impulsive impression of something immediately appropriate (kathêkon) [to do]. (Stobaeus, 53Q)22 All impulses are acts of assent, and the practical impulses also contain motive power. But acts of assent and impulses actually differ in their objects: propositions are the objects of acts of assent, but impulses are directed towards predicates, which are contained in a sense in the propositions. (Stobaeus, 33I) For example, a desire to run away from a spider is identical with assent given to the impression, say, that I should run away from the spider. Now, since on the Stoic view just quoted, assent given to an impression amounts to belief in a corresponding proposition,23 then desire amounts to belief in an evaluative proposition—in our example, the desire to run away from the spider amounts to the belief that I should run away from the spider. In this sense, Stobaeus (in the aforementioned quote) says that the assent has a proposition as its object (“I should run away from the spider”), but the impulse is directed towards a predicate contained in that proposition (“running away from the spider”, which is what I want to do). Three consequences then follow, which make the Stoic view signifcantly different from Aristotle’s. First, the Stoic guise of the good is not “carried” by evaluative appearances or impressions as such, but rather by an evaluative belief or judgement based on an impression. Appearances or impressions as such are insufficient for motivation, unlike what we saw in Aristotle, where at least appetites could run on appearances alone.24 In this sense, the Stoics propose an intellectualistic guise of the good, implying that all (human) desire requires some sort of conceptualization of the object of desire as good or as appropriate.

34 Aristotle and the Stoics Second, the relation between desire and the “carrier” of the guise of good is one of identity: to desire x is to believe that x is good or that x should be done, and vice versa. This implies that the correctness of a desire is nothing over and above the correctness of a certain belief—that is, its truth. While, also on Aristotle’s view, a desire is correct or incorrect depending on the truth or falsity of the relevant associated cognitive state (appearances, beliefs, etc.), here there is just no gap between evaluative cognition and desire. Following from these two differences is a third difference from Aristotle (and from Plato’s Republic). The Stoic picture is monistic: there is only one cognitive way for an object to be presented as good in desire—being believed to be good or appropriate to do. In Aristotle and Plato, the picture is pluralistic: we can distinguish types of desire (appetite, spirit, and rational/intellectual ones) depending on the faculty (Aristotle) or the soul part (Plato) that is involved in the corresponding evaluation.25 This is not to say that the Stoics ignore differences among impulses—for example, some impulses typically involve false beliefs—but the basic framework is one where desires are one in kind. Such “streamlining” of human motivation represents an element of novelty in the guise of the good tradition. And while one can harbour scholarly doubts about whether in Plato (and, to a lesser extent, in Aristotle) the guise of the good really extends to all forms of human motivation, no similar doubts should arise with regards to the Stoics. What is striking about the Stoic picture is that, while impressions can vie against each other to gain acceptance, that is, to win our assent, it is not possible for acts of assent to be in synchronic conflict with each other. This is presumably due to the kind of act assent is—one cannot at the same time accept and reject the same thing any more than one can at once walk and stay still. Or perhaps it is due to its all-things-considered evaluative content—assent is always assent to what is, for now at least, appropriate to do all-things-considered, and never assent to what there is simply some reason to do.26 Moreover, there is simply no room in the Stoic view of the soul for different acts of assent, as it were, hailing from different soul parts—acts of assent, and therefore impulses (including desires and irrational passions) all belong to one and the same “commanding faculty” (hêgemonikon) (e.g. see Aetius, 53H; Plutarch 61B; Stobaeus 65A).27 But if acts of assent cannot conflict with each other, then it follows that desires cannot conflict with each other while being had as desires. There presumably can still be diachronic conflict—for instance, if and when my assent to “I should run away from the spider” disappears, space is cleared for an opposite impression (of the spider as perfectly harmless) to win my assent to “it is indifferent whether I run away from the spider” or even to “I should face the spider” (see Plutarch, 65G on how quickly our minds can change).

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The Stoics appear also to allow a kind of simultaneous inter-order conflict: [W]hen people are in states of passion, even if they realize or are taught to realize that one should not feel distress or fear or have their soul, quite generally, in states of passion, they still do not give these up. (Stobaeus, 65A) In this case, the frst-order passionate impulse (say, fear of the spider— assent given to “I should run away from the spider”) conficts with a secondorder impulse (a desire to get rid of the frst-order impulse—assent given to “I should not be afraid of the spider”). This kind of simultaneous confict is possible, presumably because the subject-matter of the two acts of assent is different, and assent to “I should not be afraid of the spider” doesn’t automatically entail assent to “it’s not the case that I should run away from the spider”. (It is less clear, though, whether the Stoics could consistently allow the turning against itself of the commanding faculty envisaged in such conficts.) Like for Socrates, then, it is not possible to desire to do x while believing x to be bad or the worse action (or failing to desire to do x while believing x to be good or the best action). Akrasia is impossible, and if it seems possible, it needs to be explained away rather than taken at face value.28 But the Stoics’ reason for this is different than Socrates’. For the Stoics, it is in the nature of assent to disallow (synchronic) conflict of desires. For Socrates, as seen in Chapter 2, we cannot want something we know to be worse, because this would mean wanting what we know would ultimately harm ourselves, and this is psychologically impossible. Moreover, it would be fair to describe Socrates’ guise of the good as both intellectualistic and rationalistic: the object of desire appears to us (often mistakenly) as what is best for ourselves, hence as the result of a (often mistaken) deliberation of sorts. The Stoic guise of the good is not rationalistic: acts of assent stem from the commanding faculty, but they can be given to evaluative impressions quite blindly. There is no semblance of rationality to this process. Hence, the Stoic (in)famous ethical doctrine that we should get rid of those excessive and irrational impulses—acts of assent given to false evaluative impressions—negatively labelled as “passions” (sing. pathos): Passions consist not in being moved as a result of impressions of things, but in surrendering oneself to them and following up this fortuitous movement [initiated by the impressions]. (Seneca, 65X) Also, since impulses are acts of assent, a desire appears to be closer to a voluntaristic “yes” (or “no”) than to a refective judgement, even though,

36 Aristotle and the Stoics as said earlier, it is indeed a judgement. This puts some strain on the coherence of the Stoic view, because it seems to generate an infnite regress: if acts of assent are acts, then they seem to be motivated by impulses, but these are themselves acts of assent, and so on. It is possible that the Stoics regarded assent, qua mental act, as a special kind of act in which we are free to follow, or refrain to follow, a related impression, rather than being necessitated either by the impression or by a further impulse (see Cicero, 62C). It is indeed the mark of the wise to refrain from following false impressions, to which they can be subject as well (Gellius, 65Y), and in general to make “correct use of impressions” (Epictetus, 62K). At the same time, even when mistaken, assent can never be totally arbitrary. Our impulses are at least originally directed towards what is appropriate (oikeion) to our nature, for example getting proper nourishment (see e.g. Diogenes Laertius 57A, quoting Chrysippus). On the background of a universe governed by providence, it would seem that our desires— that is, our commanding faculty—can never get it so wrong as to incline us towards random or entirely worthless objects. Alongside their official insistence that only moral virtue is genuinely good, the Stoics allowed that common objects of preference (like health or wealth) have value insofar as it is appropriate to our nature for us to want them (Long and Sedley 1987: 357–359; Striker 1996). So there is nothing wrong with wanting them as long as our desire does not degenerate into a “passion”, that is, into a mistaken judgement that, for example, preserving my health is more important than preserving my virtuous character. Of course, having a virtuous character is still the good, that is, what is more than anything else appropriate to my nature as a rational being, or what is, unlike anything else, intrinsically beneficial for a being like me. Interestingly, the Stoic doctrine could be viewed as prescribing the proper guise under which one ought to pursue certain objects: do pursue health (for example) as good in the sense of appropriate to your nature, but don’t pursue it as the good. In terms of the different versions of the guise of the good, then, it seems that the Stoics lie closer to a Subjective + Objective version: human desires require seeing (in fact, nothing less than judging) something to be good (this is the subjective part), and the objects of desire are, at least to some extent, appropriate to our nature (this is the objective part), even when we pursue false goods or when we prefer false goods to the one true good.29

Conclusion The Stoic view contrasts with Aristotle’s, which we have seen to lie closer to a Subjective Only version of the guise of the good, due to Aristotle’s insistence on the pervasive and deceiving influence of pleasure. It also contrasts with Plato’s view in the Republic if, as argued in Chapter 2, when the rational part is not in charge we necessarily stray far from what

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is actually good (and, in general, from the Form of the Good). For both Plato and Aristotle, no “appropriateness to our nature” can somehow mitigate the evaluative errors we fall into. The cosmic providence background behind the Stoic guise of the good, moreover, anticipates later Christian takes on the matter.

Notes 1. In Aristotle references, the Roman stands for Book number, the Arabic for chapter number, followed by customary Bekker number and line number. I will use “NE” for references to the Nicomachean Ethics (unless the context is clear enough about this). Edition used: Aristotle 2009. Other works by Aristotle are indicated with their full name. 2. I will discuss the notion of wish hereafter. In the Eudemian Ethics, we find a similar claim: “the end is by nature always a good . . . however, contrary to nature, and through perversion, something that is not the good but only apparent good may be the end” (II, 10, 1227a18, 22–23). Edition used: Aristotle 2011. 3. See Vogt (2017: ch. 5) for a discussion of the exact scope of Aristotle’s guise of the good. 4. Edition used: Aristotle (2018a). 5. One passage in the Eudemian Ethics further suggests that pleasure is desired because it is an apparent good: “that is why what is pleasant is wanted, for it is an apparent good, since some people believe it is good, while to others it appears good even if they don’t believe it is” (VII, 2, 1235b26–28, my emphasis). (Kenny has “think” and “feels” in lieu of “believe” and “appears”. The Greek words are dokeĩ and phainetai, respectively.) This is very much in the spirit of the thesis as GG+: we desire things because they appear to us under the guise of the good. 6. Elizabeth Anscombe argues that wishes include full-blown evaluative judgements to the effect that something is “a good way of proceeding in one’s life” (1965: 148). Choices, then, put such evaluative judgements into practice. (Anscombe translates boulēsis as “will”.) The self-indulgent person is defined by making the objects of her excessive appetites into objects of wish and choice, unlike the incontinent person (see later on akrasia). 7. In fact, an appearance (phainomenon) is nothing but an exercise of the faculty of phantasia, translated in English as “imagination” for lack of a better word. Aristotle distinguishes imagination from, respectively, perception and belief at De Anima III, 3. 8. Aristotle uses thumos to indicate both a certain category of emotions or desires, and the specific emotion of anger (also otherwise referred to by orgē΄, e.g. NE IV, 5). In this passage, he is talking about the specific emotion in order to illustrate the category. Elsewhere (e.g. NE III, 2, 1111a20-b2), he seems concerned with the category as such. Both the Greek and the English obscure this difference, as in the Ross translation of NE thumos is quite uniformly translated as “anger”. But clearly thumos as a category includes many other emotions besides anger (fear, love of honour, etc.). That is why “spirit” (as in Aristotle 2018a) or “temper” (as in Broadie and Rowe’s edition of the Nicomachean Ethics, and A. Kenny’s translation of the Eudemian Ethics) are preferable for thumos as a category. 9. It is unclear whether Sarah Broadie agrees. While she writes that “something’s being pleasant is a prereflective way of its seeming to be good”

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10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

(Broadie 1991: 329), still appetite is “a simple tendency to move, with no sense that the move is fitting, towards or away from an object as soon as it is realized that the object is pleasant or painful” (Broadie 2002: 56). By contrast, spirit (and a fortiori wish) involves a “general evaluation”, and moves “in ‘the space of reasons’” (ibid.). Which doesn’t mean that all Aristotle scholars agree on the extent of the guise of the good in Aristotle. In particular, not all agree that the pleasure and pain which explain appetites are (or give rise to) forms of evaluative cognition. Among those who agree, see Broadie (1991: 329–333) (but see Broadie 2002), Richardson (1992), Cooper (1999), Segvic (2009b), and in particular Moss (2010) and Moss (2012). Irwin (1988: ch. 15) disagrees, as he does also in the case of Plato (see previous chapter). True, we can wish for objects that are impossible and therefore unattainable (NE III, 2, 1111b20–30). But it would be odd to maintain that one such unattainable object (the Form of the Good) provides the essence or even a necessary condition for wishes, as it would on a Form-based guise of the good. For an analysis of how Socrates denies akrasia, see Vlastos (1995). For Plato’s later views in the Republic, see Bobonich (2017). In fact even the worst actions do not ever seem motivated by wrongness for wrongness’ sake—such a motive is notably absent from Aristotle’s discussion in Rhetoric I, 10–11 (edition used: Aristotle 2018b). Moreover, Aristotle lists the noble (kalon), the advantageous, and the pleasant as the “three objects of choice” (NE II, 3, 1104b31), suggesting that in order for x to be chosen, x must appear under one or more of these guises of the good. We never choose as such what appears to be bad (base, injurious, or painful). And if actions stemming from appetite or spirit are voluntary, it may follow that we are responsible, to some extent, also for the accompanying (and often misleading) evaluative appearances, although Aristotle doesn’t arrive at a definitive view here (NE III, 5, 1113a32–b25). Still, Aristotle also suggests cases of incontinence without any kind of evaluative ignorance: “some men after deliberating fail, owing to their emotion, to stand by the conclusions of their deliberation” (NE VII, 7, 1150b20, my emphasis), and: “the incontinent man is like a city which passes all the right decrees and has good laws, but makes no use of them” (ibid.: VII, 10, 1152a20, my emphasis). Scholarly debates on Aristotle’s account of akrasia are very much alive: see Gosling (1990: chs. III–IV), Hughes (2001: ch. 7), Moss (2012: ch. 5) (and her references). Helpful commentary is offered by L. Brown (Aristotle 2009: 244–247) and by Broadie (2002: 385–399). Taken alone, this view is an Objective Only guise of the good, which strictly speaking falls outside the relevant range of views as described in Chapter 1. But the idea that the object of desire is the actual good may be a part of a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good, as long as the object of desire is also necessarily regarded as good by the agent. This is the view taken by Socrates, as seen in the previous chapter. The suggestion is mine, but I am indebted to Lorenz (2006: 129) and his references to Aristotle’s discussion of final causes in Physics II, 3, for example: “that ‘for the sake of which’ tends to be what is best and the end of the things that lead up to it. (Whether we call it good or apparently good makes no difference.)” (195a24–26) (in Aristotle 1984). Though see Boyle and Lavin (2010) for a contemporary argument along Aristotelian lines.

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19. Both points can be supported, for example, by NE III, 2, 1112a1–12 (regarding specifically wish and choice), and more in general by the De Motu Animalium 8, 702a17–19, where Aristotle clearly indicates intellect or perception, imagination, and desire as making up a chain of metaphysically distinct “movers” or causes of locomotion (in Aristotle 1984). 20. Animals (and human children) appear to have impulses directly following on impressions, without assent (see Long and Sedley 1987: 322). It is not clear whether the content of such impressions can be evaluative as it is for (adult) humans (Inwood 1985: 57–58, 73–85). 21. All references to Stoicism refer to the texts contained in Long and Sedley (1987), indicated by author, number, and letter. Some of the quoted authors report, but do not endorse, Stoic doctrines (e.g. Stobaeus, Plutarch, Galen). 22. I have slightly changed Long and Sedley’s translation, combining instead translations by Inwood (1985: 224) and Brennan (2003: 266). Brennan (2003) makes much of the Stoics’ stress on “appropriate” and similar terms (when discussing impulses in general) as opposed to an unqualified “good”. If he is right, then the Stoic guise of the good is, in its full generality, a guise of the appropriate. This would be an element of novelty in the classical canon. 23. Having an impression without assenting to it is entertaining a proposition (or an image articulable as a proposition) without being committed to its truth, though in a clear sense all impressions strive for our assent, and some gain it almost “by default”: “A soul will never refuse a clear impression of good any more than it will refuse the Emperor’s coinage” (Epictetus, 60F). 24. “They are talking nonsense and empty assumptions who claim that, when an appropriate impression occurs, impulsion [sic] ensues at once without people first having yielded or given their assent” (Plutarch, 53S). 25. This is not to say that the overall Stoic psychology is monistic (see Inwood 1985: 33). On Stoic classifications of desires, see Inwood 1985: 112–126, 224–242. On Aristotle: the faculty of desire (orexis) is for Aristotle (unlike for Plato) “one in form”, but its outputs differ in kind depending on which other faculties are involved in their genesis. Further: as argued earlier, the role of imagination in Aristotle is to provide sufficient cognitive continuity among appetites, spirited desires, wishes, and choices—but imagination doesn’t establish sameness in kind among them. 26. Inwood appears to combine both ideas in his view that assent is “obedience to a self-given imperative” (1985: 63). 27. Among the Stoics, however, Posidonius held a view much closer to Plato or Aristotle (Galen 65I, K, M, N). 28. See Gosling (1990: ch. 5) for a detailed analysis of what the Stoics might allow to be happening in cases of apparent akrasia. 29. In this sense, the “pandemic error” (Brennan 2003: 264) imputed by the Stoics to most people’s evaluations seems to me compatible with finding an objective element in the Stoic guise of the good.

4

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Introduction In some form or other, the guise of the good passed on from ancient philosophy into the Christian worldview. My aim is not to examine how the transition happened, or how several philosophers and theologians interpreted the thesis throughout 13 centuries (say, until 1300). In this chapter, I have simply chosen to fix on two familiar (but also historically influential) authors from this long period: Augustine (354–430), in particular for his view on whether we can ever act purely for the sake of badness; and Aquinas (1225–1274), for (1) his clear systematization as well as formulation of the guise of the good, (2) his attempt at providing arguments for the thesis, and (3) the historical continuity with Aristotle. When talking of the “classical canon” of the guise of the good, I refer exactly to this continuity between Greek philosophy and medieval Christian philosophy, without however suggesting either that Aquinas’ guise of the good is nothing more than Aristotle’s guise of the good in Christian clothes (it is not), or that Aquinas’ version somehow “perfected” Aristotle’s own. In fact, I will try to bring out points of divergence as well as the clearest similarities.

Prologue: Augustine and the Pears In the Confessions (397–400 AD), Augustine provides us with a detailed and explicit example of acting (or desiring to act) purely for the sake of badness—and without, apparently, seeing anything good whatsoever about one’s action: There was a pear tree near our vineyard, laden with fruit that was not enticing in either appearance or taste. One wretched night . . . a band of altogether worthless young men set out to shake that tree and run off with its fruit. We took away an enormous haul, not for our own food but to throw to the pigs. Perhaps we ate something, but even if we did, it was for the fun of doing what was not allowed that we took the pears. Behold my heart, O God; behold my heart, on DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-4

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which you had mercy in the depths of that abyss. Behold, let my heart tell you now what it was seeking there: seeking in such a way that I would be wicked for no reason, so that there would be no cause for my wickedness [malitia] but wickedness itself. It was foul, this wickedness, and yet I loved it. I loved perishing. I loved my own falling away: I did not love the thing into which I fell, but the fall itself [defectum meum ipsum]. In my very soul I was vile, and I leapt down from your stronghold into destruction, not striving for something disgraceful, but seeking disgrace. (Augustine 2019, Book 2, 4.9, p. 23) Augustine’s story, if taken at face value, appears to be a counterexample to the guise of the good—more precisely, a counterexample to the versions of the guise of the good that do not admit of any exception to the claim that if I desire to do x, then I see something good in it. Augustine, according to his own recollection, did not see anything good in stealing the pears, and yet he desired to do it and rather clearly and fully intentionally did it. The latter point would rule out also more liberal versions of the guise of the good, whereby one may admit exceptions to the thesis by confguring them as cases of diminished intentionality, imperfect agency, and the like. There is no hint that Augustine was not fully exercising his powers as a rational agent, as he stole the pears for the sake of its being wrong. Augustine’s story, however, contains much more than what is needed for a counterexample to the guise of the good. What is needed for a counterexample is simply a case where the agent sees nothing good about her action, and yet desires it, or intends it, etc. But Augustine includes a possible account of what motivated him to steal the pears (however puzzling this account is to his own mind): the wrongness or moral wickedness of the act. And this feature might give pause: after all, one might say, Augustine did see something good in his action, namely its being morally bad. This seems an intelligible way to describe things, and it doesn’t even leave Augustine in an incoherent state of mind: in the guise of the good tradition “seeing something good” has never entailed “seeing something morally good”. Augustine’s motivation would be incoherent only if one accepts a further view: seeing something as morally bad rules out, on pain of incoherence, seeing it as in any way good or valuable. But this view seems false. When I’m starving, and stealing food is the quickest way to fill my stomach, I might well see stealing food as morally bad but instrumentally good for me. I might be blameworthy (a virtuous person would not take hunger as a reason to steal, maybe), but my state of mind seems coherent. Perhaps one could say that even if seeing an action to be morally bad does not rule out seeing it as good in certain ways (for example, seeing it as beneficial for myself), it does at least rule out (again, on pain of incoherence) seeing it as good on that very account—on the grounds of its being morally bad. To this extent, then, Augustine could only incoherently

42 The Canon in Christian Philosophy be motivated by—see good in—the wrongness of stealing. However, be that as it may, whether coherently or not, he could still be motivated by moral wickedness as something good about stealing the pears, and so his story would be no counterexample to the thesis. However, this conciliatory reading of Augustine’s story is not convincing, for two reasons. First, one could narrate the story in such a way as to stress that Augustine took there to be no good reason whatsoever for stealing, let alone a reason constituted by the act’s wrongness. While something clearly attracted him to the theft, from his point of view, there was not even the appearance of a valid reason behind this attraction, absolutely nothing to be said for it. Second, Augustine himself does not accept this conciliatory reading, because he appears to subscribe to a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good: When a question arises about why some criminal act was done, people do not typically accept any explanation until it appears that there was a desire to attain, or a fear of losing, one of those goods that we have called the lowest goods. These are beautiful and becoming, though they are abject and contemptible in comparison with the higher goods that bring true happiness. Someone has committed murder. Why did he do it? He loved his victim’s wife or estate, or he wanted to steal enough to live on, or he was afraid of losing something to his victim, or he was burning to revenge himself on someone who had injured him. Surely no one has ever committed murder simply because he delighted in murder itself! Who would believe such a thing? (Book 2, 5.11, p. 24) In other words, for Augustine, acting intentionally requires desiring, and seeing as good, something that, at some level, is truly good. Sexual pleasure, wealth, physical well-being, and restoring justice are by and large all good things (“beautiful and becoming”), although pursuing them and acting for their sake are not always a good or the best thing to do, as in the examples given in the quote. In fact, this view has a deeper theological justifcation: humans are by nature in the business of trying to imitate God, by wanting for themselves the things that God possesses in the highest degree or in the purest form (ibid.: paragraphs 6.13–14, pp. 25–26). And humans often go wrong in this, by wanting them too much (or too little), or wanting them in some corrupted form, or just wanting them in the wrong circumstances. However, moral wickedness per se as an object of desire seems prima facie to fall outside the range of things we could intelligibly want, if only for the obvious reason that wickedness cannot have even a distant correlative in God: “What, then, did I love in that theft of mine, and in what way was I viciously, perversely, imitating my Lord?” (ibid.: 6.14, p. 26). Augustine’s theft, then, if taken at face value, does seem to contradict the

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version of the guise of the good that he (and most of the Christian tradition before and after him) is committed to.1 How, exactly, does Augustine get around his own apparent counterexample? In the text immediately following the recollection, he considers a few goods which might intelligibly lie behind his attraction for wrong as such. In particular, two candidates stand out: (1) Freedom or omnipotence: Did it please me to act against your [i.e. God’s] law, at least by deceit—since I could not do so by force—and thus mimic the curtailed freedom of a prisoner by getting away with doing what was not permitted, in a shadowy likeness of omnipotence? (ibid.)2 (2) Friendship (in a sense): If I had been by myself, I would not have done that theft in which what pleased me was not what I stole, but that I stole; it would not have pleased me to do it alone, and I would not have done it. O you too unfriendly friendship, unsearchable seduction of the mind! Out of playing and joking came a passion to do harm and a desire to damage someone else without any gain for myself, without any lust for revenge! But when someone says, “Let’s go, let’s do it,” we are ashamed not to be shameless. (Book 2, 9.17, p. 27) In his excellent reconstruction, Scott MacDonald (2003) has argued that both a misguided sense of freedom and misguided friendship are accepted by Augustine as explanations of his theft. In particular, MacDonald argues that a misguided sense of freedom from God’s laws is in fact the primary factor here, because there is a clear sense in which those who in this way assert their freedom and power are, perversely, imitating the boundless freedom and power of God, as Augustine’s overall theory of sin requires. The idea that one could take delight in the very breaking of God’s law, apart from any other pleasure or beneft to oneself, epitomizes this inordinate desire for power in a way that simply breaking God’s law for one’s own interest does not. As for friendship, its relevance to explaining the action seems to be more autobiographical than theoretical: presumably the sense of misguided freedom just pointed out was not a sufficient motive for Augustine, given his own temperament. He did need a certain “peer pressure” as an extra motivational factor: [I]f I had been after only the thrill of committing the evil act, I would not have inflamed the itch of my cupidity by rubbing up against souls

44 The Canon in Christian Philosophy who shared my guilt. But since there was no pleasure for me in the pears, the pleasure was in the crime itself, and it was my companionship with fellow sinners that created [faciebat] this pleasure. (Book 2, 8.16, p. 27) What is important, though, is that it appears to be specifcally an awareness of companionship in sin, rather than some kind of antecedent loyalty to his mates, which fuelled his desire to steal the pears. In this sense, then, while friendship contributed to the explanation of the theft, the question would remain: how can friendship with other sinners as such motivate anyone. The puzzling question of how can sin or evil as such attract is merely shifted from the level of individual action to the level of joint or collective action (a point emphasized in Schmid 2018). And that is why an answer in terms of seeking a further God-like good, such as freedom or omnipotence, is needed to solve Augustine’s puzzle.3

Aquinas’ Guise of the Good Writing about eight centuries later, Thomas Aquinas senses in Augustine’s story a significant peril for the guise of the good, and in De Malo (1269– 1272), he solves the puzzle in two moves.4 First, he presents a version of the guise of the good which distinguishes primary or intrinsic from secondary or consequent objects of the will: No one by acting intends evil as the object chiefly willed, and yet the very evil consequently becomes voluntary for a person when the person, in order to enjoy the desired good, does not flee incurring the evil. . . . Good is primarily and chiefly the source and goal of action, but also evil can be willed secondarily and consequently. (Aquinas 2003, question 3, article 12, pp. 179, 180) Second, he applies this distinction to Augustine’s case, and puts forward a list of candidate goods that Augustine must have intrinsically or chiefy pursued: [W]hen Augustine says that he loved his very delinquency, not the fruit that he was stealing, we should not so understand this statement as if the very delinquency or the deformity of moral fault could be primarily and intrinsically willed. Rather, he primarily and intrinsically willed either to exhibit typical behavior to his peers or to experience something or to do something against the rules or some such thing. (ibid.: 180, my emphasis) The distinction used here by Aquinas is noteworthy, because it does not surface in the roughly coeval Summa Theologiae. In the latter work, Aquinas explains cases like Augustine’s more swiftly:

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[A] man wills knowingly a spiritual evil, which is evil simply, whereby he is deprived of a spiritual good, in order to possess a temporal good: wherefore he is said to sin through certain badness [ex certa malitia] or on purpose, because he chooses evil knowingly. (ST I-II, 78.1)5 And more in general: “Evil is never loved except under the aspect of good, that is to say, insofar as it is good in some respect, and is considered as being good simply” (ST I-II, 27.1). But nowhere does he distinguish between primary and secondary objects of the will. What exactly does Aquinas mean by the will, and what is its significance for the guise of the good? The will is a species of appetite—a power to desire something. But it is a power that only beings with an intellect possess—humans, angels, and God—and as such it needs to be distinguished from other appetites (the natural and the sensitive), which do tend towards the good as well, but in different ways: [S]ince all things flow from the Divine will, all things in their own way are inclined by appetite towards good, but in different ways. Some are inclined to good by their natural inclination, without knowledge, as plants and inanimate bodies. Such inclination towards good is called a natural appetite. Others, again, are inclined towards good, but with some cognition; not that they know the aspect of goodness, but that they apprehend some particular good; as in the sense, which knows the sweet, the white, and so on. The inclination which follows this apprehension is called a sensitive appetite. Other things, again, have an inclination towards good, but with a cognition whereby they perceive the very aspect of goodness [cum cognitione qua cognoscunt ipsam boni rationem]; this belongs to the intellect. This is most perfectly inclined towards what is good; not, indeed, as if it were merely guided by another towards some particular good only, like things devoid of knowledge, nor towards some particular good only, as things which have only sensitive knowledge, but as inclined towards good in general. Such inclination is termed will. (ST I, 59.1) The difference between the will and sensitive appetitive is crucial. Sensitive appetites are not blind impulses to action: they involve the apprehension of an object as falling under one or another particular—and fundamentally experiential—category of good or bad: good as what is pleasant to the senses, or as what protects from something hurtful; bad as what is painful, or as what hinders something pleasant (ST I, 82.5). Aquinas’ sensitive appetite can be seen as a descendant of Aristotle’s nonrational desires: “appetites” and “spirited desires”. In fact, Aquinas goes on to distinguish “concupiscible” and “irascible” types of passions—and

46 The Canon in Christian Philosophy therefore, desires—as belonging to the sensitive appetite, with each involving a distinct object: simplifying somewhat, the pleasant and the painful as such are the objects of concupiscible desires, while the pleasant or useful insofar as it is difficult to get, and the painful or harmful insofar as it is difficult to avoid, are the objects of irascible desires (ST I, 81.2; ST I-II, questions 22–48). While the resemblance to Aristotle’s non-rational desires is obvious, there are at least two important differences. First, concupiscible desires have a sort of psychological primacy: for example, we are afraid of the spider in front of us (an irascible desire), because (we think) it might cause us pain (frustration of a concupiscible desire) (ST I, 81.2). Such structural connections were not as explicitly indicated between Aristotle’s “appetites” and “spirited desires”. Second, and more importantly, in human beings, the sensitive appetites never move to action by themselves; the will is always an “accomplice”: [M]an is not moved at once, according to the irascible and concupiscible appetites: but he awaits the command of the will, which is the superior appetite. For wherever there is order among a number of motive powers, the second only moves by virtue of the first: wherefore the lower appetite is not sufficient to cause movement, unless the higher appetite consents. (ST I, 81.3) This marks a contrast with the Aristotelian picture, where voluntary action could be motivated by “appetites” or “spirited desires” alone, without the intervention of the more intellectual “wishes” and “choices”. The necessary involvement of the will also means, presumably, that Aquinas’ guise of the good, as regards human action, is ultimately unifed: even when we act under the main infuence of one of the sensitive appetites, since the will has to give its consent, it follows that we will see our own actions always under the aspect of goodness, and never purely as pleasant or painful. In the sensitive appetite there is dawning evaluation, but it is particular and driven by (expectations of) pleasure or pain. For example, a sheep becomes afraid by regarding the wolf as an enemy (ST I, 81.3) or as “a thing to be shunned” (ST I, 83.1). The will instead is guided by a universal notion of good, which is handed down by the intellect: [T]he object of the intellect is the very idea [ratio] of appetible good; and the appetible good, the idea of which is in the intellect, is the object of the will. (ST I, 82.3) For an object of desire to be “under the guise of the good” thus means for it to be conceived or presented as good over and above the specifc

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kind of good it is—say, health, honour, fame, knowledge, or moral virtue. Thus, whenever Aquinas makes assertions such as: “[T]he will can tend to nothing except under the aspect of good” [voluntas in nihil potest tendere nisi sub ratione boni] (ST I, 82.2), or: “[W]hatever man desires, he desires it under the aspect of good” [quidquid homo appetit, appetit sub ratione boni] (ST I-II, 1.6), it would be correct to add the gloss “that is, under the very idea of goodness”, just to mark the difference with the sensitive appetite, which tends to something only under the aspect of a or some good (and an experiential one for that matter).6 Desires stemming from the will have clearly much in common with Aristotle’s “wishes” and “choices”, with two significant differences or developments. First, the cognitively rich aspect (the universal ratio boni) insisted on by Aquinas as necessary for voluntary human action is not particularly prominent in Aristotle’s treatment. Aristotle never quite elaborates beyond the claim that the (apparent) good is the object of wish, and—as already said—he allows for voluntary action being guided by “cognitively poorer” appetites and spirit-desires.7 Second, Aquinas identifies a number of separable stages within an act of the will, most of which were not present in Aristotle’s analysis (ST I-II, questions 11–17): simply willing an end as such; intention (willing an end with a view to possible means); consent (approving a range of means or actions as suitable to realize the intention); choice (electio, selecting specific means to the end intended); use (setting in operation the powers required for the selected action, e.g. locomotion); enjoyment (not pleasure, but the will finding “rest” when the end is achieved).8 Each of these stages includes its own guise of the good, as it were, because, in each, an object is proposed as good by the intellect in a different way: Simple willing: Good purely as an end. Intention: Good as an end that can be realized by one’s action. Consent: Good as suitable means to the end. Choice: Good as best or preferred means to the end; good as what I should do all considered. Use: Good as executing a command (Do this!) (“command” is the act of reason which logically follows choice and precedes use).9 Enjoyment: Good as an end accomplished. For Aquinas, acts of the will require the separate evaluative input of the intellect—Aquinas does not identify wanting x and thinking of x as good. Still, the notion of goodness that is operative in the will’s acts is not a purely speculative or theoretical matter. It is not as if we judge something desirable in the abstract, and then somehow bring that judgement to bear on what to do. On the contrary, wanting something, for example health,

48 The Canon in Christian Philosophy as good always involves wanting health as an end of mine—in contemporary philosophical jargon, we could say it involves treating health as reason-giving for me. Aquinas’ guise of the good is a Subjective + Objective version of the thesis. It is easy to find evidence in Aquinas for the subjective side. In addition to what was said so far about the idea or aspect of goodness, Aquinas often stresses that, when we sin, what we desire (or better, what we will) is only apparently good or merely apprehended as good, but not actually so: That to which the will tends by sinning, although in reality it is evil and contrary to the rational nature, nevertheless is apprehended as something good and suitable to nature, insofar as it is suitable to man by reason of some pleasurable sensation or some vicious habit. (ST I-II, 6.4) And more in general: [S]ince every inclination results from a form, the natural appetite results from a form existing in the nature of things: while the sensitive appetite, as also the intellective or rational appetite, which we call the will, follows from an apprehended form. Therefore, just as the natural appetite tends to good existing in a thing; so the animal or voluntary appetite tends to a good which is apprehended. Consequently, in order that the will tend to anything, it is requisite, not that this be good in very truth, but that it be apprehended as good. Wherefore the Philosopher [Aristotle] says (Phys. ii, 3) that the end is a good, or an apparent good. (ST I-II, 8.1) What about the objective side? Cannot we, for Aquinas, ever desire something on account of some property which is not at all related to the objective good? How far can our will err? In his De Malo treatment of Augustine’s theft “for the sake of wickedness”, Aquinas shows a commitment to there being something actually good that is (primarily or intrinsically) willed, even when our will errs in such glaring ways—the error being due to seeking something good in the wrong things, circumstances, or manner. In the Summa, the objective side is further supported by the claim that everyone (in fact, everything) desires one’s own perfection as the last or ultimate end, and attaining such perfection is what happiness (beatitudo) means (ST I-II, questions 1–3). But one’s own perfection is obviously an objectively good thing. So we all do desire something objectively good, at least as an ultimate end. And since the ultimate end is, if implicitly, always

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referred to in whatever else we desire, then all our desires implicitly refer to something objectively good.10 Of course, we can (and most do) make mistakes regarding the concrete objects through which we pursue perfection: [A]s to the aspect of last end, all agree in desiring the last end: since all desire the fulfilment of their perfection, and it is precisely this fulfilment in which the last end consists. . . . But as to the thing in which this aspect is realized, all men are not agreed as to their last end: since some desire riches as their consummate good; some, pleasure; others, something else. (ST I-II, 1.7) As Aquinas explains at some length, things like riches or pleasure, though by and large good, cannot fully realize happiness or perfection—even moral virtue can only realize the imperfect happiness to be attained in this life: it is only the vision of the divine essence in the afterlife which can offer perfect happiness. So there is a clear sense in which most people can and do err in their desires—and yet, our desires never go so far off the mark as to reject or be indifferent to one’s own perfection.11 Here we can see a potential difference from Aristotle. In Chapter 3, I argued that Aristotle’s guise of the good is, all things considered, better interpreted as Subjective Only than Subjective + Objective, because of Aristotle’s emphasis on how our desire for the good can be distorted in all sorts of ways, mainly due to the influence of pleasure or pain. But also Aristotle, like Aquinas, believes that happiness (in the sense of eudaimonia) is everyone’s ultimate object of desire. Why then ascribe to Aquinas’ version, but not to Aristotle’s, the objective element? First, as seen earlier in his discussion of Augustine, Aquinas does identify actual concrete goods as being sought even in the most extreme deviations from appropriate desires. The same cannot be said of Aristotle when he discusses extreme deviation from virtue—the apparent good sought in such cases can be merely apparent. Second—and relatedly—Aquinas’ beatitudo is ultimately a matter of reuniting with God as our creator. While each of us can, by sinning, remain very far from God, beatitudo must be a standing possibility for each of us. This requires not only that human psychology be made by God sufficiently “in His image”, but also that the range of our possible desires be, to a relevant extent, under the intelligent control of God (of course, compatibly with human freedom, on which see later). But no such “intelligent design” lies behind Aristotle’s psychology, for all its teleological character. In other words, the creationist background gives Aquinas’ guise of the good an objective bent that finds no analogue in Aristotle’s philosophy.12

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An Argument for the Guise of the Good Does Aquinas offer arguments for his guise of the good thesis? He certainly does—and that is philosophical progress of sorts—for example here: The will is a rational appetite. Now every appetite is only of something good. The reason of this is that the appetite is nothing else than an inclination of a person desirous of a thing towards that thing. Now every inclination is to something like and suitable to the thing inclined. Since, therefore, everything, inasmuch as it is being and substance, is a good, it must needs be that every inclination is to something good. And hence it is that the Philosopher says (Ethic. i, 1) that the good is that which all desire. (ST I-II, 8.1) We can reconstruct the argument as follows: 1. The object of an inclination is always “something like and suitable to the thing inclined”. 2. Everything, inasmuch as it is being and substance, is something good. 3. The thing inclined is being and substance. 4. Therefore (from 1 and 3), the object of an inclination is something like and suitable to something that is being and substance. 5. Therefore (from 2 and 4), the object of an inclination is something like and suitable to something that is good. 6. If the object of an inclination is something like and suitable to something that is good, then the object of an inclination is something good. 7. Therefore (from 5 and 6), the object of an inclination is something good. In the subsequent paragraph, Aquinas proceeds to qualify the conclusion as applied to the will in particular, because the objects of the will are things that must be apprehended as good, in the sense pointed out earlier. This is not the place to examine in depth Aquinas’ assumptions in this argument, but a few comments are in order. Clearly many would find premise 2—all that exists is good, at least to some extent, qua existing— unacceptable outside of a theological background, whereby all that exists carries, if only remotely, a divine pedigree, and thus partakes, if only remotely, of God’s goodness.13 Premise 1 also is far from self-evident: it seems to presuppose an infallible match, at least to some extent, between what we desire and our needs or well-being, which is highly questionable outside of a Providence-run universe. However, premise 1 might also be interpreted in a less inflated, almost trivial, way: if I can desire x,

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no matter how bad for me x might turn out to be, then x must be to some extent suitable to my nature as a human being—or I wouldn’t come around to desiring it in the first place. Premise 6 is left implicit by Aquinas, but it is the necessary bridge to his conclusion. It is important to notice that, within the expression “something like and suitable to the thing inclined”, it is the phrase “suitable to the thing inclined” which seems to drive the reasoning. Mere likeness or resemblance between the objects of inclinations and “the thing inclined” would not be sufficient: even if as an existing human being I am “something good”, the objects of my inclinations need not resemble me in that very respect. However, if the objects of inclinations are not just “like me”, but also suitable to me, and (as an existing human being) I am “something good”, then it does seem tempting to conclude that, to this extent, also the objects of inclination must be good—in a slogan, only good can be suitable to good. Admittedly the extent to which objects of desire are good in this sense is very limited: after all, here Aquinas considers the goodness of “the things inclined” (including human beings) only inasmuch as their “being and substance” is concerned (premise 2), rather than some more substantial goodness deriving from merit or other relevant features. With all this being said, the argument still gives Aquinas what one would expect of a defence of the guise of the good: an entirely general reason why what we desire must be good (or at least apprehended as good). Moreover, this argument dovetails nicely with the claim that happiness or perfection is the ultimate object of everyone’s desires: one’s own perfection is almost by definition the object of desire that is most suitable to each of us, and it is “like us” at least in the sense that a version of myself that has reached perfection must still resemble me, in spite of my earthly imperfections.

The Guise of the Good, Moral Theory, and Akrasia Aquinas’ conception of the will is tightly connected with the fundamentals of his moral theory, as well as with his view of whether we should always act in conformity with conscience. The first point is condensed in the following passage: Good is presented to the will as its object by the reason: and insofar as it is in accord with reason, it enters the moral order, and causes moral goodness in the act of the will: because the reason is the principle of human and moral acts, as stated above. (ST I-II, 19.1, see also 19.3) To the extent that a human act is an expression of the will, and an act of the will is by defnition an expression of reason (the will is the rational or intellectual appetite), then a good human act as a human act can only be

52 The Canon in Christian Philosophy one that satisfes the true dictates of reason. Being in accordance with reason is in other words what is good for a human action as such, because it is ultimately what is good for and suitable to the will, from which human actions stem: “For that is good for a thing which suits it in regard to its form; and evil, that which is against the order of its form” (ST I-II, 18.5). It is then the job of moral theory to articulate what reason truly requires as good or forbids as evil. As stated before, the Subjective + Objective version of Aquinas’ guise of the good places some constraints in that regard, as it were, from the subjective side of the equation: what is good, that is, what we truly ought to desire, cannot lie too far from the actual objects of our desires.14 In fact, the very concept of a natural law (as a universal principle enjoining or prohibiting action) is based on the connection between the good we naturally seek and the good we ought to seek: [W]hatever the practical reason naturally apprehends as man’s good (or evil) belongs to the precepts of the natural law as something to be done or avoided . . . the order of the precepts of the natural law is according to the order of natural inclinations. (ST I-II, 94.2) The frst precept of the natural law is, as in accordance with the most general inclination of the will, that “good is to be done and pursued, and evil is to be avoided” (ibid.). Without going further into the detail of Aquinas’ natural law theory, it is evident how his guise of the good plays a role in bridging moral psychology with the basics of his moral theory. While right reason is the standard for good action, our reason is not always right. It may then happen that conscience, that is, reason telling us what we ought to do, or what is good overall, makes a mistake. What should we do, in this case? If the will does not follow erring reason/conscience, we have a case of akrasia or incontinence: we fail to intend or desire to do what we think we should do. If the will follows erring reason/ conscience, on the other hand, we end up intending and doing something bad or wrong. Aquinas’ answer is complex, in a way that sheds further light on his guise of the good. He argues that “absolutely speaking, every will at variance with reason, whether right or erring, is always evil” (ST I-II, 19.5). However, this does not mean that it is good for the will to follow conscience even when conscience errs and presents us as good something that is actually bad: [I]n order that the thing to which the will tends be called evil, it suffices, either that it be evil in itself, or that it be apprehended as evil. But in order for it to be good, it must be good in both ways. (ST I-II, 19.6)15

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This raises the question: why the asymmetry? Why is will’s concordance with reason not always good, but will’s variance or discordance with reason always bad? Part of the answer is that, for Aquinas, it takes just one blemish—more exactly, one deficiency in goodness—to make an act overall bad or evil, whereas in order to be overall good, an act must be good through and through, or as good as can be (ST I-II, question 18). The important point, from the perspective of the guise of the good, is that discordance with reason is, for an act of the will, always a blemish—a constitutive one, so to speak. The will is not only functionally dependent on reason or intellect, in the sense that we can only will what reason or intellect apprehends as good. In addition, there seems to be a normative relation: the will has the task of adequately responding to what is proposed by our reason as good or bad, even when our reason errs or is ignorant in its evaluations. When the will doesn’t perform this task, the result is something bad. But how can the will fail to tend towards what is proposed by the reason as good? Given that the will always operates towards what reason or the intellect propose as good, the very possibility of akrasia might seem puzzling. Aquinas’ answer is best understood by first noting the limits of akrasia; namely, there is one sort of thing which we cannot fail to will when presented as good: [I]f the will be offered an object which is good universally and from every point of view, the will tends to it of necessity, if it wills anything at all; since it cannot will the opposite. If, on the other hand, the will is offered an object that is not good from every point of view, it will not tend to it of necessity. (ST I-II, 10.2) And the only object that is good universally and from every point of view is happiness or perfection: The perfect good alone, which is happiness, cannot be apprehended by the reason as an evil, or as lacking in any way. Consequently man wills happiness of necessity, nor can he will not to be happy, or to be unhappy. (ST I-II, 13.6) Note that there are two claims made here. The frst is conceptual: x is a necessary object of willing if and only if x is necessarily apprehended as perfectly good. The second is ontological: there is one, and only one, such object: one’s own happiness or perfection. As for all other objects presented as good to us, we can fail to will them, precisely because no matter how good they seem, they can fail to appear as perfect goods. Take an obvious moral good like virtue: even if

54 The Canon in Christian Philosophy we genuinely regard it as good, it will always be possible for the intellect to find something else that is good as an alternative to virtue—thinking it has something that virtue lacks. Especially under the influence of some sensitive appetite, we might think that, for example, adultery has something which virtue lacks: the promise of physical pleasure, or the thrill of adventure. Virtue might be a great good, but in this sense it is not perfect. In this kind of situation, the intellect might initially and correctly indicate following virtue as the greater good, and so as the thing to do according to right reason. But choice in favour of virtue need not ensue: even as we know that, according to right reason, we should choose virtue, the intellect can at the same time focus on the goods promised by adultery, and have us judge adultery as the thing to do. Akratic choice in favour of adultery follows, if it does, because of “a certain negligence on account of our not standing firm in resisting the passion by holding to the [correct] judgment formed by our reason” (ST II-II, 156.2). Three things should be noted here. First, given the guise of the good operative in choice, even if we choose to go against what we know is dictated by right reason, we still end up doing what we judge to be the thing to do. In Aquinas, then, akrasia stems neither from a unilateral movement of the will independent of any evaluation (that would be impossible, given Aquinas’ notion of the will), nor from a disproportionate influence on the will of a cognition of, say, adultery as good only in some respect vis-à-vis the cognition that adultery is not good overall or best to do—it is just not possible for a choice to be informed by a cognition of mere pro tanto goodness. Whatever we choose, we choose as best or the thing to do. What happens, instead, is that two opposing overall judgements are held quite clearly in view by the incontinent person, with the one known to go against right reason overriding the other. (The two judgements are opposed, but not strictly contradictory, precisely because we take one to be dictated by right reason, and not the other. “Dictated by right reason” and “going against right reason” specify their respective contents.)16 Second, cases of incontinence illustrate the kind of freedom the will enjoys according to Aquinas. The will is free to approve or reject what is proposed as good by the intellect (ST I-II, 10.2), as well as free to refrain from choosing what the intellect proposes as “the thing to do” (ST I-II, 13.6). However, in each case, the will must have in sight some other good or some other “thing to do” proposed by the intellect, or else those free acts won’t belong to the will qua intellectual appetite. Thus, even though Aquinas appears to deny the converse of the guise of the good—necessarily, if x appears under the guise of the good (or even the best), then x is an object of desire—the scope of the will is still constrained by the scope of what we can judge to be good or bad.17 Third, in Aquinas, akrasia involves a conflict between intellectual presentations, and therefore a conflict internal to the will as the intellectual appetite. In Aristotle, as seen in the previous chapter, akrasia was a

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failure to choose or do what we “wish”, because of the disrupting action of non-rational desires (“appetites” or “spirit desires”) as such. While I suggested a unifying role for imagination, the conflict still takes place between essentially different psychological forces. For Aquinas, instead, desires originating from the sensitive appetite get integrated into the same psychic space as intellectual ones, because they can only influence human action through the will’s “consent”, as seen earlier. Apparent goods initially suggested by the sensitive appetite (e.g. revenge, survival, and sexual pleasure) get to be on a par, and therefore competing in the same arena, with whatever else the intellect presents to us as good (see e.g. ST I-II, 9.2, 10.3). In a certain sense, then, the will does not lose: even when passioninspired choices prevail over the contrary option known to be dictated by right reason, this will be an expression of the will—a choice is after all made, with its accompanying guise of the good. Of course, in another sense, in akrasia, the will does lose—qua rational power, its perfection is a matter of being in accordance with right reason, and not just with any old thing proposed by the intellect.

Conclusion With Aquinas, we arrive at a reasonably systematic presentation of (a version of) the guise of the good, complete with consistent formulations, arguments, responses to potential counter-arguments (e.g. his discussion of Augustine), and a clear connection with his moral theory. Aquinas’ work will be a reference point for all subsequent discussion of the “formula of the Schools”. However, already during the next century, and fully within the Christian tradition, first cracks in the classical canon will start to appear.

Notes 1. There is a further reason why Augustine cannot accept acting purely for the sake of evil: in his metaphysics of good and evil, evil is only a privation of goodness, and so is not a reality per se (evil acts are real as the acts they are, but not as evil). If evil is not a reality per se, then it cannot per se attract us either. Hence he says that “the theft was nothing”, and also that “that companionship too is nothing” (Book 2, 8.16, p. 27): both the act of stealing qua evil and the friendship qua evil (companionship in sin) could not have been what attracted him. 2. This will be echoed in Anscombe (1963: 75). What Augustine (and Satanic characters who apparently want “evil for its own sake”) seeks is “intact liberty in the unsubmissiveness of [his] will”. See Chapter 10. 3. Robert O’Connell (1969) points out a possible incoherence between Augustine wanting to affirm his own autonomy and his caving in to peer pressure. One response is that Augustine needed an “audience” for his display of (illusory) boundless freedom to be recognized (Starnes 1990). Another answer is that the two motives actually mesh into one collective or joint desire to assert one’s boundless freedom (Schmid 2018). In any case, acting under the

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4. 5.

6.

7. 8. 9.

10. 11.

guise of the good doesn’t require coherence in doing so, therefore a solution to O’Connell’s problem is beyond the present scope. I was directed to Aquinas’ discussion in De Malo thanks to Schmid (2018). See also Kent and Dressel (2016). Notation: Summa Theologiae, first part of the second part, question 78, article 1. With minor modifications, I use the English translation of the Summa Theologiae prepared by Laurence Shapcote, edited and revised by The Aquinas Institute, available at https://aquinas.cc. Acting ex certa malitia means acting (1) from a position of full knowledge that one’s action is bad or evil, while (2) remaining indifferent to such knowledge. It is not a case of acting for the sake of badness itself (that’s impossible for Aquinas, as just seen), nor is it acting despite the known badness, that is, with some regret. In the same question 78, articles 2–3, Aquinas adds that in sinning ex certa malitia, the sinful action is typically seen as good qua suitable to the vicious habit or corrupt disposition one manifests in choosing knowingly to sin. However, not all cases of sin from malitia are cases of acting from a vicious habit. (Malitia is not malicious desire—malitia is the property of moral badness, wickedness, or “evilness”, the opposite of bonitas, goodness.) A note about terminology. Aquinas calls appetitus what we would call desire in general (and Aristotle calls orexis). Appetitus can refer either to an instance of desire or to a certain faculty of desire (an appetitive faculty or power). This word thus encompasses the desires of both sensitive and intellectual appetites. Aquinas calls desiderium a particular passion belonging to the “concupiscible” part of the sensitive appetitive: a longing for something believed to be absent. As for the desires or acts of the will (voluntas as a faculty or power), Aquinas generally uses appetitus (qualified by the context), voluntas (as an act of the will, not as the faculty), the verb velle (to want, to will), as well as the terms referring to specific stages of acts of will (see later, main text). He does not use a special term like volitio. Aristotle does not have a word for a faculty of intellectual appetite—the word boulēsis may correspond to voluntas in the sense of an act of the will, but it is never used to refer to a faculty. It is debated whether Aristotle had a concept of the will as a distinct rational appetite or power (Irwin 1992; Osborne 2014: 110–113). Finally, the crucial term ratio as in sub ratione boni tends to be translated in multiple ways: most often “aspect”, but also “character” (Donagan 1988), “note” (McInerny 1992), “formality” (McInerny 1992; Osborne 2014), “formula” (Stump 2003), less often “idea” or “concept”. For the multiple roles played by the ratio boni in Aquinas, see MacDonald (1990: 333–340). See Stump (2003: ch. 9) for an excellent analysis. The imperative, rather than declarative, guise of the good in Aquinas’ “use” anticipates views of desire like Schafer (2013). Evaluation here is a matter of how the object of desire is presented rather than of which evaluative predicate is attached to it. For the ultimate end in Aquinas—and a useful comparison with Anscombe— see MacDonald (1991). Is it analytical for Aquinas that to want x as good is to want x as (ultimately) contributing to one’s own perfection? Among others, Ralph McInerny (talking more specifically about choice) seems to think so: Any object of deliberate choice is a kind of sandwich. .  .  . There is the particular kind of thing chosen—a hamburger—and its immediate aspect of desirability, say, tastiness. These are the underside of the sandwich, the matter of the object of deliberate will. The top half, the

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form, is the ratio boni, the formality of goodness—not partial goodness, but goodness as fulfilling and perfecting of the agent. (McInerny 1992: 30, my emphasis)

12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

And, “What does it mean to say that something is grasped as good except that it is seen to be the carrier of this formality: ‘that which is fulfilling or perfective of me’?” (ibid.: 103). If this is correct, then the claim that in desiring perfection we all get something right is guaranteed by the meaning of “good” (as featured in the phrase “wanting something as good”); and so, perhaps, not particularly exciting. See also Osborne: “There is a way in which, since every created good is good by some similitude of God as the first good, willing a created good is implicitly willing God” (2014: 12). A quicker argument runs directly from 1, via the premise “if x is suitable to y, then x is good”, to conclusion 7. This would avoid the problematic detour via premise 2 (for an analysis of premise 2, see Stump 2003: ch. 2). Aquinas does use the quicker argument applied to the sensitive appetite of love (which also, like the will, presupposes something apprehended as good) in ST I-II, 27.1. He also enumerates several arguments in Summa Contra Gentiles, part 3, chapter 3, although the focus there is more on how literally everything acts for some good, rather than on how humans in particular act. For critical commentary on the (meta)physics surrounding the argument, see, for example, Kenny (1993: 61). Compare: “The will is not always directed to what is truly good, but sometimes to the apparent good; which has indeed some measure of good, but not of a good that is simply suitable to be desired” (ST I-II, 19.1, my emphasis). Compare: “[I]n order for the will to be good, it must tend to the good under the aspect of good [sub ratione boni]; in other words, it must will the good for the sake of the good” (ST I-II, 19.7). Aquinas calls “ignorance” the incontinent person’s false (and temporary) belief that, for example, she should, now, choose adultery (ST II-II, 156.3). But, following Aristotle, he also suggests that in incontinence, while in the grip of passion, we fail either to make or to attend to the opposing true judgement of right reason (“I should not commit adultery, now”), to be drawn from what we “habitually” know (ST I-II, 77.2). Moreover, in one kind of incontinence (impetuosity), there is simply no time for any opposing judgement of right reason (ST II-II, 156.1). It is certainly not necessary for Aquinas’ conception of akrasia that the “better judgement” be simultaneous with the “worse judgement” and with the ensuing akratic choice. But it seems to me that Aquinas goes further than Aristotle in recognizing the possibility of fully clear-eyed akrasia. See Bradley (2008), Kent (2007), and Gosling (1990: ch. VI). On Aquinas and freedom of the will, see, for example, Stump (2003: ch. 9) and Osborne (2014: 117–121).

5

The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600)

Introduction In this chapter, I will, first, look at two significant authors who, fully from within the Scholastic tradition, held views which implicitly (Duns Scotus) or explicitly (Ockham) put into serious question the guise of the good as understood by Aquinas. Without attempting a comprehensive analysis and comparison of their doctrines, I examine two specific and correlated points of interest. First is the question whether one must necessarily will the perfect good presented as such, or whether one may not will it or even reject it. Second is the question whether and under which conditions one may commit a sin in full knowledge that one is sinning—as seen in the previous chapter, a kind of litmus test of a philosopher’s views with regard to the guise of the good.1 Then I will turn to the work of the late Scholastic Francisco Suárez, who elaborated a fresh and systematic exposition of the classical canon, and was the key to handing it over to early modern philosophers operating outside of the Thomist and more generally Scholastic framework.2

Cracks in the Canon: Duns Scotus It is in the context of late medieval discussions of the freedom of will that one can see the first doubts arising regarding the guise of the good. This is not surprising, as Aquinas had left it somewhat obscure exactly how the will can fail to tend towards what is presented to it as good, even granting that it can fail to do so—with the important exception of when an object is presented as perfectly good or good “through and through”. John Duns Scotus (1265/66–1308) rejects what must have looked like Aquinas’ ambivalent attitude, and argues that there is no necessity in our willing anything in particular, not even happiness or the perfect good presented as such (in his Ordinatio I, distinction 1, part 2, question 2, paragraphs 77–158, in particular 149; pp. 53–66).3 The denial of a necessary object of the will goes together (whether as a premise or as a consequence) with the idea that true freedom of the will DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-5

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rules out any such kind of necessity. Aquinas notably explained freedom of the will as, ultimately, the freedom of judging different things to be good: The root of liberty is the will as the subject thereof; but it is the reason as its cause. For the will can tend freely towards various objects, precisely because the reason can have various perceptions [conceptiones] of good. Hence philosophers define the free-will as being a free judgment arising from reason, implying that reason is the root of liberty. (ST I-II, 17.1, see also the whole discussion at ST I, 83) In the eyes of philosophers like Scotus, this would be at best a derivative form of freedom attributed to the will—derivative, that is, on the freedom of reason to form different evaluations (and this freedom must, in turn, be subject to the objective value constraints discussed in the previous chapter). The will would seem to be free only as a receiver of freely formed evaluations. The thesis that the perfect good, presented as such, is not necessarily willed is not a rejection of the guise of the good. It is only a rejection of the claim that there is at least one object such that, necessarily, if it is seen as good by A, then it is desired by A. In fact, Scotus doesn’t go so far as to claim that we can will against the ultimate end, that is, that we can (perversely) be averse to something presented as perfectly good: “[P]erhaps the will could not will-against [nolle] it, because the object of an act of willing-against is what is bad or deficient”, and by definition, there is nothing that is seen as bad or defective about the perfect good (Ord. I, d. 1, p. 2, q. 2, par. 149; p. 63). All he insists on is we can fail to want (non velle), or refuse our assent, to such an object, and that in this power of indifference lies the essence of freedom. Also, if the object of “willing against” is the bad or the defective, then by symmetry for Scotus, as for Aquinas, it should also be true that the object of “willing for” is the good.4 However, there is one thesis that is jeopardized by Scotus’ view, and which can be seen as an application of the guise of the good: GG and Indifference. If A is actively indifferent towards x, then x appears evaluatively indifferent to A. By “being actively indifferent towards x”, I mean exactly the kind of state Scotus imagines us being in when we consider the perfect good that is happiness, and regard it as such, while failing to want it. It is a neutral state of mind or attitude towards x, as opposed to the nonexistence of an attitude towards x. GG and Indifference is jeopardized by Scotus, because in the case envisaged, the antecedent is true, but the consequent is false: x, that is, happiness, doesn’t appear evaluatively indifferent (neither good nor bad) to me, but as positively good, in fact, as good as can be.

60 The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600) It might be said that GG and Indifference is no part of the guise of the good, because the guise of the good is about valenced mental states: desires for or against something, intentions to do or not to do something, etc. However—while one is free to state one’s thesis as preferred—it would be surprising if the guise of the good could not be extended to what I have called active indifference. This appears to be a practical attitude or state of mind whose valence regarding its object is neutral, as it were, rather than being a non-valenced attitude like, say, mere contemplation.5 Now, having such an attitude would seem to require a matching neutral evaluative presentation of its object—just like desire for x requires x being presented as good, and desire against x requires x being presented as bad. If, as Scotus implies, active indifference towards x can be maintained in the face of a non-neutral evaluation of x (in particular, here, in the face of a thoroughly positive evaluation), then in principle nothing prevents similar mismatches: desire for x in the face of a neutral or even negative evaluation of x, or desire against x in the face of a neutral or even positive evaluation of x. This is not to say that one must accept these implications—it is just to say that, by denying GG and Indifference, the seeds for overthrowing the guise of the good have been planted. As remarked earlier, Scotus does not draw these further implications: happiness as such cannot be the object of aversion, because having aversion towards x requires seeing something negative in x, and nothing negative can ever be seen in happiness as such. Thus, Scotus reaffirms the guise of the good in the very context of arguing for a conception of free will that—if the aforementioned reasoning is correct—ends up undermining the thesis. In another circumstance, however, Scotus gets closer to explicitly rejecting the guise of the good (Ord. II, d. 43; pp. 151–152). He defines sinning ex malitia (from wickedness) as involving “willing something not presented [to the will] either as a genuine good (as unqualifiedly good) or as an apparent good (as good in a certain respect)” (ibid.: 151). The question is whether such a kind of sin, and therefore such a kind of willing unrelated to seeing its object as good, is possible for humans. Scotus considers two possibilities. On the one hand, he leaves it somewhat undecided whether one can ever sin in this way by willing evil for its own sake, as in Augustine’s theft of the pears (Aquinas, as shown in the previous chapter, answered negatively). However, there is a second possibility: one may sin ex malitia when, even if not willing evil for its own sake, “the will chooses for itself to will evil in virtue of its sheer freedom and without any motive or explanation [occasio] external to itself” (ibid.: 152). Scotus appears to accept this second possibility, not least because a will that acts with no regard to goodness whatsoever would be a neat example of what it means to sin against the Holy Spirit. In moral theology, it was customary to categorize sins by correlating their psychological causes with offenses against the

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persons of the divine Trinity and the associated divine attributes: sins due to ignorance are sins against the Father (as carrier of God’s knowledge or wisdom), sins due to weakness are sins against the Son (as carrier of God’s power), while deliberate sin or sin ex malitia, that is, from wickedness, is sin against the Holy Spirit, as carrier of God’s goodness. It is notable that, unlike Augustine or Aquinas, Scotus does not quite identify freedom of the will as the good that the sinner (mistakenly) seeks in this case, or the reason in the light of which she acts. If Scotus indicated freedom as the good sought, this would contradict his initial definition of sin ex malitia, whereby nothing (hence not even its own freedom) is presented to the will as good. And it would weaken his claim that sin ex malitia is a direct offense against the Holy Spirit as carrier of God’s goodness.6 Now, accepting this possibility is tantamount to rejecting the guise of the good, at least in its strictest formulation: it would seem that we can, sometimes, will or desire something without this appearing to us as good in any way (whether or not we also desire it qua evil). What is not entirely clear is whether Scotus himself was aware of the implication, and whether or not he would have thereby subscribed to a modified version of the guise of the good. These questions are somewhat complicated by Scotus’ dual aspect view of the will. As a natural appetite, apt to follow whatever is presented by the intellect, the will necessarily seeks the (apparent) good (qua my own happiness). But this “seeking” is only an inclination, not an act of the will. Acts of the will belong to the will as a free, non-natural power, which may decide to follow its natural inclinations or not. In this sense, the will stands in sharp contrast to the intellect, whose acts of assent are necessarily “proportionate to the truth that moves it”. Instead, Scotus continues, [I]t is in the will’s power to assent more intensely to a good or not to assent at all, even to a good seen more imperfectly, and so one cannot validly infer something about the will’s relation to what is good from something about the intellect’s relation to what is true. (Ord. I, d. 1, q. 1, p. 1, par. 22; p. 49, my emphasis) So, even if Scotus may have adopted a straightforward guise of the good as applied to the will as a natural appetite, the question is whether the will is, in some sense, always after good or apparent good also in its acts, that is, as a free power. In general, Scotus seems to retain “the notion that at the most generic level the proper object of willing is good and that of nilling [willing against] evil or bad” (Adams 1999: 253).7 He says for example: “[W]hen evil is shown to me I am able to elicit an act of nolition only, just as when offered some good, if I elicit an act, it can only be one of volition” (Duns Scotus 1997: 160). Since Scotus allows that, when offered the perfect good, we can remain indifferent to it, this sentence should be qualified:

62 The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600) “when shown some good/bad, if I elicit a first-order act—if I don’t refuse to will or will-against—the act can only be one of volition/nolition”. And this would be pretty much in line with the classical canon. But this notion now appears to be contradicted by the case of sin ex malitia: an evil is shown to me, and I am able to elicit the act of volition, even though I may not will it qua evil. The case of sinning ex malitia may ultimately be compatible with one definition Scotus gives of willing: “Willing . . . is an act by which the will accepts some suitable object” (Ord. II, d. 6, q. 2, par. 34; p. 111). Willing something bad purely in virtue of the will’s own freedom, with no external “motive or explanation”, may well be a case in which the object thus willed is, or appears to be, suitable for the will itself as a free power, at least to some extent, though not suitable for human beings or in any other substantive sense, and thus not good. The connection with the guise of the good tradition may thus be retained by the use of an evaluative notion like “suitable”, in the relational sense of being suitable for our very capacity to will. Presumably in this sense it is (or appears to be) also suitable for the will as a free power to refuse both willing and willing against the perfect good.8

The Canon Disrupted: Ockham It is often said that William of Ockham (1287–1347) takes a step further from Duns Scotus, by steadfastly holding that the will, in its exercise of freedom, may not only make us remain indifferent to something perceived as perfectly good, or want something perceived as bad and not perceived as good in any way (sin ex malitia), but may also make us: (a)

will against (nolle) something perceived to be perfectly good (Hoffmann 2019: 213), and (b) will something bad qua bad (Williams 2019: 247) or for evil’s sake (Adams 1999: 260).

If Ockham indeed holds these views, then the demise of the guise of the good, at least in its classical version and as applied to the acts of the will, appears to be complete.9 Ockham’s views about the will tie in with his moral theory, whereby the obligation to obey God’s commands is, as it were, categorical rather than providentially connected with a universal and necessary desire to obtain happiness (in this and the next life). While we are still, in a sense, made in the image of God, such likeness does not imply a necessary practical orientation towards the ultimate end, that is, towards (reuniting with) God himself. A close examination of how Ockham argues for (a) and (b) is appropriate. Let’s start with (a). Like for Scotus, the question is whether the will enjoys (and therefore, wills) blessedness (beatitudo) freely or by necessity.

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Ockham’s comprehensive answer is that “the will can absolutely will or not will or will against the ultimate end, whether it be shown in general or in particular, in this life or in heaven” (Ockham 2001: 416). Thus, unlike for Scotus, freedom of the will includes freedom to will against the ultimate end. Ockham’s arguments to this conclusion, however, are rather peculiar. I will briefly comment on three of them. First, if we believe blessedness to be impossible for us, and also believe we should will against what is impossible for us, then we can will against blessedness (ibid.: 414). Now, this argument does not show a will defying the guise of the good. On the contrary, it depends on the will actually conforming to a normative judgement: it is a case of willing against what we (rightly or wrongly) believe we ought to will against. There is no pure mismatch, here, between a judgement or perception of something as good and our desiring against it. Even if we take blessedness as good, this judgement is countered by believing that we should reject that good qua impossible.10 Second, for each possible state of affairs, we may (rightly or wrongly) believe that we (or rather our wills) will not be able to “rest in it”. This, in part, entails what just said: in this way, we come to believe that blessedness is impossible, because blessedness is the state in which our will is at rest or fully satisfied. But Ockham says something more: “The will can will against that in which it believes it cannot rest” (ibid.). So we can will not only against what is impossible (as in the previous argument) but also against everything that is possible for the will: because, as it were, we may mentally go over all possible worlds, judge that we won’t find rest in any of them, and consequently have a negative attitude towards each of them. Ockham concludes from this second argument that the will can “will against anything whatever” (ibid.), and a fortiori will against blessedness. This might seem to be a most radical rejection of the guise of the good, until we realize that the act of will is, also in this case, matching a certain evaluation of its object: being unable to rest our will in x makes x bad, hence our willing against x. Thus, Ockham’s radical-sounding conclusion should be qualified: we can will against anything whatever, as long as we believe that we should will against it (first argument), or believe that something makes it bad (second argument). And this would be a confirmation, rather than a rejection, of the guise of good: we can only will against what appears to us under negative terms. In other words, the two aforementioned arguments show that we can reject any perceived good, but not quite reject it simply qua good.11 The third argument considers the case of someone who takes blessedness to be possible for her, but can still will against having it (ibid.: 415). This can happen in two circumstances. One is when “right reason” dictates that she lack blessedness, and since whatever right reason dictates must be a possible object of will, then it must be possible for her to will against having blessedness. The other one is if God wills her to always

64 The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600) lack blessedness—as he does with the damned in Hell—and, since she can conform herself to the divine will, she can will against having blessedness. In the second circumstance, there is, again, a match between the act of will and evaluation: the agent rejects the ultimate end, because this is what she knows she ought to do in this particular case, if she is to conform to God’s will (Ockham does say that God’s will is either known or believed here). The guise of the good—here, as the guise of an “ought”— is confirmed. In the first circumstance, instead, the agent’s background evaluative cognition is not brought out by Ockham—that is, it is not said whether the agent knowingly follows what right reason requires of her. She just can conform by willing against the ultimate end. Since no match between will and evaluation is presupposed, this would be a cleaner argument for the purpose of dismantling the guise of the good. However, such a sudden turn away from the ultimate end (when even known to be possible) must be explained somehow. If the explanation is that the agent knows and follows what right reason dictates, then this case is just like the one about God’s will. This much may in fact be assumed by Ockham, who runs the two cases one after the other as if simply replacing “right reason” with “God’s will”.12 Or if God’s intervention is required here to make our will conform to right reason, then it is no longer clear that it qualifies as a full-blown act of the will. Of course, it may well be that this is a case where the will just so turns away from a proposed good, and luckily hits on what happens to be dictated by right reason. But this would make it a very special episode among all those discussed by Ockham in this text, and he does not appear to treat it as such (unlike the rather different situation of someone being blessed but possibly hating God: ibid.: 417). All in all, Ockham’s arguments for claim (a) do not show him to be at odds with the guise of the good. We need to turn to claim (b) (and to a different text) in order to find Ockham at his most radical: in particular, we can will something evil not only (b1) knowing that it is evil, and finding absolutely nothing good about it, but also (b2) willing it qua evil or for evil’s sake. Scotus had already suggested claim (b1) in his discussion of sin ex malitia. And (b1), as noted earlier, is a sufficient counterexample to the guise of the good. But Scotus’ acceptance of (b1) seemed somewhat tentative for two reasons: first, it didn’t sit well with his elsewhere stated allegiance to the guise of the good; second, he left it slightly mysterious how sin ex malitia thus understood is psychologically possible, and what are the reasons in light of which the sinner acts, apart from the idea that the will in this case sings its own song of freedom, so to speak. Ockham is far more resolute on both counts. First, he unhesitatingly asserts, “the will is able to will something bad that is neither really nor apparently good, and able to will against a good thing that is neither really nor apparently bad” (Ockham 1984: 443 [Opera Theologica, VIII], trans. in Williams 2019: 247). This claim is in full harmony with his

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official thesis, reported earlier, that we can will anything whatsoever. And he argues for this claim, now, on grounds that do not presuppose any reliance on the guise of the good. The argument is that willing something bad that is neither really nor apparently good must be possible, or else certain sins committed in full knowledge that one is sinning would not be possible (e.g. willing to worship false Gods)—and if those sins were not possible, the corresponding meritorious acts (e.g. willing against worshipping false Gods) would not be possible either. Since the latter must be possible, so must the former be possible too (ibid.: 443–445).13 Second, at least according to some commentators, Ockham proposes a rather different model of motivation from his predecessors and most of his contemporaries. Here is Merilyn McCord Adams: “For E to be one’s end is for love or hatred of E to be both one’s reason and also an efficient partial cause of one’s efficaciously willing something else” (1999: 260– 261, my emphasis). According to this interpretation, Ockham accepts a fundamentally psychologistic view of motivation, whereby our reasons for action ultimately consist in psychological attitudes (love and hatred), rather than in their contents (what we love or what we hate, what we regard as good or bad). Given this picture, sin ex malitia can be explained by saying that our reason for willing (and acting) in that way is the fact that we love to be bad, and no deeper psychological truth is needed. And that’s also why we can will anything whatsoever: the scope of what we can will or will against is the scope of what we can love or hate, and in turn, this is only limited by what our intellect can conceive. In these cases, nothing remains of the guise of the good, except the empty tautology that we can only will what is really or apparently good, where “good” is taken to mean “willed or willable” (Ockham 1984: 446). On this point, Ockham would seem to anticipate Hobbes’ view (see Chapter 7).14 What about (b2)? Given the preceding, (b2) loses part of its interest. The guise of the good seems to have been sufficiently dismantled. However, showing that the scope of love can extend to loving evil for evil’s sake would reinforce Ockham’s view. So, first, Ockham appears to be committed to the possibility of willing evil for evil’s sake by the same reasoning mentioned earlier. If it is possible to deserve credit for willing something good for the sake of goodness, then it must be possible to deserve blame for the corresponding sin: willing evil for the sake of evil.15 Second, Ockham does regard as possible (and probably actual) certain vices which include evil—or an analogous substitute—as one’s motivating factor: praying for vainglory, because (quia) this very act is forbidden by God and against right reason (Ockham 1984: 338); doing something unjust because it is immoral or against right reason (ibid.: 351).16 What is important to note is that Ockham has the resources to explain even these extreme vices by reference to psychological states of love or hatred—say, we love evil for evil’s sake in the sense of hating right reason. Ockham can allow such vices while not departing from the long-standing

66 The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600) Christian doctrine that evil as evil is a privation of goodness, and so has no actual reality. Most medieval authors were led to deny the possibility of loving evil for evil’s sake, in part because this would get too close to granting evil as evil the power to move us, thus granting evil as such a reality of sorts. Within Ockham’s psychologism, by contrast, the variety of human sin can be sufficiently explained by states of love and hatred without any reference to real, or even apparent, badness—in fact, this can be seen as an application of the celebrated Ockham’s razor.

Suárez: The Canon Reaffirmed It is tempting to see Duns Scotus and, even more, Ockham as ushering in a period of crisis for the guise of the good tradition, soon after the peak it had reached with Aquinas. This would be a completely inadequate picture. In fact, writing more than two centuries later, the Jesuit Francisco Suárez (1548–1617) elaborates a systematic reaffirmation of the classical canon, in which practically all of the “variations” on the thesis described in Chapter 1 are covered, as I illustrate in this section. While strongly influenced by Aquinas (with whom Suárez regularly notes agreement),17 Suárez adds significant elements of originality and endorses some of Scotus’ emphasis on the freedom of the will.18 On the other hand, Ockham’s position appears to be roundly rejected. What the guise of the good is about. Like for Aquinas and others, for Suárez, the guise of the good is primarily a thesis about the nature of the will. In particular, the guise or better ratio of goodness specifies the very character or nature (again, the term ratio is used here) of an end as governing all acts of the will, from simply willing something, to choosing specific means to a given willed end, to enjoying the attained end: “Goodness is the proximate ratio under which an end moves” the will (DM 23.5.2).19 An end is never just willed, but always willed as good. The good. Suárez follows tradition in holding there to be three types of goods: the honestum, which for Suárez includes both moral goods (e.g. justice and charity) and non-moral goods that are good as agreeable to our rational nature (e.g. knowledge); the pleasant or delightful; and the useful, which is a type of good necessarily subservient to the former two (DM 23.5.15). What all types of goods have in common is their being agreeable or suitable (conveniens) with respect to the human agent or to different parts of her nature (DM 10.1.12).20 In fact, it seems that there is no way to demonstrate that the good is the proper object of the will other than by pointing out the conceptual connections between being good and being desirable (appetibilis) (DM 10.1.19) and, in turn, between an object being desirable and its being agreeable or suitable (conveniens) to some appetite. Furthermore, nothing but what is cognized as good (qua desirable) can be the object of the will, because an appetite can only go for what at least appears agreeable to it (DM 23.5.4–11). Suárez spends a good part of DM

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23.5 to argue in various ways against the possibility—defended by Ockham, and hinted at by Scotus—that one may will something under the aspect (ratio) of badness: it would be a most inordinate and self-contradictory case of willing (paragraph 4); it would violate the parallelism between will and intellect (if the intellect cannot assent to something qua false, then the will cannot desire something qua bad), and it would itself involve assenting to something one knows to be false (you cannot judge x’s badness as a reason in favour of pursuing x if you know what “bad” means) (paragraph 5); badness as such is nothing and thus cannot move anyone (paragraph 6); it is impossible to choose means to an end qua useless or qua impeding the end, so a fortiori it is impossible to intend an end qua bad (paragraph 6). Nor is it possible to will something cognized as indifferent, or even cognized as good in some purely agent-neutral sense, because in such cases the will would have nothing to “latch onto” (paragraphs 7–8). Suárez, however, does not claim that we always will the perceived greater good. It is a mark of the freedom Suárez attributes to the will that sometimes we knowingly prefer a lesser good or a greater evil, albeit on the condition that we do see something good about what we prefer. Suárez sums up his views in this passage: [B]ecause [good] cannot actually cause unless the will permits itself to be moved or cooperates in its genus with its motion (which it can fail to do thanks to its freedom), therefore from this head it can happen that a lesser good actually causes finally [causet finaliter], passing over a greater good. Yet that could not be done if it has no goodness, because now in this case it would wholly lack a reason for causing, without which the freedom of the will is not enough for it to be moved, although, in order not to be moved, a lack or negation of the necessary good is sufficient . . . even if it is not bad. (DM 23.5.11) In other words, freedom stands in the way of the perceived greater good always being preferred to the perceived lesser good, but exercises of freedom are never arbitrary. When the will “permits itself to be moved” even by a lesser good, there has to be some goodness in the object. Likewise, when the will resists a proposed good (while seeing nothing actually bad in it), it is because the good is (cognized as) not a “necessary” one (by which Suárez probably means something that cannot fail to be good).21 Objective and subjective. Based on the threefold distinction of types of goods, Suárez explicitly endorses a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good. He writes: [T]he will is never moved except by true goodness. For it is never moved except by delight, or honesty, or by an advantage to nature, all of which are true goodnesses (I pass over the appetite for good in

68 The Canon Doubted and Reaffirmed (1300–1600) general, in which there is no deception). Hence, there is never deception in the proper formal ratio which moves; deception comes up in the application of this formal ratio to this or that thing. (DM 23.5.15) For example, if one takes it as morally good to steal in order to give to the poor, she has mistaken the application of the ratio of goodness to this action, but the aspect under which she performs the action (the honestum) is not mistaken. Likewise, the young Augustine, who steals pears for the sake of its badness, is in fact performing an “experiment of freedom” “under some aspect of utility” (DM 23.5.10) and, to that extent, under a true aspect of goodness, even though stealing is not actually useful. From this point of view, Suárez clearly endorses the objective side of the equation. As for the subjective part, he devotes the whole of DM 23.7 to arguing that an object must frst be cognized in order to be desired, hence also its value must frst be the object of (true or false) cognition. Appearing under the guise. Suárez argues that judgement, and not a mere apprehension of something as good, is required for the will to be moved, since “an apprehension that is pure and apart from all judgements is indifferent as to whether that which is apprehended is thought to be or not to be thus” (DM 23.7.9). Furthermore, the relevant judgement has to be something more than the natural “estimation” of benefit and harm, of which animals are capable, and must possibly occur through reasoning, or composition (of concepts), or “through formal cognition of that reason on account of which the thing is agreeable” (DM 23.7.10), that is, through cognition of one of the three types of goods qua types of good. Finally, it has to be a practical judgement about what is good or agreeable here and now for me to do or to will. That is, over and above the judgement that, say, eating veggies is good for my health, I need to judge that eating (and wanting to eat) these veggies is a good thing for me to do here and now (DM 23.7.11). Questions of form, status, and scope. Does the judgement requirement mean that young children and “the insane” have no will? This is an important discussion point in contemporary debates over the guise of the good.22 Suárez is well aware of the challenge—after all, young children and mentally ill people do seem to act based on ends—and addresses it by appeal to the threefold distinction among goods. While some aspects of goodness are indeed precluded to these human beings, [T]hey can have practical judgement concerning the matter as actionable here and now and agreeable to some lower reason [ratio], as is the reason of pleasure or the reason of agreeability or disagreeability to animal nature, which is found in health, for example, and utility, which is in the means with respect to such an end. (DM 23.7.13)

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Thus, instead of excluding certain human beings from the scope of the guise of the good, Suárez opts for an inclusive scope by allowing practical judgements whose content is within the cognitive possibilities of most humans (excluding, perhaps, very young children).23 As to the “form and status” of the Suárezian guise of the good, he certainly means it to be a necessary and even conceptual truth about the will. But there is no identity between x appearing good and wanting x. First, this is because identity would entail that, necessarily, if something appears good to me, then I want it. And, as seen earlier, for Suárez, the will is free to reject any proposed good. Second, Suárez sees the will as cooperating with the judgements of a metaphysically separate intellect, by virtue of what he calls a “natural sympathy” (DM 23.5.14 and elsewhere) between the two powers. The dynamics of such cooperation are complex, but here let it be said that the intellect’s judgements do not cause the acts of the will (“sympathy” is not a causal relation), but are among their necessary prerequisites. In turn, the intellect’s cognition is necessary in order to make sense of how an end and its goodness can, as a final cause, move the will: not through billiard ball-style physical motion (that is what efficient causes do), but “through intentional and animal motion”, which Suárez calls “metaphorical motion” (DM 23.1.14 and elsewhere, in particular 23.4). Metaphorical motion is real, but indirect motion, because an end need not be an actually obtaining state of affairs in order to move the will: health as an end moves me to want to take a medicine, even though I am not healthy yet, and maybe I will never be. That is why the causality of an end requires cognition as a “vector” for the end.24 Finally, it is the will itself that, on the background of the intellect’s judgement, elicits or causes (as a free efficient cause) its own acts. Since an act of the will (e.g. the choice to take the medicine) is the effect both of the final cause and of the will’s activity, it follows that the final cause is not really operative unless and until the will causes its own act (DM 23.4.5). But this does not make the final cause redundant: it is still required so as to provide a direction to the will’s acts—a direction which, as seen, at a certain level of description (pointing us to an object qua falling under some type of good) cannot fail to be correct.

Conclusion At least in part thanks to Suárez’s systematic treatment, the classical canon is carried over into the early modern period. But changes in the overall cultural context will pose serious challenges to the canon. If the problems raised by Duns Scotus and Ockham were largely animated by moraltheological concerns internal to Christian doctrine, we will see that, to the extent that one can speak of a crisis of the guise of the good in early modern philosophy, it will be owing to a very different set of pressures.

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Notes 1. In organizing material for the first part of this chapter, I am indebted to Hoffmann (2019), Williams (2019), and Osborne (2014). 2. According to Vernon J. Bourke, “[t]he philosophy that [Descartes] learned as a student at the Jesuit College of La Flèche was Suarezian”, and “[w]hen John Locke studied philosophy at Oxford, he learned [a Suárezian] theory of will from Scholastic textbooks, some of them written by Catholics, some by Protestant scholars in the Low Countries and Germany” (Bourke 1964: 88, 179). And Sydney Penner: “Descartes, Leibniz, and Wolff, among others, learned scholasticism at least in part from reading Suárez” (Penner IEP). 3. Unless otherwise noted, all Scotus references are to Duns Scotus (2017). 4. One important author between Aquinas and Scotus is Henry of Ghent (1217?-1293). For Henry, we can only will what appears under the aspect of good, but we need not will what appears as the greater good—and this possibility is key to the will’s freedom. See Hoffmann (2008) for discussion and sources. A book-length treatment of this segment in the history of moral psychology is Kent (1995). 5. Scotus describes indifference as the result of a second-order act of the will, which itself of course is not neutral, because it is willing against both willing and willing-against a certain object: [T]he will can at any rate suspend every act concerning a given object through some elicited willing. And in this way I now will-against eliciting any act concerning this object, however distinctly it is presented to me. And this willing-against is an elicited act, a sort of reflexive act concerning the willing of that object: not an actual or past willing of that object, but a possible willing of that object.

(Ord. I, d. 1, p. 2, q. 2, par. 150; p. 63) 6. Scotus must have regarded the kind of solution proposed by Aquinas in De Malo (discussed in the previous chapter) as insufficient in this moral-theological respect. 7. For example, Ord. IV, suppl., dist. 49, qq. 9–10 (in Duns Scotus 1997: 155– 162). See also Osborne 2014: 133–134. Against this interpretation, see Boler (1993), who argues that Scotus abandons the very idea of the will as an appetite with its proper object. 8. This notion might also explain how the sinner ex malitia can get pleasure from sinning: an object is non-derivatively pleasant to the will when it is “suitable to the will in the will’s own right” (Ord. III, d. 34, q. un., par. 48; p. 213, my emphasis). Scotus does gloss this object as “the good”, but probably here he means nothing over and above “suitable for the will”. 9. See also Osborne (2014: 52–54). 10. Two points are worth clarifying. (1) The fact that we consider blessedness impossible for us should not subtract from its perceived goodness—if it does subtract from goodness, then Ockham’s argument is even less radical than it turns out to be. (2) Willing against x qua impossible cannot include willing against its possible existence; otherwise the attitude would be incoherent. It is rather like an attitude of scorn towards what we know or take to be impossible. Ockham makes this point implicitly as he goes on to distinguish the different case of someone willing against having blessedness (i.e. willing against its existence, regarded as something possible for me). 11. I agree with Adams’ analysis: “Ockham’s claims here about what can be nilled [willed against] do not essentially depend upon disputing conventional actiontheory wisdom that something can be nilled only under a bad or evil aspect”

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12.

13. 14.

15.

16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

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(Adams 1999: 259). It is probable that in this part of his work Ockham is only interested in the question of whether we will a certain specific object, that is, beatitude, necessarily or freely, rather than in the more general question about whether the real or apparent good is a necessary object of the will. Ockham may further be assuming that both are cases in which the agent deserves some credit for conforming to such exceptional dictates. But the agent could deserve credit only if she correctly sees her act as conforming with right reason or with God’s will, that is, under the correct evaluative guise (see Panaccio 2012: 88). See the analysis in Osborne (2012). Unlike Hobbes, however, Ockham is no subjectivist about the meaning of “good”. We can, and most often do, will what is really or apparently good in a substantive sense of “good”. The point is rather that “in at least some cases Ockham thinks that the good is such merely because it is willed by the agent” (Osborne 2014: 53, my emphasis). In fact, it is possible that Ockham means that argument to prove (b2) as well—we can want evil qua evil or for evil’s sake—because in the “doubt” to which that argument is a response he does say that the question is whether one can will evil under the aspect of evil (malum sub ratione mali) (Ockham 1984: 433). It is just that he later does not word his response to the doubt by using this very same phrase, so there is a reasonable question whether he takes (b2) to be established as well as (b1). See the discussion in Adams (1999: 261–262). I am less sure about her third example: she reads Ockham as even making it a condition for all mortal sin that the sinner disobey God for the reason that God commands or forbids so-and-so (see Ockham 1984: 390). Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae was reportedly placed alongside the Bible at the Council of Trent (1545–1563)—Catholic Church’s regrouping after the Protestant schism. Suárez was one of the most important Catholic theologians active in this context. It is beyond the present purposes to find out whether any of Suárez’s closer predecessors or contemporaries had arrived at a similarly systematic exposition. References are to Disputationes Metaphysicae (1597) by disputatio number, section, and paragraph. I follow the editing and translation by Sydney Penner, available at: www.sydneypenner.ca/translations.shtml#dm. Suárez also talks of goods, like health, consisting in agreeability to our animal nature. They may perhaps be classified under the pleasant, but in DM 23.7.13, they do seem to be distinct from the pleasant. If so, the classification should be fourfold. See Penner (2013) on freedom in Suárez. For helpful comparisons between Suárez and Hobbes, see Pink (2003, 2018, 2021). Velleman (1992: 7), Tenenbaum (2007: 240–250), Hawkins (2008). More specifically about the guise of the good and non-human animals: Tenenbaum (2009: 411–412), Gregory (2017: 210–212). The agency of such humans will, however, still be “imperfect”. See Pink (2003: 135). The intellect’s judgement constitutes “a sufficient approximation of the end so that it [the end] can cause” (DM 23.4.5). “Approximation” literally means carrying the end near enough to the will (there is no causation, final or efficient, without sufficient proximity between cause and effect). In DM 23.8 Suárez further argues that the end moves the will “according to its own real being” rather according to its being cognized—in contemporary jargon, motivating reasons are provided by what the cognition is about, not by the cognizing itself.

6

Descartes and Spinoza Revision and Rejection

Introduction A comprehensive history of the guise of the good in early modern philosophy remains to be written. One can, however, find summary accounts which suggest that the guise of the good retained a central place—despite the late medieval ruptures illustrated in the previous chapter: Most early modern philosophers accepted the Thomist doctrine that the will is a power for good and everything sought by the will is sought because it is perceived to be good in some respect. It was evident to early modern thinkers that this doctrine needed revisions, but the underlying assumptions were not seriously challenged. (Yrjönsuuri 2014: 582, my emphasis) Other commentators, instead, put more emphasis on change than on stability: “Well-entrenched assumptions about causality, matter, mind [including agency and the will], knowledge, language, law, and even God are subject to re-appraisal and in many cases revision” (Rutherford 2006: 6, my emphasis). The two quotations invite scholarly work on the early modern guise of the good in at least two directions. First, it is said that most, and therefore by loose implication not all, early modern philosophers accepted the Thomist doctrine. Who were the outliers, and why did they not accept the doctrine? Two figures stand out as not only abandoning the classical canon but also opposing the guise of the good altogether: Spinoza (in this chapter) and Hobbes (next chapter). According to some interpretations, however, also Hume and Kant leave the thesis behind (Chapter 8). Second, it is claimed that, even where there may be continuity, revisions are made either to the doctrine itself (Yrjönsuuri), or to assumptions regarding concepts—for example causality and mind (Rutherford)— which are closely connected to the guise of the good. The question then is what is the content and extent of those revisions. I will distinguish moderate revisionists like Descartes (this chapter) from robust revisionists like DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-6

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Locke (next chapter) and—on another set of interpretations—Hume and Kant (Chapter 8). I stress that this and the next two chapters do not intend to present an exhaustive picture of the thesis’ fortunes, say, from roughly 1600 to 1800.1 For one, as the overview indicates, I have picked authors who either revise (moderately or robustly) the classical canon or reject the thesis altogether. I have left aside authors who unproblematically accept the classical canon. But if we had to count heads, most philosophers active in the period would probably come out as neither revisionists nor opposers to the guise of the good, in part because the philosophical and theological traditions which embrace the thesis in its classical form remained dominant in the universities.2 Second, I have deliberately focused on only some of the “canonical” authors from this period. It is well possible that significant contributions were made by others, including women philosophers. But a wider-ranging account is better left for another occasion. As anticipated, in this chapter, I examine the guise of the good in Descartes and Spinoza.

Cartesian Ambiguities René Descartes (1596–1650) occupies an ambiguous position in the history of the guise of the good. On the one hand, he appears to stand by the Scholastic understanding of the will as a rational appetite. On the other hand, he seems to point to a rather different understanding of the will that relegates the guise of the good to the background, so to speak. In this section, I will bring out relevant materials from primary texts and scholarly discussions to illustrate both claims.3 The first striking element in Descartes’ view is that the will plays a pervasive role in both our intellectual and practical life. If for Aristotle, and to a large extent Aquinas and later philosophers too, it is reason or the intellect which govern judgement—our acceptance of something as true or rejection as false—Descartes holds that our judgements are, no less than our volitions and choices, the expression of the will.4 In the Fourth Meditation, he writes: [T]he will simply consists in our ability to do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid); or rather, it consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we do not feel we are determined by any external force. (CSM II 40) The intellect is not the seat of judgement. Rather, the intellect only presents or apprehends, without affrmation or denial, “ideas which are subjects for possible judgments” (ibid.: 39). It is the will that, exercising its

74 Descartes and Spinoza freedom, affrms or denies such ideas or contents, hence committing us to their truth or falsity.5 In the same text, Descartes appears to assume a guise of the good understanding of the practical function of the will, along with a “guise of the true” understanding of its intellectual function. In the best case, when the will inclines in one particular direction in intellectual or practical matters, it is “because I clearly understand that reasons of truth and goodness point that way” (ibid.: 40). The original Latin is more telling: quia rationem veri et boni in ea evidenter intelligo—“because I evidently understand the aspect of true and good in it”, that is, in the proposition I affirm or in the choice I make. It is not so much “reasons” as considerations speaking in favour of a judgement or volition that are operative here, but rather the traditional Thomistic notion that wanting something is wanting it under the ratio—aspect or guise—of goodness.6 By the same token, when the will is stuck in a state of indifference, it still operates under the aspect of truth (for judgement) or goodness (for volition or choice), but such aspects are either not clearly understood—for example, it is not clear exactly what makes the choice good—or not clearly understood to point one way rather than another—it is not clear that or why one choice is better than another. The will does not decisively incline either way. And plumping for a certain judgement while in this state of indifference, that is, when we do not perceive things sufficiently clearly and distinctly, is, for Descartes, “the source of my error and sin” (ibid.: 41).7 If Descartes appears here to accept the letter of the guise of the good, the details are, however, up for debate. One question is whether volition, as a practical use of the will, requires a value judgement—the intellectual application of the will to ideas with an evaluative content—on top of a mere apprehension of something as good—an idea offered by the understanding or intellect, but not necessarily affirmed. In Aquinas, there is a division of labour between the will and the intellect: the latter proposes something to the will not just by apprehending but also by judging a certain object to be good and worthy of choice. In Descartes, textual evidence points in part to the view that value judgements are not required for volition.8 In the aforementioned quote from the Fourth Meditation, he speaks of the will being inclined to pursue something by what the intellect puts forward, and therefore, by a mere apprehension rather than a judgement. In an earlier passage (in French, from the Discourse on the Method), he explicitly lays out the traditional thesis, again specifically including the intellect as involved in the will’s practical acts: “[O]ur will tends to pursue or avoid only what our intellect represents as good or bad” (CSM I 125).9 He does so also in a French letter to Marin Mersenne (using for this purpose a Latin sentence): [I]t seems to me that the common scholastic doctrine is that “the will does not tend towards evil, except in so far as it is presented to it by

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the intellect under some aspect of goodness” [voluntas non fertur in malum, nisi quatenus ei sub aliqua ratione boni repraesentatur ab intellectu]—that is why they say that “whoever sins does so in ignorance”—so that if the intellect never represented anything to the will as good without its actually being so, the will could never go wrong in its choice. (Letter to Mersenne, end of May 1637, CSMK 56)10 At the same time, there are two reasons for thinking that Descartes sees judgements, and not mere apprehensions of the intellect, as required by practical acts of the will. First, the dictum just reported that “whoever sins does so in ignorance” suggests that, when sinning, our judgements about good and bad are misleading us. We do not fall into ignorance just because we have a false apprehension—we become ignorant by assenting to it (or by denying a true one). In other words, part of the blame when we sin must be put on the bad intellectual use of our will, that is, on our making the wrong value judgements. Since the will can always sin in ignorance, it follows that the will always requires a (potentially false) value judgement, and not only a mere apprehension. And when we do sin, we sin in two ways: by the will qua judgement, and by the will qua choice or volition of what is mistakenly judged good.11 Second—and relatedly—when it comes to outlining an ideal of virtue, Descartes puts at its core the relation of the will with evaluative judgements, not mere apprehensions of the intellect. In fact, the passage here from the Discourse in its entirety reads thus: [S]ince our will tends to pursue or avoid only what our intellect represents as good or bad, we need only to judge well in order to act well, and to judge as well as we can in order to do our best—that is to say, in order to acquire all the virtues and in general all the other goods we can acquire. And when we are certain of this, we cannot fail to be happy. (CSM I 125, my emphasis) In later writing, Descartes specifes that sound judgement alone is not suffcient for virtue. A volitional element is also necessary. For example, in a letter to Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia (18 August 1645), he defnes virtue as “a frm and constant will to bring about everything we judge to be the best, and to use all the power of our intellect in judging well” (CSMK 262). Moreover, “true generosity”—the central virtue for Descartes in the Passions of the Soul—partly consists in a person’s feeling within himself a firm and constant resolution to use [freedom] well—that is, never to lack the will to undertake and carry

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Still, even if not suffcient, the correct use of value judgement remains a necessary component of virtue, and therefore, value judgement (correct or incorrect) would seem to be a necessary component of practical acts of will.13 A second question about Descartes’ guise of the good is the extent to which he thinks volitions or practical acts of the will are coordinated with a relevant evaluation. Here, again, the doctrine of clear and distinct perceptions plays an important role. When my perception of the good is clear and distinct, I cannot help making the corresponding value judgement—assent would seem to necessarily follow in this case as in other cases of assent. It is less obvious, however, whether volition necessarily follows as well. It may seem so as he claims, in his replies to the second set of objections to the Meditations: “The will of a thinking thing is drawn voluntarily and freely (for this is the essence of the will), but nevertheless inevitably, towards a clearly known good” (CSM II 117, my emphasis). In a letter, however, he also claims, “it is always open to us to hold back from pursuing a clearly known good, or from admitting a clearly perceived truth, provided we consider it a good thing to demonstrate the freedom of our will by so doing” (CSMK 245). The first thing to notice is the entirely traditional qualification he makes here: holding back, qua act of the will, is only possible under the aspect of some good, for example, the putative good of demonstrating freedom. No act of the will is unmotivated. Still, it is not as if, in this case, the will is following a judgement to the effect that it is best to hold back from pursuing the clearly known good. A mismatch of sorts between will and evaluation is still present. Anthony Kenny suggests that, in these cases, we may indeed be making a judgement of what it is best to do—it is best to pursue the otherwise clearly known good—but fail to follow through if and because our evaluative perception has become, overall, less than clear and distinct: “An ordinary man with a confused idea of what is true and good enjoys liberty of simultaneous perversion” (Kenny 1998: 158). Liberty of simultaneous perversion—but a better term would be “simultaneous akrasia”—is the ability to refrain from wanting what we judge to be the best at the time of judging it the best, or the ability to want what we judge to be the worst at the time of judging it the worst. When our evaluation is obscure or confused, then our will may fail to coordinate with our better judgement even at the time of making or holding that judgement. If Kenny is right, then, Descartes’ view is different both from Aristotle’s—whereby akrasia is explained by some kind of temporary evaluative blackout at the time of desiring—and from Aquinas’—whereby the

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will, in cases of incontinence, still needed the “support” of a coordinated overall value judgement in favour of the incontinent choice. In Descartes, the better judgement is not ignored or temporarily forgotten, nor does one need to come up with any ad hoc overall judgement in favour of the worse choice. Still, some evaluative judgement (itself, presumably, based on a confused perception of good, and thus contributing to our evaluative confusedness) is needed to make sense of the will’s misbehaving, so to speak. In requiring this much, and in limiting akrasia to cases of less than clear and distinct evaluation, Descartes falls pretty much in line with the tradition.14 As claimed at the outset, however, there are also signs of Descartes pushing the guise of the good understanding of the will into the background. One can see this by returning to Descartes’ multi-tasking view of the will, which itself marked an important shift from Aquinas’ psychology. If the will expresses itself in judgement just as much as it does in practical attitudes, it follows that we can no longer unqualifiedly talk of the good as the object of the will. The good might be, at most, the object of the will in its practical uses, just as the true is the object of the will in its intellectual uses (affirmation, denial, as well as withholding affirmation and denial). On pain of admitting an irreducible duality in the will’s basic orientation, it appears that Descartes needs to find some unifying object, or concern, or feature, which the will brings along with itself in both its intellectual and its practical uses. So, the issue is just what this unifying object might be. One possible answer, of course, is that the good, or practical uses of the will, in fact govern also intellectual uses of the will. When we affirm a certain idea—judge it as true—we also, if implicitly, must want to affirm it, or conceive of our own affirmation under the aspect of good: for example, in the best case scenario, we affirm something we perceive clearly and distinctly in part, because we take it as good to affirm what we perceive clearly and distinctly. In affirming something, we are always also pursuing something—an intellectual project, so to speak.15 There might be something to be said for this answer, as Descartes is typically eager to talk of errors of speculative judgement in quasi-moral terms—an intellectual mistake almost being akin to the pursuit of a merely apparent, but not true, good, or akin to the wrong-headed pursuit of a true good. The problem, however, is that this answer makes all judgement systematically hostage to some appropriate volition. Cannot we ever judge something to be true—for example, an unpleasant truth— even if we would rather not hold that judgement? At any rate, it is not obvious why judgement should always need some “stamp of approval” by some volition. That would make judgement a subordinate, and thus not as free, expression of the free will.16 A different answer is that Descartes, in fact, does identify one common and essential feature of judgements and volitions, instead of subordinating

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judgements to volitions: both judgements and volitions are active expressions of the mind or soul. Even when a clear and distinct perception makes a judgement inevitable, we are active in our judging. Even when a body-dependent passion—say, the kind of violent love Descartes calls “attraction” (CSM I 358)—induces us almost irresistibly to want something, we are active in our wanting. Nor is the soul more active in one or the other use of the will. Passive expressions of the soul include instead perceptions of the external and internal senses, pure understanding, and the emotions discussed as “the passions of the soul”. In all such cases, the soul receives something, or is internally “agitated”, and inclines one to act, but it does not act.17 What is distinctive about the soul being active is, of course, the freedom of which we talked earlier, as well as the commitment that goes with using freedom one way or another, and the consequent susceptibility to praise or blame depending on how well we use our freedom. It is tempting to see Descartes here not so much as repudiating, but rather as relegating the traditional theory about the proper object of the will into a subordinate position within his psychology. Even if it remains the case that, for Descartes, the soul’s activities are not arbitrary—being directed at the aspects of the true or the good which we find in what we affirm or pursue—it becomes now a conceptually open question whether there is something like a preordained proper object for our active powers, and a fortiori whether any such object must have an evaluative guise. So Descartes writes in the Principles of Philosophy: The will . . . can in a certain sense be called infinite, since we observe without exception that its scope extends to anything that can possibly be an object of any other will—even the immeasurable will of God. (art. 35, CSM I 204)18

Spinoza: The Scholium Argument Descartes, as seen earlier, repeatedly appears to endorse the traditional thesis. His stress on the will being an active and free power, however, threatens the central role of the guise of the good in defining agency. As Lilli Alanen puts it: The idea of the will as a self-mover implies that the will can move without natural causes, whether final causes pertaining to its nature as rational will or mechanical causes acting on the body to which it is united. (Alanen 2003: 246)

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Baruch Spinoza’s (1632–1677) attitude is, in some respects, diametrically opposite to Descartes’. He appears to reject the thesis in a famous passage, and to do so ultimately based on the idea that the human mind is no exception to the laws governing nature. Here is the key passage in his Ethics: [W]e do not endeavor anything, we do not will anything, we do not seek or desire anything, because we judge it to be good; on the contrary, we judge a thing to be good because we endeavor it, will it, seek it and desire it. (Part III, prop. 9, scholium; p. 103)19 I will discuss, frst, why this passage expresses opposition against the guise of the good; second, what is Spinoza’s argument for this claim; fnally, how Spinoza’s opposition to the guise of the good fts in the broader context of his moral psychology and metaphysics. Recall our first approximation of the guise of the good in Chapter 1: GG. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good. (Otherwise said: if x does not appear to A under the guise of the good, then A does not desire x.) Spinoza does not deny GG in the passage. He is not saying that there are some things which we desire (or will, endeavour, or seek) but do not appear under the guise of the good. For all he says, it could be true that all that we desire appears to us under the guise of the good. Spinoza’s claim is rather about direction of explanation: accepting for the moment that “judging x to be good” is equivalent to “x appearing under the guise of the good”, what Spinoza claims is that x appears to me under the guise of the good because I desire it, and not vice versa. His claim thus is a rejection of our amended formulation: GG+. If A desires x, then A desires x because x appears to A under the guise of the good. It is fair to assume that all the authors so far discussed, who endorsed some form or other of the guise of the good, held GG+ and not only GG. For example, in Aquinas, the will tends to a certain object, at least in part because the intellect has apprehended or judged it as good. Even when desire and evaluation appear to be merely two sides of one single act of one single faculty, as in the Stoic version, it is the evaluation side—an evaluative content previously presented in an “impression”— which throws light on the desire side, and not vice versa. Spinoza explicitly reverses the claim of explanatory direction, and in this lies the ground-breaking, or at least provocative, character of the passage.

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Spinoza means his claim to be the conclusion of an argument, which I will call the scholium argument. Here is the text in full, with key terms reported in Latin as well: When this endeavor [conatus] is related to the mind alone, it is called will [voluntas]. But when it is related to mind and body simultaneously, it is called appetite [appetitus], which accordingly is nothing but a human being’s very essence, and things that serve his preservation necessarily follow from its nature, and therefore a person is determined to do those things. Then, there is no difference between appetite and desire [cupiditatem] except that desire is very often attributed to people insofar as they are conscious of their appetite, and therefore it can be defined as follows: desire is appetite together with consciousness of it. From all this therefore it is clear that we do not endeavor anything, we do not will anything, we do not seek or desire anything [nihil nos conari, velle, appetere neque cupere], because we judge it to be good [quia id bonum esse iudicamus]; on the contrary, we judge a thing to be good because we endeavor it, will it, seek it and desire it. (ibid.) Willing, seeking, and desiring are all psychological modes of the endeavour or striving (conatus) to persevere in one’s own being that, as Spinoza earlier says, constitutes the essence of all things (part III, proposition 6, 7), and of the mind as well, insofar as it has either clear and distinct or confused ideas (part III, proposition 9).20 So all these psychological modes are, in some sense, explanatorily prior, rather than secondary, to judging their objects good. But what explains the priority, exactly? One could suppose that, because endeavour is more basic than anything else in the mind, then all varieties of endeavour, as such, will be more basic than anything in the mind which is not itself a variety of endeavour. The tacit premise then must be that judging something to be good is not itself a variety of endeavour, in the sense that it is not classifiable as such—even if, as a mental phenomenon, it will be intelligible only in the light of endeavour, which is in effect what the conclusion claims. This is a tempting reconstruction, but it is not clear why, for Spinoza, judging something to be good would not be itself a variety of endeavour. Judging is, plausibly, a form of affirmation. But all affirmations are volitions and vice versa (see part II, proposition 49). Therefore, judging something to be good is a volition, and as such, it must itself be a psychological mode of endeavour no more and no less than other volitions. Granted that value judgement must be itself a volition or mode of endeavour, then, in the scholium argument, Spinoza must be arguing that it is a subordinate volition or endeavour. Since, ultimately, all volitions are

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themselves ideas (and vice versa) (part II, proposition 49; p. 87), then one can restate the point by saying that the idea which is operative in what we call judging x to be good—presumably, the idea of x as good—must be somehow subordinate to the idea which is operative in willing x. But to understand how this works out, we need to go beyond merely willing x—otherwise, Spinoza would not bother to further mention appetite and desire. In the scholium, appetite is said to provide an orientation towards things that serve our preservation simultaneously in mind and body—things that serve our good as human beings (willing instead only “refers to the mind”, so presumably doesn’t cover our whole good as human beings). Furthermore, in becoming conscious of our appetite for x, we desire x. But how do we get to judging x as good? Presumably, if and when we become conscious of our appetite for x, the good that is de facto sought through the appetite also gets presented to us as something good for us.21 We become conscious not only of having an appetite for x but also of what the appetite “does for us”: we grasp that it directs us towards what serves our preservation. The idea of x as good (qua good for us as human beings) then is finally arrived at either along with, or immediately consequent to, desire for x, because “[w]e call good or bad that which helps or hinders the preservation of our being, . . . that which augments or diminishes, assists or restrains our power of action” (part IV, prop. 8, proof; p. 166).22 Viewed in this light, Spinoza would probably agree with GG: we cannot desire x without judging it good, if the progression from willing x to judging x good is necessary for humans. But we would not arrive at the idea of x as good without the full progression—note the conjunction: we judge something good “because we endeavour it, will it, seek it [i.e. have an appetite for it] and desire it”.23 The ideas in value judgements are therefore to be explained by other, prior, ideas in the sense of being the endpoint of a one-way, progressive structure of endeavours. GG+, in requiring that appearing or being thought good be explanatorily prior to wanting or desiring something, gets this structure the wrong way around.24 It is no wonder, then, that Spinoza appears to endorse the converse of GG as he claims: “By the laws of his own nature everyone necessarily seeks [appetit] or is averse to what he judges to be good or bad” (part IV, proposition 19; p. 173). If judging something to be good presupposes desire, and desire is conscious appetite, then judging something to be good also presupposes appetite for the thing. However, Spinoza’s proof of this proposition, interestingly, turns on two different propositions rather than on the conclusion of the scholium argument. First, proposition 8 in part IV: “Cognition of good and bad is nothing but an emotion of joy or sadness insofar as we are conscious of it” (p. 165). Second, proposition

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28 in part III (plus the identification of appetite with endeavour): “We endeavor to bring about everything that we imagine contributes to joy; but we endeavor to get rid of or destroy all that we imagine to be contrary to joy or which we imagine contributes to sadness” (p. 116).25 This proof is of interest, because it complements the scholium argument. On my reconstruction, the scholium argument depends on the necessary progression from a de re content of appetite (we seek an x which, as a matter of fact, serves our own preservation) to a de dicto content (we seek an x under the description “x serves our own preservation”, i.e. we desire x, and consequently take x to be good). The proof of proposition 19, part IV, instead, shows how taking something to be good, as a psychological mode, can be identified with the consciousness of joy, which (by prop. 28, part III) is necessarily linked to desire. The two lines of argument are not in conflict, because becoming conscious of joy is tantamount to becoming conscious of a “passion by which the mind passes to a greater perfection” (part III, prop. 11; p. 104) and again, like in the case of becoming conscious of an appetite, in this way we presumably arrive at an evaluation of what affords joy as good, because we identify as good whatever promotes (or seems to promote) a greater perfection, that is, a greater power of action. In fact, the two arguments explicitly converge as Spinoza writes: “[I]t is by his own emotions [ex suo affectu] that every person judges or estimates what is good or bad, what is better or worse, and what is the best or the worst” (part III, prop. 39, scholium; p. 125). One issue about this complementary argument is that, since all passions involve inadequate ideas (part III, prop. 3; also Appendix to part IV, pp.  214–215), and joy is a passion, it would follow that cognition of good also, always, involves inadequate ideas. However, this is a false problem. The emotion of joy, unlike that of sadness, is not always a passion for Spinoza: “Besides the joy and desire that are passions, there are other emotions of joy and desire that are related to us insofar as we act”, that is, insofar as the mind is not “acted upon” (part III, prop. 58; p. 141). In the proof of this proposition, he makes it clear that when the mind conceives adequate ideas, it is to that extent both active and joyful. Equating cognition of value with consciousness of joy thus leaves room for true cognition of value—this is possible when joy is not a passion.26 Despite endorsing the converse of GG, it needs to be pointed out that Spinoza does not regard value judgements—even if necessarily bound up with emotions—as uniformly motivating. If, on the one hand, it follows from the scholium argument that if I judge x to be good, then I have an appetite or desire for x, Spinoza does not understand such a desire as necessarily exercising its motivational potential on us even to some extent. In propositions 14–17 (part IV), Spinoza illustrates the relative lack of power of the desires associated with “true cognition” of value, arguing that such desires can not only be outweighed but even be extinguished by the power of conflicting desires or emotions. In this way, Spinoza appears

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to envisage a radical and quite unprecedented form of akrasia, whereby our better judgements may remain entirely powerless even while they are to be regarded as forms of striving or appetite. The final question is where this analysis leaves Spinoza within the history of the guise of the good. Notice that I have focused my attention on the scholium argument, and not on three other possible Spinozian lines of opposition to the guise of the good, which will be worth mentioning. One such argument takes off from Spinoza’s famous rejection both of a distinction between the will and the intellect (part II, prop. 49, corollary), and of the very notion of a psychological faculty as something over and above particular volitions or ideas (part II, prop. 48).27 Now, clearly the Scholastic tradition against which Spinoza is reacting construed the guise of the good as a truth about the will, conceived as a distinct faculty, in cooperation with the faculty of intellect. Rejecting faculty-talk, however, is not sufficient for discarding the guise of the good: even if faculty-free ideas are, psychologically speaking, all there is, it may still be the case that evaluative ideas are in some sense prior to the ideas involved in desire. The latter possibility is what the scholium argument sets out to attack. A second line of argument would rely on Spinoza’s endorsement of some form of psychological egoism: after all, as seen earlier, all desire is ultimately desire for self-preservation, in the sense of preserving (and possibly increasing) one’s own power of action.28 The guise of the good might seem incompatible with psychological egoism, to the extent that the “good” under the guise of which we want things must be understood more broadly than in egoist terms. But this is a red herring. The guise of the good is compatible with a narrow understanding of the “good” under whose guise something is desired. In fact, arguably even Aquinas understood the (apparent) good that is the object of the will in self-regarding terms not too dissimilar from Spinoza’s, namely as what is good for the desiring agent herself—what perfects her, as a human being. Third, Spinoza could be interpreted as holding, alongside with Hobbes (on which, see next chapter), the semantic thesis that when I judge x to be good, I simply judge x to be an object of my desire (or to contribute to satisfy some desire of mine). The guise of the good would be trivialized by such a view: the claim “If I desire x, then x appears to me under the guise of the good” becomes the claim “If I desire x, then x appears to me as desired by me”. Under my reconstruction, however, this is not Spinoza’s view. The scholium argument, as well as the complementary argument about joy, crucially depend on Spinoza’s giving a content to “x is good” that is not restricted to “I desire x” (or even “x gives me joy”), otherwise the idea of x as good would not be a conceptually separable endpoint of the progression of endeavours. We rather land on the idea of x as good—a new idea—via appetite and desire, because through desire we cognize (if often inadequately) the object of desire as preserving or increasing one’s power of action.29

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In summary, Spinoza rejects the guise of the good, but on the basis of neither opposition to faculty-talk, nor psychological egoism, nor semantic trivialization. It is rather the result of a distinctive metaphysical picture of human beings as essentially modes of striving, where the striving itself is not understood as teleologically oriented towards (apparent) good. Since human beings are but expressions of the one substance Spinoza calls God or nature, if our striving had to be understood in terms of aiming towards the apparent good, the same would have to be the case for God’s action. And Spinoza flatly rejects the latter. The doctrine that God acts for a purpose “takes away the perfection of God. For if God acts for the sake of a purpose, he is necessarily seeking something that he lacks” (Appendix to part I, p. 38). Instead: The reason . . . or cause why God or nature acts and why he exists is one and the same. It follows that since he does not exist for the sake of a purpose, he does not act for the sake of a purpose either; but as he has no principle or purpose in existing, so he has no principle or purpose in acting. And the so-called final cause is nothing but a human appetite itself, considered as a principle or primary cause of a thing. For example, when we say that habitation was the final cause of this or that house, we are surely saying simply that human beings had an appetite to build a house because they imagined the advantages of a home. (Preface to part IV, p. 158) In a way, then, Spinoza offers the opposite mirror image to the AristotelianScholastic view. In the latter, human desire aims at the (apparent) good, at least in part, because of human participation in a world that is already governed (naturally, for Aristotle; supernaturally, for Christian philosophers) by ends, that is, by fnal causes of why things happen. Also in Spinoza, human beings are to be understood as part of a larger picture. But since this larger picture (which Spinoza identifes with God) has no place for fnal causes—for an orientation towards good—we are no exception either. Of course, we do act for purposes: but it is the striving itself that is prior for understanding how humans act, rather than any evaluative idea we may come to form about the objects of our striving.30

Conclusion Descartes’ ambiguities concerning the scope of the will and Spinoza’s round rejection of final causality (coupled with Hobbes’ mechanism, in the next chapter) paved the way to different possible attitudes towards the guise of the good: repudiation and relegation to the philosophy antiques shop; reappraisal within a mechanistic, non-teleological (as well as non-theological) worldview; or again, reappropriation within a new, “autonomist” picture of human agency going beyond both natural

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teleology and mechanism. We will see these stances displayed in the next two chapters. What seems plausible is that philosophers working outside the Scholastic tradition could no longer afford to buy wholesale into the classical canon.

Notes 1. With the exception of Suárez (see previous chapter), I have skipped about two hundred years of philosophy (1400–1600). While it is possible that groundbreaking work on the topic was produced by somebody during that period, it is worth noting that summary accounts do not exactly invite to think so (e.g. Saarinen 2014). That is not surprising: to the extent that humanist and Renaissance thought set itself in opposition to medieval philosophy, it often involved a return to Roman and Greek philosophy, which largely embraced some version of the guise of the good. See also next footnote. 2. This seems to hold notwithstanding the Catholic-Protestant divide that characterizes Europe and its universities starting from the 16th century. Philipp Melanchthon (d. 1560) (Martin Luther’s “in-house” philosopher and theologian) explicitly accepts the guise of the good against the idea that one can want bad qua bad. See the text quoted from his Commentarius De Anima (1550), in Bellucci (2005: 238, fn. 8). In De Servo Arbitrio (1525) Luther himself (d. 1546), while arguing for our de facto inevitable orientation to evil without God’s grace, seems to tentatively endorse the thesis: “desire must strive and attempt something (as good perhaps), and cannot go forth into nothing, nor be absolutely inactive” (section 49 in Luther 1525; my emphasis). Even Jean Calvin, otherwise vehemently opposed to Scholastic philosophy, allows that we essentially tend to apparent good—although (again, without God’s grace) we systematically get it wrong and are quite capable of sinning knowingly and willingly (Institutio Christianae Religionis , 1559, II.ii.23–27). Probably the idea is that the human will, though corrupt, must still be fit enough to receive the gift of God’s grace, without which it cannot turn to actual good. Being essentially drawn towards apparent good, and not towards evil qua evil, makes the will fit in this sense. Also the Anglican Bishop Bramhall (d. 1663) endorses the guise of the good in his dispute with Hobbes (e.g. Hobbes 1999: 46). See Stone (2006) for the variety and influence of Scholastic thought in this period. 3. To my knowledge, scholarship on Descartes has not yet centred on the question of the status and role of the guise of the good as such, despite the relative frequency of relevant passages. 4. I will use “volition” to refer only to practical acts of the will: pursuit and avoidance. It is true that on Descartes’ view also judgements are volitions— acts of the will. But alternative terminologies are not ideal: “pursuit and avoidance” is a cumbersome phrase; “choice” is not always adequate (the will is practically operative also before it chooses one option); “desire” in Descartes strictly refers to one of the basic passions, which are not acts of will (Passions of the Soul, art. 86, CSM I 358–359; in art. 47 desire and volition are explicitly contrasted). However, he does call “desire” one mode of willing in Principles of Philosophy, art. 32 (CSM I 204). 5. For useful introductions, see Della Rocca (2006) and Newman (2008). See Kenny (1998) for a comparison with Aquinas on this point. 6. The French translation approved by Descartes does not directly translate the Scholastic-tinged word ratio: je connaisse évidemment que le bien et le vrai

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8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

Descartes and Spinoza s’y rencontrent—“I know evidently that the good and the true are found in it”, that is, in the choice or judgement that I make. He also avoids the term in the passage reported later in the main text from the (French-written) Discourse, while on the other hand using ratio in the Latin sentence in the letter to Mersenne reported in the main text. Descartes was probably not at ease with simply transposing Scholastic terminology into French, thus (indirectly) suggesting he might have been somewhat uneasy also with the substance of the traditional guise of the good. For the view that Descartes mostly follows Thomist tradition, see Kenny (1998), Carriero (2009: 250–251), and Kisner (2018: 47–48). For the view that Descartes strays significantly from that tradition, see Alanen (2003: ch. 7), and McCarthy (2008). Alanen provides a useful narrative linking Descartes to the ancient and medieval authors discussed in previous chapters (in particular, Duns Scotus). When it comes to practical affairs (which include here both value judgements and choices) Descartes relaxes the demand for clear and distinct understanding, though of course when we go wrong in such matters, it is because of insufficiently clear and distinct understanding: see Second Replies, CSM II 106, which refers back to the Discourse (CSM I 123). Thus Hoffman: “[F]or Descartes, our volitions to pursue or avoid need not be moved by our judgments” (Hoffman 2009: 233). Here is another (French) statement of the guise of the good which seems to require less than full-blown value judgements: “The will tends only towards objects which have a semblance [apparence] of goodness” (Passions of the Soul, art. 177, CSM I 392). In the Conversation with Burman, he reiterates the point: “[A]lmost all sins have their source in ignorance, since no one can pursue evil qua evil” (CSMK 342). Descartes understands “good” and “bad” as commonly meaning “agreeable or contrary to our nature” (Passions of the Soul, art. 85, CSM I 358). See Rutherford (2021) for an informative overview of Descartes’ thoughts about ethics. Further grounds for this hypothesis can be found in a letter (probably) to Mesland, in which Descartes describes the condition of indifference of the will in terms of conflicting value judgements: “[T]he more equally these two judgements move us the more indifference . . . they confer on us” (letter to [Mesland], 9 February 1645, CSMK 245). Moreover, “firm and determinate judgements bearing upon the knowledge of good and evil” are said to be the “proper weapons” of the will in order to resist wayward passions (CSM I 347). For what it’s worth, the Cartesian Nicolas Malebranche (1638–1715) explicitly claims: “[T]here are two [acts of the will] with regard to goodness, its assent or consent to the relation of agreement between the thing and us, and its love or impulse toward that thing” (1997: 9). See Alanen (2003: 242ff) for disagreement with Kenny on this point. This interpretation is favoured in Naaman-Zauderer (2010: 146). See also Carriero (2009: 270–272). In fact, cases where we judge that p at least in part because we want to believe that p are described as typical cases where judgement goes wrong. See Fifth Replies, CSM II 259. Using John Cottingham’s terms, in such cases, we do not exercise “genuine epistemic agency” (Cottingham 2008: 224). See, for example, Passions of the Soul, articles 17, 41 (CSM I 335, 343). See Hoffman (2009) for complications about how the Cartesian soul can remain active and free when impelled by the passions.

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18. For this interpretation, see McCarthy (2008, esp. pp. 189–190). The “infinite” scope of the will also marks one difference from the passions of the soul, whose objects are by nature limited—due to the passions’ constitutive relation to the body—to what appears beneficial, harmful, or more broadly “important” to the agent (Passions of the Soul, art. 52, CSM I 349). 19. Translations of Spinoza’s Ethics are from Spinoza (2018). 20. Conatus, in English “endeavour”, was (not incidentally) a key term also in Hobbes’ psychology: These small beginnings of motion within the body of man, before they appear in walking, speaking, striking, and other visible actions, are commonly called ENDEAVOUR. This endeavour, when it is toward something which causes it, is called APPETITE or DESIRE. (Hobbes 1994: 28) 21. See Nadler (2020: fn. 15) for the claim that, given the nature of desire and its relation to joy, we can only desire things which, at least to a minimal extent, are in fact good for us, though all too often not good overall or the best. 22. This sentence harks back to the definitions of good and bad given earlier in part IV, which in turn refer to what Spinoza said in the Preface to part IV: we call good (bad) what makes us approach nearer to (move further from) “the exemplar of human nature that we set for ourselves” (p. 159). This might suggest that not just any old desire is a pre-condition for a value judgement, but in particular the desire to approach a certain exemplar of human nature. For example, in order for me to judge reading good, I must see reading as getting me closer to the exemplar of human nature which I desire to reach. This more fundamental desire, of course, is not to be understood itself in evaluative terms. 23. The conceptual centrality of desire, at least for humans, is stressed at part III, definition 1; pp. 143–144. 24. According to Kisner, the progression is not just conceptual but deliberative: value judgements are to be understood as the causal endpoint of competition among desires (as in general, judgements, beliefs, or decisions in Spinoza are the result of competition among ideas). Interestingly, however, Spinozian desires, as ideas affirming their own content, are (like any other idea) assessable for correctness, as opposed to being simple mechanical forces (Kisner 2021: 42–44). Steinberg (2016) instead argues that for Spinoza value judgement is constituted, but not caused, by desire (or emotion in general). Like Kisner, Youpa accepts a causal reading, but argues that the scholium argument only concerns “the order of value judgments and motivational states in the minds of those in bondage” (Youpa 2007: 376). Interestingly, Youpa’s view leaves room for Spinoza to endorse a guise of the good thesis restricted to the special group of “free people”, whose desires would be guided by rational value judgements. Partly against this, Koistinen (2014) argues that a desireindependent value judgement could play no motivational role for Spinoza. 25. The assumption is that Spinoza here takes “cognition” as implying “judgement”. 26. This has the curious implication (which Spinoza accepts) that, since unlike joy sadness can never be an active emotion, then judgements about bad, which are “nothing but” the consciousness of sadness, always involve inadequate ideas: part IV, prop. 64. 27. See Della Rocca (2003). 28. See LeBuffe (2020) for the distinction between orthodox and predominant egoism. This distinction is tangential to my purposes.

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29. Discussions of Spinoza’s metaethics (what is the status and content of the idea of good) are often intermingled with discussion of Spinoza’s axiology (what actually makes something good). Given the centrality of conatus to both questions, it is hard to consider them separately. See Miller (2005), Kisner and Youpa (2014: 5–7), Nadler (2020), LeBuffe (2020), section 3.1. Youpa (2010) defends the view that what is good for the unfree is (or means) simply what they desire, whereas what is good for the free is (or means) what leads to the perfection of their essential characteristics. 30. See Carriero (2005) for an illuminating comparison between Spinoza and the Aristotelian-Scholastic view on just this point.

7

Empiricism The Guise of the Good Between Desire and Pleasure

Introduction In this chapter, I turn to Hobbes and Locke to explore the fortunes of the guise of the good within the early modern empiricist tradition. To my knowledge, neither Hobbes nor Locke explicitly and directly addresses the thesis as such. I will argue, first, that Hobbes should be regarded as an implicit opponent of the thesis, albeit for reasons somewhat different from Spinoza’s. Then I show why Locke, despite sharing much philosophical background with Hobbes, should be interpreted as proposing, and in fact quite systematically articulating, an hedonistic version of the guise of the good. His version, bearing little similarity to the classical canon, is classifiable as a robust revision of it. Given the obvious role played by Hobbes and Locke in the development of social contract theory, I will conclude by taking a brief look at the relationship between stances towards the guise of the good and different views in political philosophy.

Hobbes: An Empiricist Rejection of the Guise of the Good Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) is often placed among the philosophers who must have rejected the guise of the good. Sergio Tenenbaum writes: The old formula of the schools would not be particularly interesting if we simply defined the “good” as whatever is the object of a desire or preference, or of desire or preference under independently specifiable conditions (such as conditions of “full information,” for example). Of course, one could simply define “good for X” in terms of what X desires, but this would be a rejection rather than an endorsement of the scholastic view. (Tenenbaum 2007: 26)

DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-7

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And he adds in a footnote: “A classic instance of this view is Hobbes’s Leviathan” (ibid.). The reference is to the way Hobbes famously defnes “good” and “bad” in Leviathan (1651): [W]hatsoever is the object of any man’s appetite or desire that is it, which he for his part calleth good; and the object of his hate and aversion, evil; and of his contempt, vile and inconsiderable.1 For these words of good, evil, and contemptible are ever used with relation to the person that useth them, there being nothing simply and absolutely so, nor any common rule of good and evil to be taken from the nature of the objects themselves, but from the person of the man (where there is no commonwealth), or (in a commonwealth) from the person that representeth it, or from an arbitrator or judge whom men disagreeing shall by consent set up, and make his sentence the rule thereof. (Hobbes 1994: 28–29) This passage, of course, does not itself contain an argument against the guise of the good. But it is plausible to argue that it contains a view about the meaning of “good” which leads to the abandonment of the guise of the good. If “good” simply means “object of my desire”, as on a crude subjectivist view, then the claim “if we desire x, then x appears to us under the guise of the good” becomes the claim “if we desire x, then x appears to us under the guise of an object of our desire”, or otherwise said “if we desire x, then x appears to us as desired by us”. As formulated, the latter claim is not exactly an empty tautology—in fact, it imposes a condition of minimal self-knowledge on having any desire: when you desire a cup of tea, the cup of tea must appear to you as satisfying this very desire. But this is clearly not the condition that, since Socrates onwards, advocates of the guise of the good intended to place on desires, because it is not an evaluative condition. Moreover, the claim “if we desire x, then x appears to us as desired by us” does almost nothing to advance our understanding of desire, because it leads us back to the concept of desire.2 In fact, I do not see why Hobbes should even accept the letter of the guise of the good, if—based on this view of “good”—it would imply that “if we desire x, then x appears to us as desired by us”. (Note: if the guise of the good simply said “we only desire the good”, then Hobbes’ subjectivist defnition of “good” would make it a tautology. But as argued in Chapter 1, a subjective cognitive condition, like x appearing good, is needed.) Alternatively, on a non-cognitivist understanding of Hobbes’ view, the guise of the good does come out as an uninformative tautology. If calling something good is expressing a desire for it, and by extension thinking something as good is having this desire, then “if we desire x, then x appears to us under the guise of the good” becomes the claim “if we desire x, then we desire x”. In this case, the thesis is trivialized.3

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On either interpretation, Hobbes is reversing the direction of explanation, posited by the guise of the good, from appearing good or evaluation to desiring. For Hobbes, either as a matter of the meaning of “good”, or as an analysis of what it is to think as good, it is desire that explains evaluation, and not the other way around. And this is sufficient for a rejection of the thesis, as pointed out in Chapter 1, and as illustrated already in the case of Spinoza—whether or not on Hobbes’ views the conditional stated by the guise of the good (as GG) could come out as true.4 In fact, Hobbes systematically presents the concept of goodness in terms of desire (whether as a subjectivist or a non-cognitivist), as he proceeds to radically reinterpret the traditional distinction we saw in Suárez between three types of goods (honestum, pleasant, and useful): [G]ood in the promise, that is pulchrum; good in effect, as the end desired, which is called jucundum, delightful; and good as the means, which is called utile, profitable. (1994: 29) [T]he same thing that, as desired, is said to be good [bona], is said to be pleasing [jucunda] as acquired; the thing that, as desired, is said to be good, is said to be pulchrum when contemplated. For pulchritudo is that quality in an object that makes one expect good from it. .  .  . Furthermore, the thing that, when desired, is called good, is, if desired for its own sake, called pleasing [jucunda]; and if for some other thing, it is called useful [utilis]. (De Homine, 11.5; in Hobbes 1991: 47–48)5 In other words, there is a generic meaning of “good” as “desired by me” or as expressing desire, which then articulates into (1) pulchrum (literally “beautiful”), when the satisfaction of desire is expected, or indicated by certain qualities of an object; (2) delightful or pleasant, when the desire is satisfed (and we know it); (3) useful, when an object is desired as a means. The pleasant is also the name for whatever is desired for its own sake. As can be seen, among these types, there is no room for the honestum (morally good, or good according to rational nature), which is “replaced” by the category of pulchrum. The point is not that, for Hobbes, people cannot turn their desires to what they judge as morally good, but rather the morally good is no longer one of the fundamental types of good. If one loves to do what is morally good, they will do so as long as doing so promises desire satisfaction (i.e. is pulchrum), or is pleasant, or is useful.6 Given the prominent role of the pleasant in this classification, it is tempting to interpret Hobbes as proposing a kind of hedonist view, whereby one can only desire something (for its own sake) under the guise of the pleasant. However, one should see that, if this were Hobbes’ view, then

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Hobbes could be counted within the guise of the good tradition. This is because, as suggested in Chapter 1, the good under whose guise one wants or intends something could be restricted to one specific type of good—as long as that does not coincide with “one’s own desire satisfaction”. While I take no conclusive stand on this, there are reasons to think that the “guise of the pleasant” need not be Hobbes’ view. First, in these passages, Hobbes is more concerned with the different names or terms of the good than with what the good we desire consists in. He is not actually saying that everyone desires pleasure for its own sake. Second, it seems that, for Hobbes, being pleasant is indeed understood as a function of being desired, and not the other way around. In Leviathan, Hobbes defines pleasure as the “appearance, or sense, of good” (1994: 29), just like the colours or sounds we perceive are the appearances of external objects, as they impact our sense organs: they are the phenomenological aspect of a given causal process. But “good” means “object of desire”, or anyway refers to what satisfies desire. Pleasure, then, is the appearance of an object of desire—the phenomenological aspect of desire: “all appetite, desire, and love is accompanied with some delight more or less; and all hatred and aversion, with more or less displeasure and offence” (ibid.). But then, if the notion of desire satisfaction explains the notion of pleasure, it will be an uninformative tautology to claim that “we can only desire that which appears pleasant to us”, because this simply means “we can only desire that which we desire”. Pleasure does not stand as an independent object of our desires, even though the anticipated or believed satisfaction of desire will be pleasant.7 It might also be tempting to ascribe to Hobbes an egoistic guise of the good in the light of passages such as these: “of the voluntary acts of every man the object is some good to himself” (1994: 82); “the proper object of every man’s will is some good to himself” (ibid: 166). As seen with Spinoza, the guise of the good would not be logically contradicted by an egoistic view of human desire. However, note that the subject matter here is what we will or what we voluntarily do, not desire per se. What Hobbes is claiming, then, is simply that the proper object of the will—that is, not of a special faculty, but of the “last appetite” immediately before action (1994: 33)8—is something that the agent desires or that contributes to her desire satisfaction.9 We shouldn’t read into these passages any reference to a desire-independent goodness. More in general, Hobbes can use language that resembles the guise of the good, for example, in his dispute with Bishop Bramhall: [I]f there come into the husband’s mind greater good by establishing than by abrogating such a vow [made by the wife], the establishing will follow necessarily; and if the evil that will follow thereon in the husband’s opinion outweigh the good, the contrary must needs follow. (Hobbes 1999: 17)

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But “good” and “evil” here have no desire-independent meaning, as Hobbes immediately glosses, “in this following of one’s hopes and fears consists the nature of election” (ibid., my emphasis; see also 1999: 37). What guides choice and will are such occurrent psychological states rather than an independent apprehension of good or evil as such. The reasons for Hobbes’ implicit rejection of the guise of the good then must be searched among his reasons for understanding “good” in a subjectivist (or non-cognitivist) way. What are those reasons? Hobbes explicitly embraces a mechanistic view of the mind, whereby what is fundamental is the motion of physical particles caused by the action of material objects. Desire is nothing but one such inner motion or “endeavour” (conatus), caused by some “fancy” or imagined object (itself an inner physical event), and directed towards the imagined object (Hobbes 1994: 27–28). There is no room for anything like goodness, or a yet unrealized end, as a final cause of our desires, because there is no room for causes which act through some other, non-physical kind of motion. As a direct attack on the Suárezian view described in Chapter 5, Hobbes claims: [T]he Schools find in mere appetite to go, or move, no actual motion at all; but because some motion they must acknowledge, they call it metaphorical motion, which is but an absurd speech; for though words may be called metaphorical, bodies and motions cannot. (1994: 28) If goodness as a fnal cause cannot infuence desire, there might—in principle—still be room for goodness as an ordinary, effcient cause to infuence desire. But here Hobbes’ empiricism plays a crucial role: we do not have any sensory experience of goodness or badness as such. The only related sensory experiences are desire (or aversion) and the accompanying pleasure (or displeasure).10 “Good” and “bad” then are only signs that we have come to use to refer to, or to express, states like desire and aversion. Therefore, there is no room for desires to be infuenced by a conception of good that is itself independent of desire.

Locke: An Empiricist Revision of the Guise of the Good Hobbes rejected the guise of the good and replaced it with a psychology of motivation where the inner motion of desire (accompanied by pleasure as its phenomenological counterpart) is the ultimate explanatory factor. The mechanistic picture, furthermore, suggested—or maybe even entailed— that what we voluntarily do causally results from the concentration of such inner motions into one, strongest, “last” desire: the will. Hobbes, coherently, sees this last desire as constituting a “last” value judgement to the effect that the action wanted is the best or the one best supported by reasons. He explicitly denies the possibility of akrasia—acting or willing

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against one’s better judgement, at least understood as the value judgement held at the time of acting or willing: [T]hough Medea saw many reasons to forbear killing her children, yet the last dictate of her judgment was that the present revenge on her husband outweighed them all, and thereupon the wicked action necessarily followed. (1999: 34–35; see also ibid.: 17, reported earlier)11 Note that, had Hobbes posited one’s own pleasure as the ultimate or dominant object of desire, he could have claimed that, sometimes, we may pursue what we know to be lesser pleasures (say, a feeting sexual satisfaction) at the cost of greater ones (longer-term peace of mind). His denial of akrasia is yet one more piece of evidence that it is desire satisfaction, and not pleasure per se, that holds centre stage. John Locke (1632–1704) was more alive to the possibility of akrasia, and this is, in part, because of a different conception of the relations between value, pleasure, and desire. Locke shares with Hobbes a general assumption of empiricism, whereby every idea is gotten from sensory experience, or else from reflection on, and abstraction from, ideas gotten from experience. Ideas of good and evil are therefore neither innate nor learned, as it were, from sensory acquaintance with entities like goodness or badness. He also shares the rejection of the Scholastic view of the will and the intellect not just as powers or abilities but as “real beings” which interact among each other—the intellect literally proposing something, the will literally commanding something, and so on (see Essay 2.21.6, 2.21.16–20).12 But both Locke’s notions of good and evil and, as a result, his philosophy of action appear significantly different from Hobbes’. Locke places the source of the core meaning of value terms not in desire, but in pleasure and pain: Things . . . are good or evil, only in reference to pleasure or pain. That we call good, which is apt to cause or increase pleasure, or diminish pain in us; or else to procure or preserve us the possession of any other good or absence of any evil. And, on the contrary, we name that evil, which is apt to produce or increase any pain, or diminish any pleasure in us; or else to procure us any evil, or deprive us of any good. (2.20.2; see also 2.21.42) The centrality of pleasure is held consistently across defnitions of different value terms. The aforementioned defnition regards what was then commonly called “natural good”. As regards “moral good”: Morally good and evil . . . is only the conformity or disagreement of our voluntary actions to some law, whereby good or evil is drawn on

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us, from the will and power of the law-maker; which good and evil, pleasure or pain, attending our observance or breach of the law by the decree of the law-maker, is that we call reward and punishment. (2.28.5)13 What is morally good (bad), then, is whatever action “has in store” natural good or evil (pleasure or pain) as a result of the action observing or violating a law set by some law-maker. Also in Locke, there is no separate category of honestum to characterize actions as somehow intrinsically good or bad. However, differently from Hobbes, Locke does retain a category of value that is quite independent of what each of us desires to do. Rewards and punishments are due to fall upon us whether we want it or not. If it is true that, in desire and intentional action, we are always pursuing the apparent good, then this is not an empty or tautological claim for Locke: it means that we are always pursuing some apparent pleasure or apparent cause thereof (or shunning some apparent pain or apparent cause thereof). Moreover, pleasure and pain for Locke are not to be understood in reference to desire satisfaction or frustration. Pleasure and pain are simple ideas that accompany practically every idea we get from the five senses or from reflection on other ideas: a certain taste feels pleasant or unpleasant; a certain job prospect feels or appears pleasant or not, and so on (2.7.1–2). And it is good and evil, that is, pleasure and pain, which in turn define the various passions, including desire (2.20). What we see in Locke, therefore, is a revision of the guise of the good in the context of an empiricist—in particular, hedonist—understanding of goodness. Desire and in turn preference and willing are explained as, at least partly, an effect of ideas of good and evil, understood as pleasure and pain, without which we should have no reason to prefer one thought or action to another; negligence to attention; or motion to rest. And so we should neither stir our bodies, nor employ our minds, but let our thoughts (if I may so call it) run adrift, without any direction or design, and suffer the ideas of our minds, like unregarded shadows, to make their appearances there, as it happened, without attending to them. In which state man, however furnished with the faculties of understanding and will, would be a very idle, unactive creature, and pass his time only in a lazy, lethargic dream. (2.7.3, my emphasis) The necessary role of good and evil (pleasure and pain) in motivation is even stressed as one of the few innate features of our mind: Nature, I confess, has put into man a desire of happiness and an aversion to misery: these indeed are innate practical principles which

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While it is possible to read this passage as stressing the ultimate explanatory role of a certain desire, it is in broader context better read as saying that wanting something qua good, that is, qua an apparent source of pleasure (happiness being “the utmost pleasure we are capable of”, 2.21.42), is a universal feature of human nature: “If it be farther asked,—What it is moves desire? I answer,—happiness, and that alone” (2.21.41). Thus, as the guise of the good requires, desire is not a self-standing attitude, but is responsive to independently given good or evil. It is not an empty claim for Locke to assert that “all good [is] the proper object of desire in general” (2.21.43). In fact, Locke leaves no room for exceptions to this “innate practical principle”: no action takes place without motivation by the good represented by happiness. What Locke does want to emphasize is that even if all good is the proper object of desire in general—that is, even if it is necessary that desire be directed at some apparent good—being an apparent good is not sufficient for something to get desire going. If a certain apparent good, that is apparent pleasure, is not seen by the agent as making up “a part of that happiness wherewith he, in his present thoughts, can satisfy himself” (2.21.43, my emphasis), then that apparent good will not motivate him, now, to do anything at all. The reason why lies in Locke’s doctrine of “uneasiness” as the immediate motivating factor: To return, then, to the inquiry, what is it that determines the will in regard to our actions? And that, upon second thoughts, I am apt to imagine is not, as is generally supposed, the greater good in view; but some (and for the most part the most pressing) uneasiness a man is at present under. This is that which successively determines the will, and sets us upon those actions we perform. This uneasiness we may call, as it is, desire; which is an uneasiness of the mind for want of some absent good. (2.21.31. See also 2.20.6; 2.21.36–37)15 Now, evil qua presently felt pain already is a state of uneasiness; therefore, in this sense, evil never fails to motivate for Locke. However, “absence of good is not always a pain, as the presence of pain is. And therefore absent good may be looked on and considered without desire” (2.21.31). Absent goods thus need to be presented in some appropriate way in order to activate the kind of pain or uneasiness that motivates us. Here is where happiness,

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as presently perceived, plays the central role: as Locke argues, “as much as whilst we are under any uneasiness, we cannot apprehend ourselves happy, or in the way to it” (2.21.36). Uneasiness and our view of present happiness are two faces of the same coin: to feel, at t1, uneasy about lack of some x is to see x as necessary to our own happiness at t1. Far from being a brute or random psychological occurrence, uneasiness tracks the sense of one’s own present happiness, that is, of one’s present good. What uneasiness does not track, however, is our judgement of what is the greater good or best for us. Here we return to the question of akrasia. For Locke, even though what we feel uneasiness about is something seen as good or as bad (i.e. as necessary or detrimental to our happiness), the intensity of uneasiness need not be proportionate to our comparative value judgements. In other words, uneasiness—even when it is the “most pressing” uneasiness (2.21.40)—does not require a judgement to the effect that the object of desire is the greatest good.16 Locke openly admits the reality of akrasia, understood as a state of judging x to be better than y, but either feeling no (or not strong enough) uneasiness in relation to the absence of x, hence not pursuing x, or feeling stronger uneasiness in relation to the absence of y than in relation to the absence of x, hence pursuing y rather than x. Locke provides several vivid examples: a poor person judging riches better than poverty, or a person judging virtue the greatest good, but either person feeling no uneasiness to move them towards pursuing riches or virtue; an alcoholic judging sobriety on practically all counts better than drinking, yet feeling the strongest uneasiness in relation to not drinking, hence continuing to drink (2.21.35). Another example is the everlasting happiness promised in the afterlife: even such an infinite good is insufficient as such to motivate people to the required conduct, unless one feels the good of eternal happiness as necessary to her present happiness, hence feels the required uneasiness in relation to her lack of it (2.21.37–38; see also 2.21.44).17 Matching states of uneasiness with our considered overall value judgements is no easy task, but this is exactly where, for Locke, freedom is to be found: we are, at least sometimes, free to suspend the course of our present particular desires or “uneasinesses”, and weigh their objects’ value—all their short- and long-term pros and cons, understood in hedonistic terms. The suspension of particular desires is not a miraculous suspension of psychological causality, but is itself an activity motivated by a present uneasiness, explained by our general desire for happiness: Whatever necessity determines to the pursuit of real bliss, the same necessity, with the same force, establishes suspence, deliberation, and scrutiny of each successive desire, whether the satisfaction of it does not interfere with our true happiness, and mislead us from it. (2.21.52, also 2.21.51)

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The result of this examination—the “last determination of the judgment” (2.21.52)—will presumably be a judgement both to the effect that, say, quitting drinking is, overall, the best thing to do and to the effect that quitting drinking is necessary to our true present happiness—the latter judgement being suffcient to generate uneasiness, as seen earlier, at least as long as it lasts.18 Be that as it may, the doctrine of uneasiness should not be taken to be incompatible with ascribing to Locke a version of the guise of the good. First, the guise of the good does not require that mere evaluation be sufficient for desire or other practical attitudes. Second, the thesis does not require a perfect match between the intensity of desires and the value judgements or appearances that are necessary to desire, especially because it does not require that desire and value judgement be one and the same thing. Even an advocate of the classical canon like Suárez, as seen in Chapter 5, allowed that acts of the will may be out of step with our overall value judgements. All that is required is that the agent see at least some (desire-independent) good in whatever she desires, and this is a condition that Locke’s view fully meets: uneasiness is a state felt in relation to the lack of something perceived as good (i.e. as contributing to one’s present happiness), even if not necessarily perceived as the greatest good. This applies even to the alcoholic’s case. Despite knowing that there is practically everything to be said against drinking (including, as Locke notes, the fact that if he keeps on drinking, one day he will remain even without the means to afford “his beloved drink”, 2.21.35), the alcoholic feels uneasy at the prospect of not drinking—drinking is, at that time, perceived as necessary to his present happiness, and in this sense good. So Locke can state that in all the particular actions that [a man] wills, he does, and necessarily does will that, which he then judges to be good . . . his will [is] always determined by that which is judged good by his understanding. (2.21.56) It is true that, in Locke, we find at least three important differences from the classical canon. First, appearing under the guise of the good no longer requires the application of a universal concept of goodness to what one wants; it suffices for something to appear pleasant, or to be perceived as necessary to one’s happiness. Second, relatedly, there is no longer a category distinction between the will as rational appetite and desire as a sensual appetite—a distinction that can be said to run (through various permutations) from Plato’s Republic to Aristotle, Aquinas, and all the way to Descartes. True, not all desires influence the will (see 2.21.30), and it is the will, but not desire, that commands actions (2.21.5), being thus more than just the last appetite as it was in Hobbes. But for Locke, willing or preferring something is a function of desire, rather than expressing

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some different part of our nature. Third, we find no talk of final causes attracting in magnet-like fashion an otherwise uncaused faculty of will. In Locke, actions are the result of ordinary processes of efficient causation, by which psychologically real “motives” (rather than yet non-existent or merely contemplated “ends”) “determine” (and not just “incline”) the will to pursue this or that. On the one hand, then, the differences are deep enough for the classical canon to be certainly left behind. On the other hand, though, the continuity—in particular, the idea that evaluation is a substantial, nontrivial necessary condition for desire—is significant enough for placing Locke among revisionists of the thesis rather than among opponents such as Spinoza and Hobbes. We should see Locke as proposing an empiricism-based robust (rather than moderate) revision of the guise of the good.19 It is no wonder that Locke concludes his discussion on these issues by explaining why so often we end up desiring and willing the wrong things (2.21.54–71). As expected of any advocate of (some version of) the guise of the good, Locke sees that the gap between the apparent good or evil and “the true intrinsic good or ill that is in things” (2.21.53), between what we want and what we should want, is a topic that requires special philosophical attention.20 In his framework, what needs explaining is why we feel uneasiness in relation to the lack of things which are, in fact, not necessary to our greater happiness. Notice however that, at an immediate level, agents do not get it wrong: desiring to remove any uneasiness is based on the correct judgement that present uneasiness undermines our present happiness. Our present good requires, indeed, getting rid of the most pressing present uneasiness: “Things in their present enjoyment are what they seem; the apparent and real good are, in this case, always the same” (2.21.58). Where we do go wrong is, rather, in (1) letting certain factors (in particular, certain passions) cause uneasiness in the first place, though not all such factors are under our control (2.21.57); (2) mistaking what contributes to our greater or future happiness (2.21.58–68); (3) preferring our present good to our acknowledged greater future good—this happens not by, perversely, preferring misery as such (2.21.62) but by failing to attach a sufficient degree of “relish” (mostly through appropriate habits) to the pursuit of our acknowledged greater good (2.21.69). In all these cases, our desires turn away from our greater happiness. In light of the nature and extent of our “mistakes in desire”, it seems fair to ascribe to Locke a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good. Here is the subjective element: our objects of desire appear, uniformly, under an evaluative, hedonic guise. As to the objective element: we cannot be misled so badly as to entirely miss out on what is valuable. First, what we seek is some portion of our own happiness, and our own happiness is, always, a real good for Locke. Second, at a certain

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level, every desire gets something right, because removing uneasiness is removing pain, and pain is evil. An objective element is anyway guaranteed both by our “constitution and frame” and, in the case of biologydriven uneasinesses, by a provident God (2.21.34).

The Guise of the Good and Early Modern Political Philosophy It will not be inappropriate to conclude this chapter by pointing out connections between Hobbes’ and Locke’s stances towards the guise of the good and their respective political philosophies—which after all occupy so much space in their work and legacy. Since the topic is potentially very vast, I will only make two tentative suggestions. First, there is a natural, though defeasible, connection between rejecting or significantly revising the guise of the good and proposing a social contract theory. The classical canon invited to see human beings—at least as far as their actions belong to their will—as tending towards a common objective: the good, qua what is agreeable to, or the perfection of, human nature. Of course, people adopt different conceptions of the good—some put riches before justice, some prefer bodily pleasures to virtue, and so on. However, partly through being made in the image of God, partly through an ultimately shared content of what is good for each, the possibility of radical divergence in desire was contained. In turn, interpersonal conflict of desires was not seen as a priority to be addressed, or at least not as the defining trait of social life.21 With Hobbes, the picture changes dramatically, arguably because of his view of desire. While there is a “similitude of passions, which are the same in all men, desire, fear, hope, &c”, there is very little convergence in “the objects of the passions, which are the things desired, feared, hoped, &c” (Hobbes 1994: 4). Absent a universal orientation towards a good that can satisfy each and all, conflict is the natural state of human societies.22 Something similar is true for Locke: while for him the good (qua my happiness) is prior to desire, it is still the case that “every one does not place his happiness in the same thing, or choose the same way to it” (2.21.54). Human beings appear to pursue radically different and conflicting goals, and at least for Hobbes, up to the point of being constantly at war with each other (Hobbes 1994: ch. 13). For both philosophers, the social contract emerges as the only or the best mechanism to address this predicament. Building on a minimum of shared desires that cannot be adequately satisfied in a “state of nature”—such as the desire that oneself and one’s property be secure—people are made (or imagined) to rationally agree on a given form of political power which will ensure satisfaction of those desires. Fast forward three centuries, we find a similar scenario played out in contemporary political philosophy. A philosopher like Joseph Raz, who defends the guise of the good in ways not too distant from the classical

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canon (e.g. Raz 2002a, 2010), has argued for what has been called perfectionist liberalism, whereby the authority of liberal institutions is grounded in their realizing and promoting a certain set of values, rather than in some notion of consent-based legitimacy (Raz 1986). On the other hand, we find, for example in John Rawls (1971), a combination between a view of a person’s good (in terms of what it is rational for me to want, given what else I already want) that is hardly serviceable to the guise of the good, and a theory of justice based on rational agreement along the lines of the social contract tradition.23 My second suggestion is that the further a theorist departs from the guise of the good, the closer they get to an absolutistic view of government, modulo their view of how intractable is the divergence among people’s desires in the pre-political condition. The Hobbesian state, whose power is almost unlimited, can thus be seen as the rational response to a condition of extremely intractable divergence. Locke, instead, who is classifiable as a revisionist, but not as an opponent of the guise of the good like Hobbes, and whose view of human conflict is not as dark as Hobbes’,24 favours a liberal outcome of the social contract. From my first suggestion, it doesn’t follow that advocates of the guise of the good do or should reject social contract theory. The idea is rather that the motivation for a view of political authority as grounded in a social contract is, for those who embrace the guise of the good, not as directly related to facts about human desires per se. Nor does it follow from my second suggestion that embracing the guise of good is sufficient for favouring non-absolutistic forms of government. In fact, philosophers historically operating within the classical canon were not especially friendly to democratic forms of government. The suggestion only goes the other way: if you reject the guise of the good, and take the Hobbesian view of conflict, you are likelier to embrace a social contract view whose outcome sits closer to an authoritarian than to a liberal-democratic form of government.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have explored two different empiricist reactions to the classical canon: Hobbes’ rejection, and Locke’s robust revision. It is fair to say that Locke’s hedonistic revisions made a new version of the guise of the good available to future generations of philosophers, who were otherwise going to be very distant from the Aristotelian-Scholastic milieu of the classical canon. With Hobbes, instead, we see an even more pronounced departure (than in Spinoza) from the model of agency proposed by the guise of the good, and the beginnings of a purely psychologistic account, whereby the agent’s evaluation is at best an accessory and at worst an illusory component of intentional action.

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Notes 1. “Contempt” here is better understood as a form of conscious, active indifference towards something rather than as an attitude of avoiding or disliking something. 2. This problem applies as well to less crude subjectivist views, whereby “x is good” means “I would desire x under certain conditions”. And infinite regress looms in, as soon as one applies the guise of the good to desiring x under certain conditions. 3. There is room for such a non-cognitivist reading, as the language of the passions is for Hobbes typically “imperative” or “optative” (Hobbes 1994: 34). For an up-to-date discussion of Hobbes’ metaethics, including references to older classics in Hobbes scholarship, see Abizadeh (2018: ch. 1). On the more general issue of whether the guise of the good is compatible with non-cognitivism, see Orsi (2018). 4. As argued in the previous chapter, Spinoza may indeed accept the letter of the guise of the good, rather than semantically trivialize it or reject even its letter like Hobbes does. It remains the case that “good” plays no more an independent explanatory role vis-à-vis desire or will in Spinoza than it does in Hobbes. For a comparison between Hobbes and Spinoza on related points, see Rutherford (2012). 5. Note that Leviathan is in English (hence in the aforementioned quote, Hobbes mixes English and Latin), while De Homine is in Latin. 6. See Olsthoorn (2020) for a recent detailed discussion. In De Homine, the term “honesty” is in fact repurposed to indicate not a moral kind of goodness, but pulchritudo when it is a quality of actions (Hobbes 1991: 47–48). In the same work (ibid.: 48–54), Hobbes illustrates how his three categories apply to several non-moral goods and evils. Hobbes’ substantive theory of moral good is arguably to be found in the “laws of nature” enumerated in chapters 14 and 15 of Leviathan. Of course, conceptually speaking, following such laws can only be good in some of the three senses, presumably as useful: laws of nature are after all “theorems concerning what conduceth to the conservation and defence” of oneself (Hobbes 1994: 100). Alternatively, what is morally good (or, more narrowly, morally obligatory) is what conforms to the laws enforced by the sovereign. See the idea of a “common rule” of good “in a commonwealth”, in the aforementioned quote (1994: 28–29). But, again, obedience to the state’s laws is also, and more fundamentally, good in a non-moral sense, as what is recommended by the enlightened egoism of a state’s subjects. See parts 2 and 3 in Abizadeh (2018). 7. See Abizadeh (2018: 146 and ff.) for a thorough discussion. Notice also that Hobbes defines “felicity” as relative to desire satisfaction: “Continual success in obtaining those things which a man from time to time desireth, that is to say, continual prospering, is that men call FELICITY” (1994: 34). This definition suggests the centrality of desire satisfaction, rather than pleasure as such. We are happy when our desires are continually satisfied—we feel pleasure as a phenomenological concomitant of that. 8. Will can still be called a “rational appetite”, in the sense that what we will— our last desire before action—is what we desire following deliberation or reasoning from other desires (1994: 33). But deliberation is a cognitively light affair for Hobbes, as not only young children but even “bees and spiders” are capable of it (Hobbes 1999: 19). Nor does the process of deliberation actually have to take place before each voluntary action (ibid.: 37). See Blau (2016).

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9. In these and similar passages, Hobbes may also be stressing that what we desire is always desired for our own sake, and not for others’. But see Bernard Gert’s Introduction to Hobbes (1991) for an argument that Hobbes is not a psychological egoist. 10. “[T]here is no conception in a man’s mind which hath not at first, totally or by parts, been begotten upon the organs of sense” (1994: 6). 11. This last dictate belongs to “judgement” in the sense that a judgement expressing the last desire may, indeed, be formulated in evaluative terms. Also, detecting the factual consequences of one’s action is an act of judgement or understanding (or better “imagination”, in Hobbes’ preferred terms). But it is not as if Hobbes is attributing motivating force to the last value judgement as something independent from the last desire (see 1999: 20–21: since the last dictate of judgement is the “last part” of the total cause of a voluntary action, then the last dictate is the will itself). Moreover, the context is Hobbes responding to the Scholastic-influenced Bishop Bramhall, and often Hobbes casts his own answers using Bramhall’s own terminology. I disagree here with Abizadeh (2018: 70–71). 12. Unless otherwise noted, all subsequent Locke references are to An Essay Concerning Human Understanding—first published in 1689—by book, chapter, and section number, as they appear in Locke (1975). I have removed emphasis and modernized capitalization, punctuation, and (occasionally) spelling. 13. Specifically moral laws are, for Locke, set by God (2.28.8). 14. Note that this “principle” is a psychological mechanism, not an idea. No ideas are innate for Locke. 15. “Upon second thoughts”: in the first edition of the Essay, Locke had held that the will always follows judgements of the greater good. See LoLordo (2021) for useful commentary on the development of Locke’s views, as well as for Locke’s guise of the good. 16. When the will is determined by this or that uneasiness, however, we do settle on an action as the thing to do: “an action of willing this or that always follows a judgement of the understanding by which a man judges this to be better for here or now” (Correspondence, vol. 7, letter 2979, in Locke 1982: 410). See Glauser (2014), Walsh (2018), LoLordo (2021). But this momentary judgement may sit side by side, and conflict, with our “better” judgement that, overall, this action does not serve our greater good. Akrasia appears to be a conflict of evaluative judgements in Locke as it does in Davidson (1980a, 1980b). Davidson calls them respectively “all-out judgement” and “all things considered judgement”. At any rate, the presence of a distinctive value judgement in willing only strengthens the case for viewing Locke as proposing a version of the guise of the good. 17. Locke’s explanation has the implication that the akratic must feel, at the time of acting, relatively contented or at ease with respect to the lack of the acknowledged greater good—if she felt thoroughly uneasy about the lack, she would pursue the acknowledged greater good. For recent discussions, see Moauro and Rickless (2019), Leisinger (2020). 18. But suspension is not guaranteed to point us towards true happiness—our examination may be “hasty and precipitate” (2.21.52). Nor is it clear how the last determination of judgement will keep holding sway going forward. 19. Locke sometimes describes good itself as active: “[G]ood, though appearing and allowed never so great, yet till it has raised desires in our minds, and thereby made us uneasy in its want, it reaches not our wills; we are not within the sphere of its activity” (2.21.46). On the one hand, “good” here only stands for thoughts about pleasure or happiness. On the other hand,

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21.

22.

23.

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Empiricism it is telling that Locke is drawn to employ, albeit as shorthand or metaphor, language that is usually taken at face value within the classical canon. Also an opponent of the guise of the good like Hobbes can (and does) distinguish between real and apparent good (see Martinich 1995: 129). But the gap is, conceptually, narrower. If all desire presents me with is a notion of good and bad relative to my desires, then what is actually good for me can only be a function of what best satisfies the desires I happen to have. See Darwall (1995: 3–7). It has been argued, however, that by the end of the 16th century also advocates of the classical canon manifest pessimism about any metaphysically guaranteed social harmony (see Skinner 1978, vol. 2: 158–166). Moreover, Hobbes’ definition of “felicity” as relative to the desire satisfaction of each implies the ever-standing possibility that my happiness comes at the cost of yours. Here one difference from Spinoza must be noticed. For Spinoza there is, prior to any socially engineered solution, an individually available path away from conflict and towards the happiness (beatitudo) of each and all: an adequate understanding of ourselves as not more than modifications of a bigger metaphysical substance. The role of political institutions is, ultimately, to promote this intellectual path to happiness (see Steinberg 2019 for an introduction to Spinoza’s complex political philosophy). Some caveats are needed. First, Raz does not deny deep diversity among values held by people—that is partly why the best institutions have to be liberal. Second, Rawls’ focus is on justifying principles of justice rather than political authority broadly understood. Third, Rawls’ notion of good is not purely subjectivistic like Hobbes’. Still, it does seem that “on rational-desire accounts of goodness, the goodness of something, or our perception of its goodness, does not explain the desire for it or account for the rationality of desiring it” (Weithman 2015: 830). Locke explicitly contrasts state of nature and state of war in chapter 3 of his Second Treatise of Government (Locke 1988).

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The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant

Introduction Probably due to their rather different philosophical backgrounds, Kant does, but Hume doesn’t, explicitly address the guise of the good as the classical canon understood it. In this chapter, I will first argue that, contrary to some widespread interpretations, Hume appears committed to some non-trivial version of the thesis, duly revised as per his empiricist, and in particular sentimentalist view of evaluation. Then I show how Kant’s own reformulation of the thesis is meant to break with tradition, and connects to central themes in his moral philosophy. Both philosophers, in summary, put forward robust revisions to the classical canon without abandoning the thesis. I conclude with a look at their respective attitudes on the possibility of acting for the sake of badness.

Hume: A Sentimentalist Guise of the Good If the argument of the previous chapter holds, then Hobbes and Locke represent two opposed empiricist reactions to the classical canon of the guise of the good. But it can be argued that a third way emerges with the later generation of empiricists, exemplified by David Hume (1711– 1776). Hume is sometimes interpreted as an opponent of the guise of the good because of his dictum, “reason is, and ought to be, the slave of the passions” (T 2.3.3.4).1 Reason, for Hume, encompasses the formation of beliefs about matters of fact (or beliefs about relations among ideas). But reason, in this sense, is not sufficient to motivate action. Our beliefs need to inform us about things we antecedently desire (or are averse to) in order for them to have any practical influence. On this picture, for example, beliefs about sources of pleasure or pain inform us about something we antecedently care about (pleasure and pain), and therefore motivate us because our desire for pleasure and aversion to pain motivate us. There seems no room, here, for a notion of good and evil to play a role in motivation independent of desire.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-8

106 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant However, this is a hasty conclusion, because for Hume, there is a lot to be said about the nature and structure of desires, as well as of other passions—most of Book 2 of his Treatise is precisely devoted to that. Plenty of passages suggest that, for Hume, ideas of good and evil are causally necessary conditions for desires and aversions, where, like for Locke, good and evil stand for pleasure and pain: Nature has implanted in the human mind a perception of good or evil, or in other words, of pain and pleasure, as the chief spring and moving principle of all its actions. (T 1.3.10.2) When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of them into direct and indirect. By direct passions I understand such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. (T 2.1.1.4) ’Tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, are founded on pain and pleasure, and that in order to produce an affection of any kind, ’tis only requisite to present some good or evil. The impressions, which arise from good and evil most naturally, and with the least preparation are the direct passions of desire and aversion. . . . The mind by an original instinct tends to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the evil, tho’ they be conceiv’d merely in idea, and be consider’d as to exist in any future period of time. (T 2.3.9.1–2) Desire arises from good consider’d simply, and aversion is deriv’d from evil. The will exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the evil may be attain’d by any action of the mind or body. (T 2.3.9.7) Desire is involved with good even in those cases where we would deem the desire somehow inappropriate, albeit not “contrary to reason” as in Hume’s famous claims: ’Tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my own acknowledg’d lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from the greatest and most valuable enjoyment. (T 2.3.3.6, my emphasis) What is noteworthy about all these statements about the relation between desire and the good is, frst, that Hume does not feel it necessary to argue

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for them. At least in part, this is because he took the general terms for granted: “Many theorists in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries agreed on certain central features. Passions are modifcations of the mind (or soul) that occur on the apprehension of something good, evil, or novel” (McIntyre 2006: 200). Second, Hume clearly does not want to reduce the concepts “good” and “evil” to the concepts “object of desire” and “object of aversion”. The concepts of good and evil are supposed to explain the nature of desire and aversion, and thus to be understandable independent of desire and aversion. If, as Hume says, they stand for pleasure and pain, then Hume also holds, implicitly, that pleasure and pain are not themselves to be reduced to desire satisfaction and desire frustration, otherwise the explanation of desire and aversion would move in a circle. This point, which Hume arguably inherits from Locke, is a necessary step towards some version of the guise of the good, and away from a view like Hobbes’. Before going further, we should notice a point on which Hume seems to diverge from Locke. If the latter posited the state of uneasiness as a causally necessary condition for motivation, on top of any idea of good or bad, Hume appears to deny the need for any such extra felt element. Impressions of pleasure or pain are not always required for motivation; beliefs about existent or expected good and bad are quite sufficient for desire: Did impressions alone influence the will, we should every moment of our lives be subject to the greatest calamities; because, tho’ we foresaw their approach, we should not be provided by nature with any principle of action, which might impel us to avoid them . . . we find by experience, that the ideas of those [good or evil] objects, which we believe either are or will be existent, produce in a lesser degree the same effect with those impressions, which are immediately present to the senses and perception. (T 1.3.10.2) If we take these passages at face value, then Hume holds that even if reason is the slave of the passions—understood as the claim that the products of reason, namely beliefs, need some desire in order to motivate—still there is a simple guise of the good story to be told about the passion of desire: the object of desire is represented as good qua pleasant or qua productive of pleasure.2 For example: if I want to drink a cup of tea, this is because I believe that drinking a cup of tea will be pleasant. The belief alone, without the desire to drink a cup of tea, will do nothing to make me drink the cup of tea. But the desire just cannot exist without the belief. Opponents to this interpretation are likely to challenge it in three ways. First, they might hold that Hume must posit a background, overarching

108 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant desire for pleasure, and aversion to pain, which ultimately explain all particular desires, and which cannot in turn be understood as caused by some representation of pleasure or pain in general as good or bad, because this would amount to an odd idea of pleasure as pleasant or pain as painful. Hume seems to refer to such a desire when talking about “the general appetite to good, and aversion to evil, consider’d merely as such” (T 2.3.3.8).3 However, it is not clear that Hume means to refer to an overarching desire somehow explaining our particular desires. In that context, Hume means rather to contrast the class of desires based on a view of our own overall good (the “general appetite to good”) with the class of desires focused on a pleasure or pain to be had or avoided here and now: “When I am immediately threaten’d with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions rise to a great height” (T 2.3.3.9, my emphasis). The former desires are “calm”, and therefore barely perceptible, passions, the latter are “violent” ones, but the two do not fundamentally differ in the way required for the “general appetite to good” to play an overarching role: “Beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are certain violent emotions of the same kind” (ibid., my emphasis). A desire for one’s good “consider’d merely as such” is indeed based on the agent’s consideration of her good and bad no less than an aversion for an immediate evil.4 Second, it can be argued that for Hume something like taste—broadly understood—ultimately determines what we find pleasant or painful, and therefore what we take to be good or bad. And since taste is an arbitrary or brute psychological disposition (even if some tastes may be universally shared), ultimately for Hume desire is not really determined by evaluation as the guise of the good would have it.5 However, there is no incompatibility between the guise of the good and such an account of the ultimate source of evaluation. Even for someone like Aquinas, as seen, bodily appetites can be and regularly are sources of objects for the will. In these cases, the intellect brands actions as good, and proposes them to the will, mostly or purely by the influence of the bodily appetite. But qua objects of the will, they are on a par with objects judged to be good on the basis of reason. The guise of the good allows for considerable promiscuity in the aetiology of evaluative thoughts or appearances, as long as evaluation as such is not reduced to desire—to the very state or attitude it is supposed to shed light on. Third, it might seem that the guise of the good is incompatible with Hume’s non-cognitivist or sentimentalist account of value judgements. According to a widespread interpretation, Hume argued from the sufficient influence of value judgements (but, in particular, judgements of moral good and evil) on our will to the conclusion that value judgements must be, or express, mental states which do have such sufficient influence on the will, namely some passion, rather than be the product of reason

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(T 3.1.1.5–6). And if by passion here Hume means, principally, a desire, then the guise of the good gets things backwards: it is desire that explains value judgement, like Hobbes or Spinoza would have claimed. One kind of answer clearly won’t do here, namely to say that Hume holds the guise of the good for non-moral motivation, but not for moral motivation. I take this answer to be a reductio of any guise of the good interpretation of Hume: moral motivation is, arguably, a paradigmatic case of motivation by apparent value. A better answer, I believe, is that the anti-rationalist argument in T 3.1.1 doesn’t yet tell us what moral judgement is for Hume. His positive view, as emerges in later sections of the Treatise, builds on the ideas that (1) a “peculiar” pleasure is necessary in judgements of moral good (and an analogous pain in judgements of moral evil) (T 3.1.2), and that (2) such pleasure and pain in the judger are the result of a transfer by sympathy from the subjects (believed or even merely imagined to be) affected, positively or negatively, by a certain action, motive, or character trait (T 3.3.1). The sympathy-begotten pleasure or pain which constitutes, or at least accompanies, moral judgement then operates motivationally on us, that is, generates desire, like pleasure and pain generally do, albeit differently from the expected pleasure model—otherwise moral motivation would be at bottom self-interested. Here we notice another difference from Locke, for whom motivation is always motivation by my apparent good, not least because removing my present uneasiness must appear as my good here and now. Humean moral motivation by sympathy-begotten pleasure or pain, by contrast, is motivation by a pleasant or painful impression (rather than by a belief about own pleasure or pain) that arises from consideration of someone else’s good or evil. In other words, with Hume, someone else’s good can be one possible guise under which we desire something, either directly as in benevolent affections (unmediated by sympathy) or indirectly as part of the process in which we get to be motivated by moral judgement.6 While these challenges do not undermine a guise of the good reading of Hume, he does acknowledge desires that constitute a rather different class of motives: Beside good and evil, or in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections. (T 2.3.9.8) Taking this passage at face value, Hume would appear to claim that many or most desires arise under the guise of the good, but some do not, and arise rather from “unaccountable” natural instincts. He possibly

110 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant includes in this class also desires arising from “certain instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children” (T 2.3.3.8). All these desires “produce good and evil”, in the sense that their satisfaction produces pleasure (and their frustration pain), as he elsewhere explains: [T]here are mental passions, by which we are impelled immediately to seek particular objects, such as fame, or power, or vengeance, without any regard to interest; and when these objects are attained, a pleasing enjoyment ensues, as the consequence of our indulged affections. .  .  . In all these cases, there is a passion, which points immediately to the object, and constitutes it our good or happiness; as there are other secondary passions, which afterwards arise, and pursue it as a part of our happiness, when once it is constituted such by our original affections. (EPM Appendix 2.12) In these cases, it is the passion itself that “constitutes” the object of desire as our good rather than any prior evaluation of the object relative to our good: if the object is seen as good, it is because we desire it, and not the other way around. I believe, however, that on closer inspection, Hume can still be interpreted as largely agreeing with the guise of the good. The first thing to note is that these desires are a motley crew. The only aspect that keeps them together is that the agent need not be expecting any pleasure (or pain avoidance) for herself from pursuing such objects. But evaluation in some form or other is present in most of these desires. Benevolence and the desire of happiness to our friends are altruistic motives that depend on some recognition of others’ good and bad (others’ pleasure and pain) and, in the second case, also on an evaluation of a person as our friend. The same, mutatis mutandis, applies to resentment, the desire of punishment to our enemies, and the desire for vengeance. The desire for fame and power are trickier, but fame seems to depend on other people’s positive evaluation of us, and knowing or even just imagining this evaluation is bound, by sympathy, to give us pleasure, that is, to appear good to us, quite apart from any benefit we hope to gain from being famous (see T 2.1.11). Power (as attached to wealth or authority) is, for Hume, a feature of ourselves alongside virtue and beauty which we are directly proud about, and therefore something whose mere consideration gives us immediate pleasure, even if, like the miser, we do not plan to reap any benefits from its use. What counts is that “we acquire an ability of procuring pleasure” for ourselves (T 2.1.10.4). The remaining items on Hume’s lists are bodily appetites, the love of life, and kindness to children. Again, the common factor is that, when these passions are operative, we pursue the respective objects of desire

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“instinctively”, that is, without calculating any benefit for ourselves. For example, love of life makes me flee certain perceived dangers without evaluating them as bad for me, or without evaluating my own life as worth saving. I believe that the natural response is to concede that the guise of the good may not extend to exactly all desires; in particular, some hard-wired desires that humans substantially share with other animals may well fall out of the intended scope of the thesis.7 If so, then “unaccountable” desires on the whole do not threaten the present interpretation of Hume as proposing a pleasure-based (but not self-centred) guise of the good: explicitly for most types of desires, and implicitly for a few others where expectation of our own future good is not the focus of desire, but evaluation is nonetheless involved in the form of pleasant or painful responses. In summary, Hume should be seen as proposing not a rejection, but at most a robust revision of the thesis—and, unlike in Hobbes or Spinoza, there is no direct or indirect evidence that Hume saw himself as abandoning this particular article of the Scholastic and rationalist traditions he otherwise so fiercely opposes.

Kant and the Old Formula Back on the Continent, after Descartes, the guise of the good seems, in some form or other, to largely survive radical criticism like Hobbes’ or Spinoza’s.8 But by the time it comes to the attention of Immanuel Kant (1724–1804)—laying aside Scholastic authors who remain loyal to the classical canon—the “old formula of the schools” (as Kant somewhat disparagingly addresses it in the Critique of Practical Reason, 1788) has become a rather ambiguous theoretical construct that Kant manifests dissatisfaction about. In particular, the revisions brought about by continental post-Cartesian philosophers went in the direction of relating, even if not reducing, the “good” to the agent’s pleasure, not too differently from what had occurred, in a straightforward and self-conscious manner, with Locke. For example, Nicolas Malebranche (1638–1715) defines the will as the God-sustained “impression or natural impulse that carries us toward general and indeterminate good” (Malebranche 1997: 5). The object of the will is the universal good, like in the classical canon, and therefore only something that “contains all good” (for Malebranche, God) can adequately satisfy this impulse. However, what we actually will—the particular goods we settle on—is hedonically determined by what pleases us or seems to do so (ibid.: 288). For Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), “our souls (by virtue of the laws of spiritual nature) can only be moved by some reason of good or evil” (“Notes on King” §3, in Leibniz 1985), and (in the Theodicy, 1710) “the effort to act in accordance with the judgement [of good] . . .

112 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant forms the essence of the will” (Leibniz 1985: §311). Leibniz also provides an argument of sorts for the guise of the good—interestingly linking the notions of good and “inclining reason” for action: “[I]t would be a great defect, or rather a manifest absurdity . . . if [men] were capable of acting without any inclining reason” (ibid.: §45). But the agent’s sensibility is part and parcel of how the will operates, because it makes some representation of good “prevail” or “preponderate” over opposite representations (ibid.), as for example when the pleasure of caprice makes us choose a course of action otherwise acknowledged to be bad.9 Finally, there are the formulations by Kant’s more immediate predecessors.10 Christian Wolff (1679–1754), in his Psychologia Empirica (1738), writes: “This proposition is the law of the appetite: whatever we represent to ourselves as good for ourselves, we desire [appetimus] it” (Wolff 1968: § 904, my emphasis).11 In his Metaphysics (1757), Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten (1714–1762) writes: This is the law of the faculty of desire: I make an effort to produce those things that I foresee as pleasing and I anticipate will exist through my effort. .  .  . Hence, I can desire many good things and many evil things under the aspect of the good. (Baumgarten 2013: § 665, my emphasis) Not only has “the good” become ambiguously close to referring, directly or indirectly, to the agent’s pleasure. For Kant, even the direction of explanation traditionally proposed in the thesis is no longer clear, so that he needs to point out two possible readings of the dictum “nihil appetimus, nisi sub ratione boni; nihil aversamur, nisi sub ratione mali [we desire nothing except under the guise of the good; we are averse to nothing except under the guise of the bad]”12: [T]he expression sub ratione boni [under the guise/aspect of the good] is also ambiguous. For it may mean: we represent to ourselves something as good when and because we desire (will) it, or also: we desire something because we represent it to ourselves as good, so that either desire is the determining ground of the concept of the object as a good, or the concept of the good is the determining ground of desire (of the will); so in the first case sub ratione boni would mean, we will something under the idea of the good; in the second, we will something in consequence of this idea, which must precede volition as its determining ground. (CPrR 5:59 fn.)13 Having thus clarifed that the thesis must adopt the second reading of sub ratione boni (like in our GG+), Kant goes on to dismiss an hedonist (and egoist) understanding of the guise of the good, where bonum stands

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for the German das Wohl (well-being) and malum for das Übel (ill-being) or Weh (woe): “[T]he above psychological proposition is at least very doubtful if it is translated: we desire nothing except with a view to our well-being or woe” (CPrR 5:60). However, identifying a non-hedonic sense of bonum and malum—the German equivalents being das Gute and das Böse—is only the first step towards a proper understanding of the relation between will and good. Kant steers away from the classical canon as much as from any hedonistic revision of it. In the classical canon, the good (understood as an action or a state of affairs sub ratione boni) is assigned to the will as its proper object, as it were, from outside the will itself. To be sure, as Suárez insisted, the will attaches itself only to objects that are (taken as) suitable to us or sharing something of our rational or sensual nature— objects qua desirable for us rather than just generically good. But such harmony is a feature extrinsic to our will: it is the result of a teleologically organized nature, whether planned by God or not. The will tends to the apparent good for exactly the same reason that heavy objects tend to fall to the ground. For Kant, this means that the classical canon describes the will as heteronomous: guided or directed by something other than itself; and this holds no matter what advocates of the canon may have said about the will’s power, as a free cause, to elicit its own acts. Heteronomy, in turn, is incompatible with autonomy: the capacity of the will to guide or direct by giving laws to itself. In Kant’s words, autonomy is “the property of the will by which it is a law to itself (independently of any property of the objects of volition)” (G 4:440, my emphasis). In the classical canon, the will of course can issue commands to itself and to the rest of the soul: but issuing commands does not amount to legislating for itself. Moreover, such commands are strictly dependent on, or derived from, the (perceived) goodness of the objects of volition. In sum, the classical canon cannot capture the will at its best: as an autonomous power. This argument against the classical canon, to be sure, remains somewhat implicit in Kant. But it meshes with Kant’s programme for a moral theory ultimately grounded in the will’s autonomy rather than in any external value the will must pursue, or any given “natural law” the will must comply with. Previous philosophers sought an object of the will in order to make it into the matter and the ground of a law (which was thus to be the determining ground of the will not immediately but rather by means of that object referred to the feeling of pleasure or displeasure),14 whereas they should first have searched for a law that determined the will a priori and immediately, and only then determined the object conformable to the will. Now, whether they placed this object of pleasure, which was to yield the supreme concept of good, in happiness, in perfection, in

114 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant moral feeling, or in the will of God, their principle was in every case heteronomy. (CPrR 5:64) In other words, if the will is not understood as capable of autonomy, Kant’s moral theory cannot get off the ground. Breaking with the classical canon (as well as with its hedonistic revision) is thus key to Kant’s “Copernican revolution” in ethics. Abandoning the classical canon leaves two interpretive options: either Kant rejects the guise of the good altogether, or he (moderately or robustly) revises the classical canon. The first option is initially supported by a reading of Kant’s moral psychology which distinguishes between motives based on “inclinations”, and for that reason, evaluation-free, and motives based on the autonomy of the will, whereby we represent an action as conform to a self-given law and thus, to that extent, as (morally) good. If our motives are dual in this way, then the guise of the good cannot be a necessary condition on our desiring or wanting something. This dualistic interpretation of Kant, incidentally, echoes the dualistic reading of Plato’s Republic, with its alleged separation between non-good-involving desires of the non-rational parts of the soul, and the good-involving desires of the rational part, as seen in Chapter 2. Against this interpretation, however, stands a widespread view in Kantian scholarship known as the Incorporation Thesis: acting from inclination, or indeed from any incentive or motive, for free rational beings, appears to be only possible if we “incorporate” the incentive into a maxim, or into a principle for action.15 This is what Kant says: [F]reedom of the power of choice has the characteristic, entirely peculiar to it, that it cannot be determined to action through an incentive except so far as the human being has incorporated it into his maxim (has made it into a universal rule for himself, according to which he wills to conduct himself); only in this way can an incentive, whatever it may be, coexist with the absolute spontaneity of the power of choice (of freedom). (R 6:23–24) Now, incorporation of an incentive into a maxim seems to carry along an evaluation of the object of the incentive as good. Here is why. Incorporation means that the will is, as it were, activated, as Kant defnes the will (Wille) as the “ability to act in accordance with the representation of laws . . . [or] . . . in accordance with principles” (G 4:412). Furthermore, the notions of law and good—here in a generic sense of “good”—are intrinsically connected: Every practical law represents a possible action as good. .  .  . If the action would be good merely as means to something else, the

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imperative is hypothetical; if the action is represented as good itself . . . then it is categorical. (G 4:414) It follows that, for free rational beings, acting on any motive involves at least a generic evaluation, even when this may be driven, heteronomously, by das Wohl (well-being) rather than by das Gute (the good) in the moral sense. So, rather than say that evaluation is present only in motivation of the moral kind, it seems one should say that, for Kant, the apparent good pervades motivation, as long as it is guided by maxims. It follows that, if the guise of the good interpretation of Kant is to rest on the Incorporation Thesis, then one should restrict its scope to what we will as free rational beings, as opposed to what human beings merely desire. Desire and the will are not the same. The faculty of desire as such is defined as “the capacity to be by means of one’s representations the cause of the objects of these representations” (MM 6:211, also CPrR 5:9 fn.). When I desire to drink this cup of tea, I am moved to be the cause of my drinking this cup of tea—that is, moved to make my representation (me drinking this cup of tea) come true. This is a purely functional definition of desire, in fact, one applicable to all living (or sentient) beings. Moreover, pleasure and displeasure are always associated with desire as either causing it or following its satisfaction (or frustration) (ibidem).16 Thus far, the good doesn’t make an appearance. But the will requires more than this basic capacity of desire: “The capacity for desire whose inner determining ground, hence even what pleases it, lies within the subject’s reason is called the will” (MM 6:214). When I will or choose to drink this cup of tea, I incorporate my desire to drink the cup of tea into a maxim, and as a result, I regard my action as good: as conforming to some law or at least some principle of action. Moreover, this restriction in scope appears confirmed by the restatement of the “old formula” that Kant eventually endorses. The formula “we desire nothing except under the guise of the good; we are averse to nothing except under the guise of the bad” is “indubitably certain and at the same time quite clearly expressed” when “rendered: we will nothing under the direction of reason except insofar as we hold it to be good [gut] or evil [böse]” (CPrR 5:60). What is noteworthy are the two shifts from well-being/woe to good/bad, and from “we desire” to “we will” (wir begehren vs. wir wollen), plus the qualification “under the direction of reason”. However, it is not entirely clear whether, given Kant’s concept of will described earlier, this qualification is just a pleonasm—if we will something, then the capacity of desire is by definition under the direction of reason—or whether Kant uses it to further restrict the guise of the good only to cases of, as it were, successful direction, that is, government, by reason; that is, cases where our maxim is indeed one that conforms to the categorical imperative, one that can be a universal law. If the “success”

116 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant reading is the correct one, then Kant would be rejecting the guise of the good, or at least changing the subject: because Kant would be only saying that the good will presents its objects as good. As explained in Chapter 1, the guise of the good, as understood here and in the tradition, is neither a normative thesis (as in: “the good is what we should desire”) nor a description of morally worthy agency.17 The “success” reading of Kant’s qualification entails that, when our will does not match the categorical imperative, we need not be acting under any guise of the good. In other words, on this view, there is a wedge between the Incorporation Thesis seen earlier and the guise of the good: acting on a maxim is not sufficient for acting on an evaluative or normative representation. While I think this may be a viable reading, an obstacle against it is Kant’s apparent readiness to describe immoral wills, for example those governed by “self-conceit”, as involving mistaken law-making: This propensity to make oneself, as having subjective determining grounds of choice, into the objective determining ground of the will in general can be called self-love; and if self-love makes itself lawgiving and the unconditional practical principle, it can be called self-conceit. (CPrR 5:74) It should be evident that when self-love “makes itself lawgiving”, then we have something like a misguided exercise of the autonomy of the will. Given the connection between laws and good, it follows that the selfconceited agent must act according to some evaluative representation, for example, ranking oneself as more valuable than anyone or anything else. This, of course, does not show that we always act according to some evaluative representation. However, this same passage also says that selflove involves making oneself, that is, one’s own happiness, “an objective determining ground of the will”. But an objective determining ground is tantamount to a practical law (CPrR 5:19). So, even when self-love falls short of self-conceit, it tends to present itself as a law. Given, again, the connection between laws and good, it is hard to resist the inference that also self-love involves a representation of oneself, or one’s own happiness, as valuable, albeit leaving it open whether such value is conditional on conformity to the moral law (and then it is “rational self-love”, CPrR 5:73) or unconditional (as in self-conceit). In turn, if self-love and the moral law exhaust all the possible apparent “objective determining grounds of the will”, then it follows that, for Kant, all exercises of the will under an apparent objective determining ground occur under the guise of the good. This view offers a new angle to Kant’s restatement of the old formula. By the phrase “willing under the direction of reason”, Kant neither would

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be applying his restatement exclusively to the good will nor would this be a mere pleonasm. Willing something under the direction of reason would instead be tantamount to willing it under an apparent law, that is, under a determining ground rightly or wrongly regarded as objective—thus excluding from the scope of the restated thesis those exercises of the will which are determined by grounds the agent regards merely as subjective.18 On this interpretation, then, Kant can accept that mistaken uses of the will (such as in self-conceit) occur under the guise of the good. But this interpretation doesn’t go so far as to claim that all exercises of the will, simply because based on incorporation into a maxim, must count as under the guise of the good. A maxim is by definition subjective, in the sense that, insofar as it goes, the relevant principle of action is “regarded by the subject as holding only for his will” (CPrR 5:19), thus falling short of being treated as a law. And while it is clear that we all, qua prone to self-love, have a tendency to turn our maxims into objective determining grounds, hence to view whatever we thus will as good, there are certainly also occasions where our maxims remain such by our own lights—for example, when we see that our maxim of avenging insults conflicts with what we ourselves recognize as a law, that is, with what we think should be a rule for every rational being (CPrR 5:20). In these cases, the propensity of self-love to make laws is held in check, and we accordingly do not regard avenging the insult as good. In the end, it may not matter much whether Kant’s guise of the good is restricted in such a way, or extended to all maxims. What is important is that Kant intends to endorse the thesis strictly on his own terms, that is, via some revision to the classical canon. One such revision is that good and bad are ultimately understood by Kant in roughly deontic terms: to will my action as good is to will it as conforming to some law or (on the extended version) principle of action. This might not indicate in itself a robust revision: a switch from “good” to “ought” as the central concept might be a simple matter of philosophical taste. However, in Kant, this conceptual revision is connected to a deeper one mentioned earlier: the will expresses itself in deontic or even legalistic terms because the will is active as self-legislator, and not merely as the capacity to freely accept or discard “proposals” independently made by the understanding or intellect. This is part of what Kant means by the claim that the will is “practical reason” (MM 6:213, MM 6:226, G 4:412). From this point of view, we are far from the picture of bilateral cooperation between will and intellect that was central to the classical canon. Moreover, what appears good is not to be looked for in some property of what we want; appearing good is a function of what the will has legislated, or at least could legislate, for itself and for us as rational beings. These revisions are indeed robust rather than moderate.19 A further reason to classify Kant’s revision as robust is that the thesis no longer holds centre stage, once it is restated in his preferred way. In

118 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant the classical canon, the thesis had the status of a basic truth about will or desire—hence the paucity of arguments actually ever offered in support of it. Kant does present his restatement as an “indubitably certain” proposition, but this is not because it has foundational status. On the reading offered here, the restatement is indubitably certain, because it follows more or less analytically from antecedent conceptual connections between willing (or having the power of free choice), reason, laws, and holding as good. To be sure, Kant’s theory of the will would not be complete without his restatement of the old formula; but in the overall order of explanation the apparent good takes a secondary role. Likewise, his moral theory would not be complete without a theory of the good, but “the concept of good and evil must not be determined before the moral law . . . but only . . . after it and by means of it” (CPrR 5:63).20

Forbidden Desires and Diabolical Wills Assuming that both Hume and Kant can be interpreted as proposing robust revisions of the classical canon, I will now briefly consider where their respective theses fall with respect to the Subjective Only versus Subjective + Objective distinction. One place to start from is that both philosophers—simplifying somewhat—reject the idea of a pure attraction towards evil as such. The question is where this leaves them vis-à-vis the distinction. In the context of discussing violent passions, Hume provides an explanation of why “we naturally desire what is forbid, and takes a pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful” (T 2.3.4.5). This is, of course, the same phenomenon that concerned Augustine and other Christian philosophers. As seen, the general tendency within the canon was to not take such desires at face value: what we really desire is not the unlawful action as such, but some pleasure or some other good like freedom. Hume walks a possibly unprecedented middle line here. He does not deny that the unlawful, sometimes, is itself the object of desire. Still, he cannot accept that an idea of something as evil—such as are “unlawful” or contrary-to-duty actions—can generate attraction all by itself, because an idea of evil, that is, of something painful, as such, can only generate aversion. In brief, Hume’s solution is to see contrarian desire as always embedded in a prior “regular” desire for some object—say, for the pears as in Augustine’s story. Now, the notion that the fruit is forbidden ruins our plans and, to that extent, humiliates us: we anticipate the displeasure of our own negative moral judgement about ourselves. Sometimes we are held in check by this sentiment, and the prior desire ceases or is outweighed. But just as often our unpleasant state may be assuaged by making the prospect of prevailing over the moral challenge into a source of pleasure, as it also sometimes happens when we are faced with

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a physical challenge. Importantly, such pleasure is not the object of our desire for the forbidden, but it does act as a catalyst for our desire: it makes doing the unlawful appear good. In this way, Hume can bring contrarian desires into line with his hedonist theory of desire—and to this extent, our attraction for the bad as such is not pure—without entirely redescribing their content.21 If, due to the complex workings of the passions, we can be made to even desire something bad qua bad, a fortiori it is not surprising that we can prefer the destruction of the entire world over a scratch to our finger (T 2.3.3.6). While arguing that such preference is not “contrary to reason”—because it is not reason that dictates what is better or worse— Hume certainly regards it as contrary to moral sentiment: no one could sympathize with such a preference. If human nature can take us this far from virtue, then Hume’s hedonistic guise of the good is probably better interpreted as Subjective Only (unlike, by contrast, Locke’s own hedonistic version, as seen in the previous chapter). In favour of the Subjective + Objective version, however, one may present the fact that valuable motives—that is, motives that are approved of—are relatively easy to come by: Hume’s virtues are character traits that tend either to the good of the agent herself or to the good of others, where the good can be either immediate pleasure or longer-term utility (see T 3.3.1.30).22 Still, that does not mean that Humean agents as such must have any tendency to possess virtues rather than to possess vices, even though contingent psychological forces (e.g. a need to feel proud of oneself) may well push many of us in that direction. Kant discusses the phenomenon of contrarian motive when searching about for the sources of our propensity to evil, that is, as per the Incorporation Thesis, our propensity to adopt maxims that violate the moral law.23 In this context, he rejects the hypothesis that reason itself may somehow turn itself (and us) against the moral law, as this explains too much if what needs to be explained is human evil: [A] reason exonerated from the moral law, an evil reason as it were (an absolutely evil will), would . . . contain too much, because resistance to the law would itself be thereby elevated to incentive (for without any incentive the power of choice cannot be determined), and so the subject would be made a diabolical being. [This is not] applicable to the human being. (R 6:35) And: The human being (even the worst) does not repudiate the moral law, whatever his maxims, in rebellious attitude. .  .  . The depravity of human nature is therefore not to be named malice, if we take this

120 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant word in the strict sense, namely as a disposition (a subjective principle of maxims) to incorporate evil qua evil for incentive into one’s maxim (since this is diabolical). (ibid.: 6:36, 6:37) Kant thus appears to reject, given his theory of agency, the possibility that Hume admitted and explained within his theory. As Kant argues, adopting a maxim of pursuing evil, that is, contrariety to the moral law, for its own sake would require thinking of ourselves both as free, and therefore as a cause, and as “operating without any law at all” (ibid.: 6:35), and this is a contradiction (presumably, Kant means that we could have such thoughts, but we would thereby misrepresent our own and others’ agency in such cases). And this is the difference from “depravity”: in depravity, not only do we not repudiate altogether the moral law, but also we do not operate as a lawless cause, since we make self-love into our supreme law. All this is perfectly coherent with Kant’s restatement of the old formula: if we will something under the direction of reason, we will it as good, that is, under a representation of a law—lawlessness is not an option. By contrast, Hume’s psychology, by working from a less demanding notion of the will, has relatively little problem acknowledging contrarian motivation, albeit (as said before) not quite in a pure form: an original pleasure in evil as such is not an option either.24 The fact that Kant rejects the diabolical will does not automatically classify his guise of the good as Subjective + Objective as opposed to Subjective Only. In fact, it is hard to fit Kant into either version, because the very notion of “wanting something on account of some property of the object” appears foreign to the Kantian will, at least in its fully autonomous exercise. Moreover, Kant’s reflections on evil pull in different directions. On the one hand, he argues that evil is “radical”, that is, rooted in human nature, and his notion of evil covers all motives except unadulterated respect for the moral law. There is no worth in, say, wanting a friend’s well-being purely out of non-moral feelings, that is, without checking for its permissibility. In this sense, wanting what is actually good requires a motivational leap rather than a progression from imperfect or partial views of real goods, as was in most Christian versions of the classical canon. Such considerations go against the objective element, and therefore against Subjective + Objective. On the other hand, Kant’s notion of the will is, as it were, all set up for being guided by the moral law (qua the categorical imperative), because nothing less would be “commensurate” (R 6:35) with its capacity for autonomy. It is also a recurring concern in Kantian scholarship to show how for Kant, by simply having such capacity, each agent is already rationally committed to endorsing the moral law, hence assuming that the moral law is, in a sense, always there for us.25 Such considerations favour including an objective element. All in all, it is probably safer to conclude that Kant’s guise of

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the good remains equidistant from both Subjective Only and Subjective + Objective versions.

Conclusion In some respects, both Hume’s sentimentalist revisions and Kant’s restatement can be regarded as a provisional swan song for the guise of the good. Even more than because of any long-lasting influence by critics like Hobbes or Spinoza, it is probably due to its being reinterpretable in such widely differing ways that the guise of the good, at least in a recognizable form, ceased to provide a commonly accepted starting point for work on the will and in moral philosophy. The thesis entered, in the best case, a period of hiatus, to be described in the next chapter.

Notes 1. References to the Treatise of Human Nature (1739–40) are: T followed by book, part, section, and paragraph as per Hume (2007). 2. The work most clearly interpreting Hume in this vein is Karlsson (2006). See the more complex picture in Darwall (1995: ch. 10), whereby rule-abiding motives of justice cannot be reduced to desires for some good for oneself or others. However, regard for a rule is still broadly speaking an evaluationguided motive. 3. See the (critical) discussion of the “Background Impulse Model” in Cohon (2008: 39). 4. The distinction Hume draws here probably goes back to Francis Hutcheson (1694–1746), who (in his essay on the passions, first published in 1728) distinguishes “general calm desires” (based on “reflection”) and “passionate” desires (accompanied by “confused sensations”), but doesn’t seem to regard either as floating free of apprehended goods or evils (Hutcheson 2002: 31–33). (But see also infra, footnotes 6 and 7.) Interestingly for the purposes of this book, Hutcheson associates his own distinction with the “Schoolmen’s” distinction between rational appetite and sensitive appetite (Hutcheson 2002: 32, footnote). The difference, for Hutcheson, of course is not as stark as for Aquinas (Chapter 4)—both “appetites” are ultimately concerned with (one’s or others’) good qua pleasure. 5. See Radcliffe (2012), who for this reason interprets Hume as agreeing only superficially with the guise of the good claim that “we are motivated by what we believe to be good or evil” (Radcliffe 2012: 123). Hume’s relevant notion of taste is found, for example, here: “Taste, as it gives pleasure or pain, and thereby constitutes happiness or misery, becomes a motive to action, and is the first spring or impulse to desire and volition” (EPM, Appendix 1.21). 6. Locke regards love and hatred as dispositions that can, sometimes, arise from disinterested pleasure and pain: “[H]atred or love, to beings capable of happiness or misery, is often the uneasiness or delight which we find in ourselves, arising from a consideration of their very being or happiness” (Locke 1975: 2.21.5, my emphasis). But the focus of Lockean desire, even when stemming from love and hatred, is still my own happiness, that is, the removal of my present uneasiness. In the British context, the existence of motives directly focused on someone else’s good was, before Hume, forcefully argued for by, among others, Richard Cumberland (1631–1718) (see the analysis

122 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant of his theory of will in Darwall 1995: 95–101) and—closer to Hume—by Hutcheson, who unambiguously defended a non-self-centred hedonistic guise of the good: Desires arise in our Mind, from the Frame of our Nature, upon Apprehension of Good or Evil in Objects, Actions, or Events, to obtain for our selves or others the agreeable Sensation, when the Object or Event is good; or to prevent the uneasy Sensation, when it is evil (Hutcheson 2002: 18). Darwall (1995: 284–288) contrasts acting for the sake of a desired good and “acting on a reason” as two different conceptions and levels of agency. He associates the former with the empiricist tradition (here as found in Locke, Hutcheson, and Hume), the latter with an “autonomist” tradition culminating in Kant. But his “acting on a reason”, in that context, means (roughly) acting based on a capacity for self-regulation. As I see it, Darwall describes a real contrast, but it is one between two notions of acting on a reason. 7. Again, the inspiration for a class of non-evaluative desires seems to be Hutcheson, who explicitly notes, in addition to calm and passionate desires, “a certain Propensity of Instinct to Objects and Actions, without any Conception of them as Good, or as the Means of preventing Evil” (2002: 51). Such propensities can determine to action on their own. However, Hutcheson appears to treat their operation on a par with the following phenomena: “Danger of falling makes us stretch out our Arms; noise makes us wink; . . . a Child is determined to suck” (ibid.: 52). There is something short of full (or even any) intentionality in such actions. At least for Hutcheson, then, what explains (fully) intentional action would seem to be desires as conforming to the guise of the good (even when passionate, as noted before). In fact, he hesitates to even call such propensities “desires”. Compare what he calls “appetites”, which also arise prior to an “opinion” of good or bad (ibid.: 67–68). 8. Even the view taken by French materialists sits between rejection and robust revision. For example, in the Encyclopédie (1751–1772) edited by Diderot and d’Alembert, the will (volonté) is defined (probably by Diderot himself) as the effect of the impression of an object present to our senses or to our reflection, as a result of which [impression] we are either brought as a whole towards this object as if towards a good [comme vers un bien] of which we have knowledge and which excites our appetite, or we are held off from it as if from an evil [comme d’un mal] which we know and which excites our fear and our aversion. On this view, the notions of good and bad may or may not be ultimately dispensable. Elsewhere in the Encyclopédie, good (bien) is itself reductively defined as “either the pleasure which makes us happy, or the cause of pleasure”. Texts at: https://encyclopedie.uchicago.edu/. Translations are mine. 9. See also this 1707 letter: “If [someone] chooses what he sees as less useful and agreeable in some respects, perhaps it becomes more agreeable to him through a whim, or contrariness, or for similar reasons which belong to a depraved taste” (quoted in Jorati 2021: 53). It seems that agreeability to the agent’s taste, whether depraved or not, is a necessary element of her motivation. See Jorati (2021) for this and other aspects of Leibniz’s guise of the good. 10. For a comparison between Kant and his German predecessors, see Bacin (2018).

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11. See also this letter from Wolff to Leibniz (1715), quoted in Hettche and Dyck (2019): [W]hen I see that some actions tend toward our perfection and that of others, while others tend toward our imperfection and that of others, the sensation of perfection excites a certain pleasure [voluptas] and the sensation of imperfection a certain displeasure [nausea]. And the emotions [affectus], by virtue of which the mind is, in the end, inclined or disinclined, are modifications of this pleasure and displeasure. 12. As Louden notes (2021: 64), this is very probably Kant’s original Latin rendering, even if it is obviously similar to Aquinas’ formulations. The fact that he didn’t borrow or quote from others could be another sign of dissatisfaction with the current state of the thesis. 13. Kant’s works are cited by acronym (see bibliography) followed by volume and page number in the standard Akademie Ausgabe (Academy Edition) of his works. 14. Kant believes that any good that is proposed to the will, as it were, “from the outside”, can only influence it through pleasure: “If the concept of the good is not to be derived from an antecedent practical law but, instead, is to serve as its basis, it can be only the concept of something whose existence promises pleasure” (CPrR 5:58). In this sense, Kant must think of the hedonistic drift taken by the classical canon as quite inevitable. 15. See Allison (1990: 5–6, 39–40). Reath connects the Incorporation Thesis with the guise of the good, writing: “A maxim is a representation of an action or action kind as rationally supported by facts about an agent’s ends, principles, circumstances, and so on, and thus represents the action as good”, and this representation amounts to a tacit (if often misguided) notion that one’s volition satisfies “a condition of universal validity” (Reath 2015: 237, 238). The latter point was, however, rejected by Allison himself (1990: 268, fn. 52). See also Wood (1999: 50–55), Tenenbaum (2021: 86–90). 16. When pleasure only follows desire without also causing it, then it is an intellectual pleasure, and the desire corresponds to an “interest of reason” (MM 6:212). This is similar to Hume’s category of desires which produce, rather than proceed from, pleasure and pain. But Hume of course would deny that reason is involved in these desires any more than in the others. 17. This is the interpretation defended in Bacin (2018: 1712): “In Kant’s view, the Thesis only applies to the determination of the will through the moral law”, as well as in Louden (2021). 18. My analysis is similar to Reath (2015: 252), although he would extend the guise of the good to all maxims. Tenenbaum (2021: 83–85) likewise concludes that the guise of the good can be extended “to the full scope of human agency” (ibid.: 83). Note: they might be right—my point is simply that a charitable reading of Kant’s restatement only licenses ascribing a more restricted guise of the good. Perhaps Barbara Herman comes closest to the present interpretation: acting for reasons requires “a representation that could possibly be of something as objectively good” (2007b: 243). Acting on any old maxim or “practical principle” does not amount to acting for reasons. See also Herman (2007a: 168–175). 19. Stephen Engstrom succinctly puts the point thus: “In identifying the will with practical reason, Kant reverses the order of concepts in the traditional Scholastic conception of the will as rational desire, reconceiving the will as

124 The Guise of the Good in Hume and Kant desiderative reason” (2009: 25). The notion of a specifically Kantian guise of the good is the premise to Engstrom’s book. 20. Is there a danger of triviality in Kant’s restatement? Since the concept of “good or evil always signifies a reference to the will insofar as it is determined by the law of reason to make something its object” (CPrR 5:60), then, if this “reference” is all there is to holding something as good, Kant’s restatement reads: We will nothing under the direction of reason except insofar as we hold it to be good, i.e. insofar as we hold it to be the object of our will as determined by the law of reason.

21.

22. 23.

24.

25.

There are two issues here. First, “good” in that quote may (as in CPrR 5:63) refer to the concepts of good and bad as precisified by Kant’s own theory, but “good” in “except insofar as we hold it to be good” may refer to a theoryneutral concept of gut (as long as it is not confused with well-being). If so, we cannot put the former in place of the latter. Second, and more importantly, even if the notions of good and evil were eventually dispensable in Kant’s theory of the will, the point remains that for Kant willing something entails a normative representation of the object of willing (as law-conform), and this is a non-trivial view which is perfectly in harmony with the spirit, if not the historical letter, of the guise of the good. See Orsi (2020). By contrast, Hutcheson appears to stick closer to the classical canon, although his focus is on malice rather than contrarian desire: “[P]erhaps . . . there is no Quality in any Object which would excite in us pure disinterested Malice, or calm Desire of Misery for its own sake” (2002: 58). He also argues, by thought experiment, that we would not desire to hurt even a thoroughly evil creature “without some prospect of Good arising from their Sufferings” (ibid.: 96). The difference might be due to a difference in the exact role that pleasure and pain play for Hume and Hutcheson. As seen, for Hume, pleasure and pain often explain desire without necessarily being sought as such. Even the paradigmatically altruistic virtue of benevolence owes part of its value to its immediate pleasure for the benevolent person herself (T 3.3.3.4). More precisely, Kant envisions three “grades” of propensity to evil (R 6:29– 30). In the first grade (“frailty”), the maxim adopted conforms to the moral law, but inclinations pull us away from it. In the second and third grades, the maxim itself deviates from the moral law, either because it incorporates both the moral law and non-moral incentives as a necessary component (“impurity”) or because it subordinates the moral law to non-moral incentives—it puts non-moral reasons, like self-love, on top of morality (“depravity”). But see Louden (2010: 103–108), Louden (2021: 69–70), and Wood (2010a: 152–155), for interpretations whereby something like Hume’s contrarian desires can be accommodated by Kant’s “depravity”. On this view, the diabolical will would be a different phenomenon altogether, such as to put the agent beyond accountability. Terminology may also be confusing. What Kant calls “perversity of the heart” is just another name for depravity, his third, non-diabolical, grade of propensity to evil. What contemporary philosophers call “perversity” or “perverse reasons” (Velleman 1992; Sussman 2009; Orsi 2021b) at first glance corresponds to Kant’s diabolical will (at least when the perversity is moral: doing wrong for wrongness’ sake). However, if Louden and Wood are right, then perversity in the contemporary sense may after all be included as one manifestation of Kant’s perversity of the heart. See Korsgaard (1996).

9

After Kant, Before Anscombe

Introduction When, in 1957, Elizabeth Anscombe claimed that it is “required for our concept of ‘wanting’ . . . that a man should see what he wants under the aspect of some good” (Anscombe 1963: 75), she was effectively bringing back to life an idea that had long remained absent from the philosophical scene (with one important exception, on which more later). Not surprisingly, she goes as far back as Aristotle as the inspiration for her claim. If one can meaningfully talk of an early modern reception of the guise of the good (in the form of continuity, revision, or rejection), largely as a result of critical engagement with the Scholastic tradition and its legacy, the thesis appears to be largely ignored or only incidentally mentioned in the 150 years after Kant. Philosophical work on the will and agency no longer seems to require taking sides with respect to the guise of the good. One revealing case in point is Arthur Schopenhauer’s Prize Essay on the Freedom of the Will, published in 1841 (Schopenhauer 1999). The essay, submitted for a competition by the Royal Norwegian Society of Sciences, is a thorough discussion on the title topic, and more broadly on the nature of motivation. In it, Schopenhauer is forced by the occasion to proceed in a rather conventional manner, and to avoid idiosyncrasy both in content and in style. It is therefore reasonable to take this work as an indication of what a philosophical study of the will was expected to look like at the time. What is telling is the total absence of any reference to the guise of the good or even to any related ideas. Now, Schopenhauer did reject the guise of the good elsewhere1; the point is rather that he did not think it relevant to bring it up, even just for the sake of rejecting it, in a work on the will meant for philosophically competent readers of his time. Some literary sources also bear witness to the fact of this hiatus of the guise of the good. The narrator in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Black Cat (1843) confesses to being moved to his cruel acts by “the spirit of Perverseness”: Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Phrenology finds no place for it among its organs. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-9

126 After Kant, Before Anscombe than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Similarly, the French writer Prosper Mérimée claims, “there is nothing more common than to do evil for the pleasure of doing it” (Mérimée 1874: 8), quoted a few years later with evident approval by Nietzsche (2006: II: 5/41).2 Generalizing from this admittedly small selection, it seems that the possibility of intentional actions done in the light of reasons that have nothing to do with any (apparent) positive value is now increasingly taken at face value, rather than explained away (as was, in different ways, both by Augustine and by Hume) or rejected as a piece of diabolical, but not human, psychology (Kant).3 This does not mean, however, that a philosophical history of the thesis during this period has nothing worthy to offer. In what follows, I focus on four authors, each representative of a different school or trend of this epoch: Hegel, Mill, Nietzsche, and Brentano. Rather direct engagement with the guise of the good can be found in Hegel and Brentano. In Hegel there is not much more than a brief (but explicit) mention, but one that may prove quite significant for understanding a key passage in his practical philosophy. Brentano, instead, discusses the thesis at some length and proposes his own version of it in his classification of psychic acts—he is the “important exception” noted at the outset. On the other hand, Mill and Nietzsche make practically no mention of it. However, Mill arguably relies on something like the guise of the good in his (in)famous proof of utilitarianism, thus providing an interesting case study of the “uses” of the thesis in normative ethics. As for Nietzsche, his part in our history consists in presenting a model of agency which leads to a distinctive rejection of the guise of the good—as I argue, the Nietzschean rejection should not be assimilated to Hobbes’ or Spinoza’s critiques.

Hegel: The Guise of the Good and the Dialectic of the Will G. W. F. Hegel (1770–1831) does not extensively discuss the guise of the good as such. However, the relation of the will to apparent or real good is quite central to his treatment of the will. As for pretty much any other topic, Hegel approaches the issue by way of his dialectical method. Very roughly, the idea is that the proper understanding of something needs to be based on capturing its own internal, necessary development or unfolding. Each stage of such development brings out, through moments of internal contradiction and tension, essential characters leading up to the complete “truth” of the thing itself. Does the guise of the good then show up as part of the “truth” of the will, according to Hegel?

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A compelling case can be made for an affirmative answer, despite Hegel’s implicit and often obscure claims. In fact, I believe that one can interpret a crucial segment of his moral and political philosophy—contained principally in his Outlines of the Philosophy of Right (1821)—as capturing, as well as arguing in favour of, a transition from what I called the Subjective Only guise of the good to a Subjective + Objective version of the thesis. In a sense, this means that Hegel acknowledges both versions as necessary moments within the concept of the will, at least beginning at the stage when the will is the will of “subjects” (105/109)4 capable of proper, intentional action and bearing responsibility for their conduct. “Morality” is the name Hegel gives to this stage of the will. It is not clear whether the good—real or apparent—has any role to play in the preceding stages of the will: “abstract right” (when the will operates into the outer world through branding objects as own property), and the will treated as a purely inner phenomenon of the mind—that is, considered in abstraction not only from the social world but even from action itself.5 It is fairly clear, however, that with the onset of morality, the will acquires a relation to “the Idea of the good . . . apprehended in thought” (33/50). Hegel also writes: “Good is that which is essential in respect of the will; and the essential in this respect should be precisely this, that my action be characterized as good in my eyes [für mich, lit. ‘for me’]” (140/142, my emphasis). A relation to good as apprehended, though (as we will see) not yet as real or substantial, is confirmed when looking at the internal moments of morality itself. Starting with mere “purpose” (roughly, what one sets out to do), morality is then characterized as involving “intention” (roughly, an awareness both of one’s reason for action and of it as a good reason), focusing on one’s (and then on others’) welfare, and culminating in the good proper: The particular aspect of the action is its inner content, i.e. the way in which its general character is determined for me; this constitutes the value of the action and the reason I think it valid—in short my intention. Its content as my particular aim, the aim of my particular, subjective existence, is welfare. This content, as something which is inward and which yet at the same time is raised to its universality and thus to objectivity in and for itself, is the absolute end of the will, the good. (114/115) As can be seen, “morality” thus does not exclusively refer to motivation by thoughts of moral goodness, but can be more broadly characterized (at the risk of anachronism) as motivation by reasons one takes to be good.6 In fact, attention to one’s own welfare or well-being (Wohl) as providing good reasons is no less a necessary moment within morality,

128 After Kant, Before Anscombe and to be distinguished from mere concern for happiness: “Happiness is distinguished from well-being . . . in this, that happiness is conceived just as an immediate reality, whereas well-being is regarded as justifable in relation to morality” (Hegel 2007: 505/225). Hegel, however, makes it abundantly clear that, at the level of morality, actions are seen under an inadequate guise of the good. At this stage, the will can only look from within itself in order to give a content to the otherwise abstract good that guides it. In this sense here, the will operates according to a Subjective Only guise of the good.7 In other words, the reasons we take as good have no necessary relation to objectively good reasons, but are dangerously left to one’s “heart” and individual conscience: [T]he subsumption under the good of any content one pleases is the immediate and explicit result of the fact that this abstract good is totally devoid of content and so is simply reduced to meaning something positive, i.e. to something which is valid in some respect and which in its immediate character may even be valid as an essential end, as for example to do good to the poor, to take thought for myself, my life, my family, and so forth. (140/142) What is dangerous about such a Subjective Only guise of the good is not so much the doctrine itself, but the fact that it can be hijacked, as it were, by an ethics of good intentions whereby willing what seems good to me is claimed to be suffcient for my action to be good. If the content of what thus seems good is left up to the subject, then [t]heft, cowardice, murder, and so forth, as actions, i.e. as achievements of a subjective will, have the immediate character of being satisfactions of such a will and therefore of being something positive. In order to make the action a good one, it is only a question of recognizing this positive aspect of the action as my intention. . . . In this abstract good the distinction between good and evil has vanished together with all concrete duties. (140/142–143) In fact, here is where Hegel practically mentions the guise of the good: [I]t has been said that in the strict sense there are no evil people, since no one wills evil for the sake of evil, i.e. no one wills the purely negative as such. On the contrary, [1] everyone always wills something positive, and [2] therefore, on the view we are considering, something good. (140/143, my emphasis)

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If I am right, Hegel broadly agrees with the thesis expressed in [1], but is precisely intent on rejecting [2]—the view that willing something that appears good amounts to willing something actually good—when, as in morality, there are no objective constraints on what can appear good to an agent.8 The Subjective Only guise of the good thus contributes to a moment of internal tension within the morality stage. By following what is only an abstract or unconstrained idea of good, subjects end up performing evil actions and thus estrange the will as such (and their wills in particular) from the actual good which is the will’s essence or “destiny”. While Hegel thinks that many individuals may remain stuck at the level of morality, there is a remedy to be found in immersing oneself, and one’s will, in the social and institutional contexts Hegel calls Sittlichkeit, usually translated in English as “ethical life”. Ethical life is constituted by the relationships provided for by the family, by the civil society (very roughly, one’s workplace and participation in public life and in the “market”), and ultimately by the state. It is as a spouse, as a parent, as a professional or worker, and ultimately as a citizen, that one’s conception of good can receive a suitable content that is not simply up to me to decide. What I attend to, now, is my welfare, as well as my obligations, as a parent (say), and no longer abstractly as a moral subject. This does not mean that we never go wrong in the context of ethical life. Surely, for Hegel people may be mistaken, for example, about the content or the extent of their duties as parents. Moreover, people may be mistaken when, say, prioritizing the family over the state. But the character of one’s will has undergone a development in the direction of greater objectivity and concreteness: even if errors are possible, we by and large “get it right” simply by placing our idea of good within the forms of the ethical life. To this extent, our will operates according to a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good. Since satisfying the objective component of the guise of the good is, on this version, necessary for something to count as an object of desire or willing, and the ethical life is what provides the conditions for such objective component, it follows that, on Hegel’s view, without the “common mindedness” made available within the ethical life, we would have literally “nothing to will” (Pippin 2008: 220, 31). The subjective component, of course, is not lost: I need to have both an idea and my idea of good, if the ethical life is to embody the highest fulfilment of the will qua freedom. An external, blind, or merely prudent conformity to social expectations and compliance with the state’s laws is not what Hegel’s ethical life is about.9 In conclusion, instead of simply arguing in favour or against the guise of the good as such, Hegel appears to engage with it as a living doctrine that helps to capture the character of the will at the stage of morality, as well as to illuminate the necessary transition to the higher sphere of the ethical life. This transition, as explained, is a matter not so much of going beyond the guise of the good, but rather moving towards an

130 After Kant, Before Anscombe objective version of it, whereby the good that is the object of our willing is no longer a mere “ought to be” (141/152), but can be concretely found and enjoyed in the social world. In this respect, Hegel’s picture can be said to represent a secularized version of the Christian view (see Chapter 4), in which the attainment of a specific good—such as the vision of God’s essence—constituted the culmination, and ultimate fulfilment, of the will’s tendency towards the good in general.

Mill: The Guise in the Proof Were it not for a good deal of recent scholarship, it would probably not occur to anyone to write about John Stuart Mill (1806–1873) and the guise of the good.10 As I argue in this section, a commitment to some version of the thesis can be attributed to him on both reconstructive and exegetical grounds, even if, to my knowledge, Mill neither states nor discusses the doctrine anywhere. Such grounds have to do with his muchcriticized “proof” of the principle of utility in his Utilitarianism (1861). Mill’s proof is usually broken down into several steps leading from the premise that we all desire our own happiness as an end to the conclusion that happiness, no matter whose, is good and the only thing good as an end. The guise of the good has been invoked to “help” Mill through the very initial stage of the proof, where he argues from the fact that we desire happiness as an end to the interim conclusion that one’s happiness is desirable, that is, genuinely good or valuable as an end, albeit (at this stage) only relatively to the perspective of the happiness’ bearer. Mill’s argument has been often seen as a non-sequitur, illicitly going from happiness being factually desired by me as an end to happiness being normatively desirable for me as an end (something that I ought to desire as an end or for its own sake) by using a dubious analogy with sense perception: The only proof capable of being given that an object is visible, is that people actually see it. The only proof that a sound is audible, is that people hear it: and so of the other sources of our experience. In like manner, I apprehend, the sole evidence it is possible to produce that anything is desirable, is that people do actually desire it. (U 4.3)11 “Visible” normally means “such that can be seen”. But “desirable”, in this context, obviously cannot just mean “such that can be desired”, since Mill needs to show that happiness ought to be desired. But “such that can be desired” is the only sense of “desirable” apparently licensed by the analogy with “visible” and “audible”. So, if “desirable” means “ought to be desired”, then the argument is invalid, and if “desirable” means “such that can be desired”, the argument is irrelevant to the proof. The question is how to rescue Mill from what seems like an extremely poor analogy.

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Part of the solution lies in what Mill says in the next line: “If the end which the utilitarian doctrine proposes to itself were not, in theory and in practice, acknowledged to be an end, nothing could ever convince any person that it was so” (U 4.3). If “end” here means something worth pursuing or desiring, then Mill is claiming that, in desiring our own happiness, we thereby acknowledge (“in practice”) our happiness to be desirable or worth desiring as an end. On this ground, each of us is justified to infer that one’s own happiness is in fact worth desiring as an end. In other words, from the fact that our own happiness appears to us under the guise of an end (under the guise of what is worth desiring as an end), we get at least this much evaluative knowledge: my own happiness is good as an end. Lest it look as if we attributed to Mill the guise of the good, only to saddle him with yet another illicit inference—from appearance to truth—we should see Mill’s argument as relying on what may be called the appearance-as-evidence premise: the way things appear to us is, normally, at least defeasible evidence that they are the way they appear to be. Therefore, that our own happiness appears good to us as an end is defeasible evidence that it is so. Assuming that there are no defeaters, it follows that the fact that people actually desire their own happiness is indeed evidence for their own happiness being desirable—such that each ought to desire one’s own happiness as an end.12 The appearance-as-evidence premise also makes sense of Mill’s intended analogy with sense perception. Inferring that an object (or a property) is visible or audible is tantamount to inferring that the object is real, or that at least it really has a certain property: if something (say, a colour patch) is visible, it is not just that “it can be seen”—it really exists, or at least it exists as a visible object. Thus, moving from what we actually see or hear to what is visible or audible is nothing but moving from what appears in vision or hearing to be real to what is, visibly or audibly, real. Analogously, moving from what we desire to what is desirable is nothing but moving from what appears to be desirable to what is really desirable. In other words, the analogy is ultimately that value appearances stand to value as empirical appearances stand to empirical reality.13 But there is more to Mill’s use of (some version of) guise of the good. The premise that what we desire—what appears good—is the sole possible evidence for what is desirable (good) continues to be key, as Mill goes on to argue that, since our own happiness is in some basic sense the only thing we desire as an end, happiness must be the only thing desirable as an end. Mill does not deny that people value many things as ends and not purely as means: virtue, music, health, accumulating money, etc. But within Mill’s psychology, to value something as an end can only mean to value it as part of (as opposed to just as a means to) one’s happiness: In being desired for its own sake [virtue, money etc.] is, however, desired as part of happiness. The person is made, or thinks he would

132 After Kant, Before Anscombe be made, happy by its mere possession; and is made unhappy by failure to obtain it. The desire of it is not a different thing from the desire of happiness. (U 4.6) Therefore, no matter how diverse people’s ultimate desires may seem to be, they cannot be genuine alternatives to the desire for one’s own happiness, and Mill seems to think that a little reflection should suffice to convince his readers. Note that Mill is not claiming that we are, at bottom, rational egoists out to maximize our self-interest. The evaluation that is present in desire has to do with one’s own happiness simply because it is constitutively associated with pleasure, and happiness consists of pleasurable experiences: “Those who desire virtue for its own sake, desire it either because the consciousness of it is a pleasure, or because the consciousness of being without it is a pain, or for both reasons united” (U 4.8). The lynchpin in Mill’s argument here is nothing short of a hedonic version of the guise of the good (premise 1 here): 1. In desire, things appear good to us, and their appearing good to us is a matter of us finding them—or the thought of them—pleasant: “to think of an object as desirable (unless for the sake of its consequences), and to think of it as pleasant, are one and the same thing” (U 4.10).14 2. Therefore, “desiring a thing and finding it pleasant, aversion to it and thinking of it as painful, are . . . two different modes of naming the same psychological fact” (ibid.). 3. Happiness is made of pleasure (and absence of pain). 4. Therefore, whatever else we desire, we desire something that cannot fail to be part of our happiness. 5. Therefore, reflection on our desires cannot reveal the fundamental value of something else than happiness. Happiness emerges not as the only thing we value, but as the only thing we value that is capable of comprehending and making sense of all the other things we value.15 Mill briefly deals with the objection that will is essentially different from desire, in that we may will something we don’t find pleasant at all; so why couldn’t reflection on the will disclose values that are alternative to happiness? Mill’s answer is this: “Will is the child of desire, and passes out of the dominion of its parent only to come under that of habit” (U 4.13). On the one hand, what we will is something that we historically desired in the past, that is, something we found good in some hedonic sense. This genetic fact undermines, for Mill, the claim for the will to offer a genuinely alternative take on value. On the other hand, when will passes “under the dominion” of habit—when we come to desire something “because we will it” (ibid.)

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and not vice versa—we may indeed be past any hedonic guise of the good. However, “[t]hat which is the result of habit affords no presumption of being intrinsically good” (ibid.). Mill’s point seems to be that whatever we will, and hence happen to take as good as part of a habit is not to be relied upon as evidence of what is good, because habits are psychologically set up to present and make us pursue as intrinsic goods goals and activities which are only instrumentally valuable—think of the non-negotiable value we may often attach to brushing our teeth before going to bed! So, desires remain the only relevant psychological evidence for what is desirable. Mill’s contribution to our history, then, consists, first, in continuing the empiricist tradition going back to Locke and Hume which does not deny or trivialize the guise of the good, but rather reinterprets it in terms of pleasure and pain. As seen, Mill’s reconstructed version is clearer than both Locke’s and Hume’s in holding that (habits aside) we desire things under the guise of the pleasant, but very often not under the guise of an expected pleasure to be obtained by satisfying the desire. Second, according to the present reconstruction, Mill makes a crucial argumentative use of his version of the thesis in the course of his “proof” for utilitarianism. While at least since Aristotle, the guise of the good was often somehow involved in the build-up to one’s favourite theory of value and morality, we can see in Mill a more direct attempt at bridging moral psychology and normative ethics.

Nietzsche: The Guise as Disguise Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) does not, to my knowledge, engage with the guise of the good as such.16 However, his views on agency—to be reconstructed from various statements made in different places—appear to entail a distinctive rejection of the thesis, in fact, a rejection that has probably proven influential in much subsequent philosophy. Before getting to this point, it is worth discussing one strand in Nietzsche’s thought that seems inimical to the guise of the good, namely the idea that people’s evaluations—including, then, the fact that things appear to us under the guise of the good—are (at the individual level) at bottom explicable by deep non-evaluative psychological or even physiological factors usually denoted as “drives”: [O]ur moral judgments and evaluations .  .  . are only images and fantasies based on a physiological process unknown to us, a kind of acquired language for designating certain nervous stimuli. (Nietzsche 1997: 119/76)17 What group of sensations in a soul will be the first to wake up, start speaking, and making demands is decisive for the whole rank order of its values, and will ultimately determine its table of goods. A person’s

134 After Kant, Before Anscombe valuations reveal something about the structure of his soul and what the soul sees as its conditions of life, its genuine needs. (Nietzsche 2002: 268/163–164)18 [V]aluations or, stated more clearly, physiological requirements for the preservation of a particular type of life. (ibid.: 3/7) Now, this view about evaluation is not antithetical to the guise of the good, to the extent that Nietzsche places “drives” at a level that lies beyond the conscious desires, volitions, or intentions which are the subject-matter of the guise of the good. If drives are subconscious psychological forces, or even physiological processes, then it can still be true and non-trivial to claim that, say, desires, as conscious states, are always constrained by one’s evaluation. Advocates of the guise of the good need not hold that value appearances or judgements must have any “nobler” origin than in our drives, as long as evaluation has explanatory priority over the target states and attitudes (desires, etc.), as GG+ has it.19 The real threat to the guise of the good comes, instead, from Nietzsche’s view that both conscious desires (volitions, etc.) and the associated evaluations20 play a secondary role, if any, in the explanation of intentional action. The point is not that the will, as a causally productive special faculty, is a “myth” (see Nietzsche 2001: 127/121–122; 2002: 21/21–22). Nor does Nietzsche entirely dismiss a possible, if limited, contribution by purposes, reasons, or what we take to be good. In The Gay Science (1882), he writes: [O]ur opinions, valuations, and tables of what is good are certainly some of the most powerful levers in the machinery of our actions, but . . . in each case, the law of its mechanism is unprovable. (2001: 335/189) In the same book, he also distinguishes between “the cause of acting from the cause of acting in a certain way, in a certain direction, with a certain goal” (ibid.: 360/225). While subconscious forces are responsible for the former cause, thus providing the “driving force” behind an action, the agent’s purposes may—though, importantly, need not, and “often enough” do not—furnish the latter cause, thus providing a “directing force” to steer the driving force in a certain direction.21 However, even when the agent’s reasons or purposes do appear to play a role, this is entirely due to underlying, non-conscious factors—in this sense, while the “law” of such mechanism may be “unprovable”, Nietzsche is fairly confident in picking out the inner springs of the mechanism. In the following passage from Daybreak, Nietzsche considers the phenomenon of self-mastery or self-control. But the conscious desire to

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master oneself—including something like the thought “I should control myself”—is no exception to the mechanism: [I]n this entire procedure our intellect is only the blind instrument of another drive which is a rival of the drive whose vehemence is tormenting us: whether it be the drive to restfulness, or the fear of disgrace and other evil consequences, or love. While “we” believe we are complaining about the vehemence of a drive, at bottom it is one drive which is complaining about another; that is to say: for us to become aware that we are suffering from the vehemence of a drive presupposes the existence of another equally vehement or even more vehement drive, and that a struggle is in prospect in which our intellect is going to have to take sides. (1997: 109/65) Note that Nietzsche is not merely claiming, à la Hume, that reason is the slave of the passions—a claim, as seen in Chapter 8, which is reconcilable with the guise of the good. Rather, both reason (or intellect) and (conscious) desires are themselves slaves (or “blind instruments”) of the drives.22 And this view, while leaving intact the letter of the guise of the good as a thesis about (conscious) desires, deprives the thesis of much of its bite. The idea that we are “lovers of the good” was supposed to make sense of the apparent fact that intentional action is action in the light of, or on the basis of, reasons we take to be good. If Nietzsche is right, however, the agent’s reasons play either no role or at best a secondary one, in explaining intentional action. What does the explaining is what does the causing,23 and what does the causing are the agent’s non-conscious drives. Here are other representative texts: [A]ll [of an action’s] intentionality, everything about it that can be seen, known, or raised to “conscious awareness,” only belongs to its surface and skin—which, like every skin, reveals something but conceals even more. (2002: 32/33) The so-called motive: another error. Merely a surface phenomenon of consciousness—something alongside the deed that is more likely to cover up the antecedents of the deeds than to represent them. (1954: VI: 3, as quoted in Leiter 2021)24 To play a little on words, we can say that, for Nietzsche, the guise of the good is more like a disguise for our drives than a genuinely explanatory factor. The Nietzschean rejection of the guise of the good is thus importantly different from Hobbes’ or Spinoza’s rejections. All three philosophers regard the guise of the good as in some way putting the cart before

136 After Kant, Before Anscombe the horse in the story of agency. But where both Hobbes and Spinoza identify as the “horse” the very mental states (desire, volition, etc.) that the guise of the good attempts to account for in terms of evaluation (the “cart”), Nietzsche’s “horse” is to be found at a deeper level, and really drags a “cart” that includes both evaluation and desire, when conceived of as essentially conscious or personal.25 To be sure, one could theoretically argue that drives themselves (or their contents) are under the guise of the good, to the extent that a given drive sees an experience or an activity in which it finds its outlet as good for itself, or even sees itself as valuable (see the quotes in Katsafanas 2016: 79–80). But this would be an unusual or at most figurative application of the phrase “guise of the good”, which, as seen in Chapter 1 and throughout the book, typically refers to states (appearances) or attitudes (beliefs and judgements) which characteristically enter consciousness, even though one need not always be aware of them.26 Nietzsche’s rejection of the guise of the good is, moreover, compounded by his unhesitating acknowledgement of psychological tendencies that are, at best, hard to account for in terms of the guise of the good. In the Genealogy of Morality, he explains certain ancient forms of punishment as the expression of “‘disinterested malice’ (or, to use Spinoza’s words, the sympathia malevolens)”, regarded (by those ancients but also, apparently, by Nietzsche) “as a normal human attribute” (2006: II: 6/42), all the while rejecting the hypothesis—much more amenable to a guise of the good reading—that such practices were motivated by a desire for revenge (ibid.). In Beyond Good and Evil, he goes even further, arguing that various phenomena (from enjoying gladiator shows to practices of self-denial) speak not only to the drive for other-directed cruelty but also to the “dangerous thrill of self-directed cruelty” (2002: 229/121). While the agent’s own pleasure could be invoked as the good under the guise of which such phenomena make sense, this doesn’t seem to be Nietzsche’s own diagnosis—the discharge of the drives to disinterested malice and self-cruelty does produce pleasure, but it is not the expectation of pleasure that moves agents to discharge those drives. In these ways, one could usefully see in Nietzsche an anticipation of the kind of attack on the guise of the good to be found in Michael Stocker’s “Desiring the Bad” (1979). Stocker argues that motivation may come totally apart from evaluation, as in cases of intentional self-harm or utter dejection. But even when we do pursue what we think good, this is to be explained by “complex arrays of psychic structures of mood, interest, energy” (1979: 753), which may or may not be accessible to the agent. Like for Nietzsche, the central aim of the critique is to deprive the guise of the good (or the appeal to the reasons the agent takes to be good) of its alleged explanatory vantage point with respect to agency. In fact, both Nietzsche and Stocker appear to have an even broader target: a construal of agency as fundamentally rational, whether such rationality is a matter of pursuing the apparent

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good (as the guise of the good claims), or a matter of pursuing, via meansend beliefs, what one desires, where desires are not essentially understood in evaluative terms (as self-styled “Humean” views have it). One last remark needs to be made about Nietzsche as a cultural critic. Whether or not he directly mentioned the guise of the good anywhere in his writings, it seems plausible he would have diagnosed it as yet another philosophical symptom of one or more drives—perhaps a fear of the unknown, the unpredictable, or the messiness that seems implied by the opposite idea that people can desire or want anything whatsoever, unconstrained by any (at least subjectively valid) evaluation. Certainly one can find in Nietzsche ample resources for a “genealogical” history and critique of the guise of the good, though that would be rather different from the kind of analytical history presented here.

Brentano: The Guise as a Mode of Consciousness Franz Brentano (1838–1917) holds a special place in the history of the guise of the good. His project of an empirically based “descriptive psychology” (first presented in his Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint, 1874) included, as its foundation, a classification of psychological phenomena or activities into three basic kinds: (1) presentation (Vorstellung), as for example when we have visual or auditory sensations, or as well when we imagine or merely consider something; (2) judgement, in which we affirm a presentation as true or deny it as false; (3) love and hate, in a broad sense which for Brentano covers all phenomena ranging from feelings of pleasure and pain, to emotions, desires, and acts of will (decisions, intentions, and choices). All three basic kinds have in common what we nowadays call intentionality or directedness at a content—a philosophical notion we mostly owe to Brentano: there is always something that is presented, judged (affirmed or denied), or loved and hated (Brentano 1995: 68). Moreover, presentation is necessary for judgement and love/hate: the contents or objects that are judged or loved must be the object of presentation. What distinguishes both judgements and love/hate from presentations is their inherently committing character: in judgements, we take a stand as to the truth or falsity of what we judge; in love/hate—even in the simplest of pleasures and pains—we take a stand as to the value of what we love/hate: Just as every judgement takes an object to be true or false, in an analogous way every phenomenon which belongs to this class [love/ hate] takes an object to be good or bad. (ibid.: 154) If something can become the content of a judgement in that it can be accepted as true or rejected as false, it can also become the object

138 After Kant, Before Anscombe of a phenomenon belonging to the third basic class, in that it can be agreeable (in the broadest sense of the word) as something good, or disagreeable as something bad. Here we are concerned with an object’s value or lack thereof, while in the other case we were concerned with its truth or falsity. (ibid.: 185–186)27 In turn, it follows that, unlike presentation, judgements and love/hate always have a normative character or, in Brentano’s terms, are subject to characteristic “perfections” and “imperfections” (ibid.: 174, 203–204): [T]here is no virtue, no wickedness, no knowledge, no error in presentations. All this is intrinsically foreign to it; at best, it is only by homonymy that we may call presentations morally good or bad, true or false. For example, a presentation is called bad because anyone who loved the object presented would sin, and false, because anyone who affirmed the object presented would err; or because the danger of such a love or of such an affirmation is implied in the presentation. (ibid.: 173) It is clear that Brentano defends some version of the guise of the good, applied to a vast range of psychological activities. More than that, he outlines—probably for the frst time, although he claims support from predecessors as far back as Aristotle—a distinctive way of spelling out the thesis. The relation of love/hate to value must be understood just like the relation of judgement to truth: love and judgement are different “kinds of reference to a content . . . ways of being conscious of an object” (ibid.: 161). That is to say, the commitment to truth and the commitment to goodness are to be found in the very mode of intentionality (or “mode of consciousness”, ibid.: 205) of judgement and love, respectively, and not in an accompanying cognitive act of presentation or judgement with the content “p is true” or “p is good”. Nor does love, of course, consist itself of a presentation (appearance) or a judgement to the effect that “p is good”, or it wouldn’t form a separate basic class of its own. Brentano thus writes: I do not believe that anyone will understand me to mean that phenomena belonging to this class are cognitive acts by which we perceive the goodness or badness, value or disvalue of certain objects. . . . [Analogously] If we say that every affirmative judgement is an act of taking something to be true, and every negative judgement an act of taking something to be false, this does not mean that the former consists in predicating truth of what is taken to be true and the latter in predicating falsity of what is taken to be false. (ibid.: 186, my emphasis)

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The evaluation essential to love/hate is thus built into the attitude itself, as it were, rather than “borrowed” from a presentation or a judgement with evaluative content. Brentano should be credited for illuminating an issue that either had escaped past defenders of the guise of the good or had been quickly resolved by saddling the relevant mental states (i.e. desire, willing, etc.) with an accompanying evaluative judgement, often thought of as a necessary precondition of any act of will, particularly in the Christian versions of the classical canon (see Chapters 4 and 5). Building the evaluation into the attitude might seem, at first glance, to (plausibly) de-intellectualize love/hate: since one doesn’t have to make an evaluative judgement or even have an evaluative appearance, one does not need to possess or master concepts like good or bad in order to love or hate, that is, in order to feel pleasure, pain, or want anything in the first place. However, Brentano immediately goes on to propose a rather intellectualistic reading of his own view: [T]he only correct interpretation is that a person [who loves or hates something] will, as a consequence, give an affirmative answer to the question of whether the object is of such a kind that it can enter into this sort of relation, which simply means ascribing goodness or badness, value or disvalue to it. (ibid.: 187, my emphasis) This is analogous to the case of judgement. Even if to judge something as true does not mean to entertain the content “p is true”, still “when asked whether the object is to be affrmed, [one] will also affrm the object’s tobe-affrmedness, i.e. its truth” (ibid.). Even in the seemingly simpler case of pleasure, “if we have a bodily sensation accompanied by pleasure, we ascribe a value to the sensation, and to this extent the process is obviously necessary” (ibid.: 189, footnote). So, even if love/hate have their own distinctive mode of consciousness, it appears that one could not be ascribed any love/hate attitude unless able to judge their objects good or bad. In fact, Brentano goes further, as he here says that one will make such a judgement. This means that, after all, one needs to master the relevant value concepts in order to feel pleasure, pain, or want anything at all. The “correct interpretation” suggested by Brentano himself thus appears to bar the advantages promised by a mode-of-consciousness account of the guise of the good. In later work (The Origin of Our Knowledge of Right and Wrong, 1889), he does pare down his earlier suggestion, as he allows that one may love something while judging it unworthy of that love: It is hardly possible for a man to accept or affirm something and at the same time hold it to be false. But it may frequently happen that one loves something that one admits to be unworthy of such love:

140 After Kant, Before Anscombe Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor [I see and approve of the better, but I pursue the worse]. (Brentano 2009: 11–12) In other words, a mode-of-consciousness account allows the possibility of cases of akrasia, whereby the evaluation present in desire comes apart from the evaluation offered by judgement or even presentation. Such an account also leaves room for perversity: love (hate) for x—a commitment of a certain kind to x’s positive (negative) value—could itself be motivated by a judgement to the effect that x is bad (good) through and through—a commitment of a different kind to the truth of “x has only negative (positive) value”. Given Brentano’s classifcation, love and hate seem to be suffciently logically insulated from judgement for such wayward practical reasoning to be at least possible (although an explanation of how it is possible is certainly needed).28 Still, while, in all these cases, one will not make the value judgements which match the desire, it is not as if Brentano abandons the general idea that the mode of consciousness of love/hate, while distinct from that of judgements, has something to do with one’s ability to make the relevant value judgements. In fact, in the same later work, Brentano builds his ethical theory on the basis of the inner perception present in love/hate, whereby some cases of love, hate, or preference are “experienced as being correct” (ibid.: 13–14)—for example, preferring knowledge to ignorance—just like some judgements appear to us as self-evident. This inner validation is epistemically sufficient for establishing ultimate ethical truths: A correct love that arises out of concepts manifests itself as being necessarily correct, and the same holds for correct preference. In the former case, we arrive at a knowledge of what is good; in the latter case, we arrive at a knowledge of what is better. It cannot be claimed that each time we think of a good thing, a love of that thing must arise out of the concept. But it is certain that when a love does arise out of the concept, then the correctness of the love may be known with certainty, and the thing loved is known directly to be good. (ibid.: 105)29 In his substantive ethical views, Brentano thus makes use of an additional guise of the good—as the guise of “correct love”—that is cognitively experienced in some cases of love, but this is not to be confused with the general guise of the good that is present in all love/hate phenomena simply as a mode of consciousness and not as an evaluative cognitive act—although, as seen, Brentano does tend to explicate or operationalize such mode of consciousness in terms of the value judgements one is thereby disposed to make.

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On this picture, Brentano offers a new understanding of the guise of the good. We should mention, however, Elizabeth Anscombe’s reservations in her “Will and Emotion” (1981). She rejects Brentano’s unification of will and emotions into one category—unlike emotions, acts of will are not some felt inner phenomena, or mental causes, but are (when things go well) voluntary actions themselves. This point, though important, is in itself somewhat tangential to the issue of Brentano’s guise of the good.30 But Anscombe further claims that his unification of will and emotions is bound up with his (alleged) view that the “source of the ideas of good and bad is purely experiences of love and hate”, that “it doesn’t belong to the intelligence to frame the ideas of good and evil” (Anscombe 1981: 106, 107). As a result, Brentano would be unable to comprehend the will (and hence intentional action) as the locus of a specific intelligence (i.e. cognition), which “frames the conceptions of those generic (right or wrong) ends which are characteristic of human beings” (ibid.), and which therefore enables the agent to give her reasons for her actions. The Brentanian will would instead seem to operate ultimately as a brute mental cause, and this would be very much in opposition to the guise of the good tradition.31 Anscombe is not convincing here. First, it may be true that, genetically speaking, experiences of love/hate are prior to “ideas of good and bad”. Brentano does say that “presentations [of goodness and badness] can stem only from inner perception of these [love/hate] phenomena. Our presentations of truth and falsity, too, presuppose and are acquired by reflection upon judgements” (Brentano 1995: 186). But not just any old love/hate (or inner perception thereof) counts here. Rather, it is when one’s love is experienced as correct—and this doesn’t always happen—that one is led to form an idea of what is good, as that which is correctly loved: We call a thing good when the love relating to it is correct. In the broadest sense of the term, the good is that which is worthy of love, that which can be loved with a love that is correct. (Brentano 2009: 11)32 The experiences in which concepts of value originate come already with an irreducibly normative or evaluative content, in terms of correctness. Second, we have just seen that Brentano tends to explicate the distinctive evaluative mode of consciousness of love/hate in terms of the agent’s disposition to make value judgements. Ascription of any love phenomenon (including acts of will) to an agent thus seems appropriate only when the agent is at least capable of developing ideas of good and bad, that is, of one’s love or hate being correct. The agent’s “intelligence” is after all sufficiently bound up with emotions and will. Third, Brentano’s thesis of the “unity of consciousness” requires that one be normally aware of certain relations between one’s own mental

142 After Kant, Before Anscombe phenomena. In perceiving a colour and hearing a sound at the same time, I am aware (i.e. have at least a presentation) of the difference between these perceptions, as well as of their simultaneity. Likewise when it comes to the class of love/hate: Does not the desire for the means include the desire for the end, and, therefore, does it not contain the presentation of the end along with that of the means? Does not the unitary act of choice necessarily contain the presentation of the objects of choice and of the motives which support this or that object? (Brentano 1995: 123) Choice (or an act of will) is not simply a discrete step on the causal path leading to action, but it comes with an awareness of one’s reasons for the choice (on top of having the mode of consciousness distinctive of all love/ hate phenomena). One might take issue with Brentano’s psychologistic approach, but it seems hard to deny that “intelligence” pervades his picture of will and action, thus placing him squarely within the guise of the good tradition. If anything, one may complain about the intellectualistic drift of such an account, when extended to include pleasure and pain.33 Brentano’s mode-of-consciousness account of the evaluation present in desire (and other attitudes) is a predecessor to “attitude views” recently defended in the contemporary debate.34 Sergio Tenenbaum has clarified his thesis about the nature of practical attitudes as “appearances of value” (first presented in Tenenbaum 2007) in a similar direction: “[A]dding ‘true’ or ‘good’ to the content of a belief or an intention is redundant, since having the attitude already is a form of holding the content, respectively, true and good” (2008: 135, my emphasis). And later, he writes: “[G]ood” does not [need to] appear in the content of the relevant practical attitudes . . . commitment to GG [the guise of the good] is manifested by understanding intention and desire as a form of holding or taking the content to be good. (2018: 14) Karl Schafer (2013) similarly understands desires and intentions as attitudes with a distinctive “imperatival force”, presenting an object (an action) as something that one ought to do, but not having this “ought” as part of their content. It remains to be seen, to be sure, what to make of the residual talk of appearances (Tenenbaum) and presentation (Schafer)—Brentano’s version seems at least neater in avoiding any terminological suggestion that evaluative content may need generally to “appear” or “be presented”. The contrast, as anticipated in Chapter 1, is with “content views”, which identify desire and other practical attitudes with a belief with

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an evaluative or normative content (e.g. “that one has reason to do x”, as in Gregory 2013), or with a perception of the object of desire as good (Stampe 1987), or again with an object “seeming” good (Oddie 2005). All these views place the guise of the good within the content of a state (belief, perception, seeming) that is to be identical with desire. A variation on this is Joseph Raz’s thesis that intentions require (but need not be identical with) a belief in the value of the intended action (Raz 2010). This more limited thesis is something that Brentano might in fact accept, as seen in his treatment of choice: some love/hate phenomena can be such as to require an evaluative presentation or judgement to go with them. The difference remains, however, in that, for Raz, the guise of value gets located in the content of an accompanying belief and not in the mode of consciousness characteristic of intention itself. The pros and cons of Brentano-style “attitude views” vis-à-vis “content views” are at the core of the contemporary debate (see e.g. Boswell 2018). This is not to say that Brentano influenced these recent developments. His immediate legacy was restricted to his “school” and to the philosophers who came into contact with it via the somewhat later phenomenological tradition. These philosophers, in turn, did not (as far as I can see) play a role in Anscombe’s rediscovery of the guise of the good and in subsequent debates in the “analytic” context. In fact, some of these “Continental” authors (unlike Brentano himself) rejected the suggestion that they were continuing a long-standing tradition, even while they did hold (following Brentano) that some irreducibly evaluative component is an essential part of practical attitudes. Here is Max Scheler (1874–1928) in his Formalism in Ethics and Non-formal Ethics of Values (1913–1916): [C]onations [i.e. inclinations, desires] .  .  . are determined and differentiated by (1) their direction, (2) the value-component of their “goals,” and (3) the picture- or meaning-content arising from this value-content. (Scheler 1973: 39)35 “[P]urpose” [as an element in any act of will, which inherits the valuecomponent of conations] is only a “content” of some sort (of possible thinking, representing, or perceiving) which is given as to-be-realized. (ibid.: 30) While subscribing to an evaluative conception of desire and will, however, Scheler intended to distance himself from the tradition: “It is quite possible consciously to will the bad as the bad. We do not at all agree with Thomas Aquinas’ claim, ‘Omnia volumus sub specie boni [we want all things under the guise of the good]’” (ibid.: 583, fn. 291).36

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Conclusion In this chapter, I have highlighted a few, mostly implicit, signs of life of the guise of the good after Kant in different philosophical contexts: Hegel’s dialectical use of it; Mill’s tacit reliance on an hedonic version of it for his “proof” of utilitarianism; Nietzsche’s grounds for a distinctive rejection; Brentano’s new proposal. Of course, a more extensive look into the 1800–1950 period will inevitably uncover more signs of life. But it will probably also deepen the sense of a time of hiatus until Anscombe, to the extent that such signs of life (1) remain scattered rather than being part of a widespread coming-to-terms with the guise of the good, as was instead the case with early modern philosophers, and (2) did not actually prove influential with respect to Anscombe’s recovery of the thesis in pretty much its Aristotelian-Scholastic formulation.

Notes 1. In his major work The World as Will and Representation (first published in 1818), Schopenhauer criticizes the idea that we recognize that something is good and will it only as a result of this, instead of willing it first and calling it good as a result of that. But according to my whole fundamental outlook this is a reversal of the true relation. The will is first and primordial; cognition only comes in later, since it belongs to the appearance of the will as its instrument. (2010: 319)

2. 3.

4. 5.

And he defines “goodness” in a way that would make the guise of the good trivial: “suitability of an object to any particular effort of the will” (ibid.: 387), where “suitability” is the simple fact that an object satisfies a particular person’s will. Schopenhauer’s quick dismissal of the guise of the good (or lack of mention as in the Prize Essay) is all the more significant, as he otherwise shows familiarity with a figure like Francisco Suárez (see e.g. ibid.: 177). References to Nietzsche include section or essay number (where applicable, as here) followed by aphorism number/page of the relevant edition. Similar phenomena are broached by Søren Kierkegaard under the heading of “despair”. I will not discuss Kierkegaard both for reasons of space and because of a thorough existing work by Fremstedal (2019), who argues that Kierkegaard (consistently with his Christian background) remains faithful to the guise of the good. Unless otherwise noted, all Hegel references are to Hegel (2008), paragraph/ page. This inner aspect of the will contains a progression from the natural will made of impulses, on to the will as arbitrariness or choice and then as a rational system of impulses, through to the will as properly free “in and for itself” (21/41). This progression is described in the Introduction to the Philosophy of Right, as well as in paragraphs 469–482 of the Encyclopaedia (1830) as the transition from “practical mind/spirit” to “free mind/spirit”. As far as Hegel’s texts go, it is hard to say whether the guise of the good characterizes any of these moments of the will.

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6. “Morality must be taken in the wider sense in which it does not mean merely the morally good” (Hegel 2007: 503/224). The phrase “the reason I think it [my action] valid” translates the German das, wonach sie für mich gilt, literally: “that, on account of which it [my action] counts/is valid for me”. Grund, the usual German for “reason”, is thus missing. However, that motivation by reasons centrally belongs to morality is widely recognized in Hegel scholarship, see, for example, Wood (1990: 23, 141–142). For two different analyses of the transition from purpose to the idea of the good, see Quante (2004: chs. 4–5), and Houlgate (2010). 7. This is compatible with the fact that judging someone’s actions partly depends on the “right of objectivity”, that is, when an action is to be imputed to me, I am ascribed “cognizance” of whether my action is right or wrong, good or bad, even if I was not aware of it at the moment of acting (and in this sense, the guise of the good remains subjective here): “Whoever wills to act in this world of actuality has eo ipso submitted himself to its laws and recognized the right of objectivity” (132/128). See Wood (2010b). 8. Here is Wood’s reconstruction: As Hegel presents it, the ethics of conviction considers an action justified whenever the agent represents it as good in any respect at all, and, since no act would be performed unless the agent found some good in it, it follows that any act (of lying, or theft, or cowardice, or murder) can be justified. (Wood 1990: 184, my emphasis)

9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

See Quante (2004: 159) for further evidence of Hegel’s commitment to some version of the guise of the good. The unfolding of the will is, or involves, the progressive unfolding of freedom itself: “The will is free, so that freedom is both its substance and its goal, while the system of right [culminating in the ethical life] is the realm of freedom made actual” (4/26). See also Moyar (2011: 74–80) about how agents’ own purposes are to be, to some extent, reflectively nested within the institutions of the ethical life, rather than blindly subservient to them. In this section, I have reworked materials in Orsi (2021a). Here is a sample of such scholarship. Crisp: “[Mill’s] argument requires that we recognize the object of our desire as good” (1997: 77). Sayre-McCord: “[A] person who desires x is ipso facto a person who sees x as desirable. Desiring something is, for Mill, a matter of seeing it under the guise of the good” (2001: 339–340). Miller: “Our desires are evidence of what is desirable, because we desire that which appears to us to be desirable” (2004: 103), and also Miller (2010: 44–45). Stocker’s reconstruction (1969) logically entails the claim that for Mill we desire all and only the things which we believe desirable. References are to Utilitarianism by chapter and paragraph number. The evidence provided by appearances is strictly indexed to each subject. If your desire for your happiness gave me evidence that your happiness is desirable, Mill would not need to go on to show that everyone’s happiness, no matter whose, is valuable as an end. This latter step of the proof is not our concern here. There are admittedly two liabilities for this strategy. First, there might be defeaters which undermine the evidential status of the appearance that our own happiness is desirable for its own sake. Second, this strategy does not vindicate Mill’s claim that what people actually desire is the “sole” evidence that something is desirable. Mill probably assumes that (a) any putative defeater would be less believable than the claim that our own happiness is

146 After Kant, Before Anscombe desirable as an end, and (b) if something did not appear desirable to anyone, no amount of proof would ever convince anyone to judge it desirable—this is the “dialogical” sense of evidence at play in Mill’s argument. 14. Compare James Mill: “The idea of a pleasure is the idea of something as good to have” (1869: 151). J. S. Mill would seem to agree, if only because in his rather critical notes to this part of his father’s work, he doesn’t comment on this particular claim. 15. Mill in fact concedes that, on utilitarianism, many of the things people value for their own sake are “desirable in and for themselves; besides being means, they are a part of the end”, qua constituents of happiness (U 4.5). But of course sometimes people go wrong: the miser; those who prefer “lower pleasures” (U 2.4 and ff.); those who insist that happiness has no higher standing vis-à-vis other values. Moreover, happiness should ultimately be desired as such rather than as my own happiness. So it is at best not clear that Mill would subscribe to a Subjective + Objective version of the guise of the good just because people “desire happiness” and happiness is the one fundamental value. 16. There is, however, one passage in the Genealogy of Morality (1887) where Nietzsche, seemingly approvingly, refers to Spinoza as to the philosopher who had relegated good and evil to man’s imagination and angrily defended the honour of his “free” God against the blasphemists who asserted that God operates everything sub ratione boni (“but that would mean that God is subject to fate and would really be the greatest of all absurdities”—). (Nietzsche 2006: II: 15/55)

17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22.

We can surmise that Nietzsche agrees with Spinoza both with respect to God (conditionally, since Nietzsche was an atheist: “if there is a God, then he does not operate under the guise of the good”) and with respect to human beings. One complication, though, is that in this precise textual context “good”— and therefore, probably, also bonum as in sub ratione boni—refers to something like moral goodness (he is discussing “the bite of conscience”), not the generic goodness typically meant in the guise of the good thesis. This endorsement of Spinoza is a clue, but is not sufficient evidence for Nietzsche’s rejection of the thesis, let alone for his reasons to reject it—which, as I argue later, are in fact different from Spinoza’s. This very aphorism 119, from Daybreak (1881), contains an extended discussion of drives in general. In the same work (Beyond Good and Evil, 1886), the soul was earlier characterized as “a society constructed out of drives and affects” (Nietzsche 2002: 12/14). To this extent I probably disagree with Sandis (2021). “In every act of will there is a commandeering thought . . . an unconditional evaluation ‘now this is necessary and nothing else’” (Nietzsche 2002: 19/18– 19). Moreover, pleasure plays a role here as in many traditional accounts: “[F]irst, in order for willing to come about, a representation of pleasure or displeasure is needed. Second, that a violent stimulus is experienced as pleasure or pain is a matter of the interpreting intellect” (Nietzsche 2001: 127/122). See discussions of these passages in Schacht (1983: 302–304), Leiter (2002: 101 fn.), and Bailey (2018). Nietzsche’s argument for his view is far from obvious. It may be his philosophical interpretation of certain scientific psychology of his time. See Leiter (2002: ch. 3) for commentary.

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23. See Sandis (2012: ch. 5) for a criticism of this assumption in the philosophy of action. 24. A consequence of this is the opacity of the real motivating forces. See, for example, Nietzsche (1997: 129/79–80). For analysis, see Riccardi (2015). 25. While Spinoza’s conatus is also a pre-conscious force, in human beings it does manifest as consciousness, and it is within the context of consciousness that Spinoza levels his objection to the guise of the good. 26. Talk about drives’ own evaluations had better be figurative, lest we ascribe to Nietzsche a (vicious) homunculus view of drives. See Katsafanas (2016: 97–99) and Riccardi (2018). 27. The terms “agreeable” and “disagreeable” do not hint at some sort of privileged role for pleasure and displeasure. They rather occupy the same position with respect to “as good” and “as bad”, as “accepted” and “rejected” do with respect to “as true” and “as false”. They are simply specifications of the acts of love and hate (in loving something, I “agree with” the object or “find it agreeing” with me) just like the latter specify the acts of affirmation and denial in judgements. 28. See Tenenbaum (2018). For the same reasons, it seems that on this picture the evaluative nature of love/hate puts no constraint on what we can love or hate. Even if certain things (like evil as such) just could not appear or be judged as good, this is strictly tangential to the question whether they can be loved. A Brentanian account would seem to favour a Subjective Only version of the guise of the good. 29. It is not entirely obvious how to tell the difference from preferences which merely appear to be experienced as correct, but are really just habitual or instinctive. Brentano suggests introspective comparison among our preferences (2009: 12–14), and the idea that preferences experienced as being correct arise purely “out of concepts” (ibid.: 76). In any case, it is crucial that there be such a difference—thus that not all loves or preferences be actually experienced as correct—or Brentano would have to admit a pernicious form of subjectivism about value, since actually experiencing one’s love as correct is by his lights sufficient for the relevant object to be (known to be) good (see 2009: 56, 98). 30. Montague (2017) offers a reconstruction of Brentano’s arguments for the unification. However, it’s not clear to me that Brentano assumes that in every case of love/hate, “we must have a phenomenological feeling associated with the good, even if it is only the weakest of pro-tinges” (Montague 2017: 116). Terms like “feeling” and “emotion” are used in a technical sense (when they refer to the whole class of love/hate phenomena). The relevant mode of consciousness is no more a mode of feeling in this case than in the case of judgements. 31. I take it that Anscombe has not simply overlooked Brentano’s “official” say on the will, which does include the notion of good: “Every act of will has to do with an action we believe to be in our power and with a good which is expected to result from the act of will itself” (Brentano 1995: 193). Her issue is with the quality of such notion of good. 32. On this basis, Brentano is usually seen as a founder of the kind of analysis known as “fitting attitude analysis of value” (see e.g. Rabinowicz and Rønnow-Rasmussen 2004, and Danielsson and Olson 2007 for an interpretation of Brentano’s specific version). There seems to be the following logical relation between the guise of the good and such analyses: if the (apparent) goodness that characterizes the objects of love is understood as—or immediately reflects back into—the (apparent) correctness (fittingness, worthiness) of the very love for those objects (otherwise put: if goodness appears in or

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33. 34.

35.

36.

through love as love-worthiness), then the concept of x being good that we “earn” through this route can only be the concept of x being the object of correct (fitting, worthy) love. A fitting attitude analysis of the concept (and the property) of value follows from this, on the assumption that other routes to the concept (and the property) of value are unavailable. I have explored the fitting attitude analysis at length in Orsi (2015b). There remains the issue of how Brentano does or could distinguish acts of will (decisions and intentions) from emotions, and where to exactly place desires. See Kriegel (2018: 198–207) for various suggestions. A point made in Kriegel (2018)—to whom this section is indebted. However, I find his phrasing of the relevant mode of consciousness as “presenting-asgood object x” potentially misleading, despite the intuitive syntactic contrast with “presenting object x as good”. Talk of presentation, in connection with Brentano’s love/hate, strictly only applies to the object x that needs to be presented (i.e. we need to have an idea of it) in order to be loved or hated. By (3), Scheler means that what we concretely desire can take shape only as a result of our prior aiming at some value: for example, if helping others did not first appear to me as good (the value-component), I would not be in a position to desire to help this person in this way. In fact, (3) is strictly not even necessary: “conation can stay on the level of the mere value-consciousness of its goal” (ibid.: 40). There can be, in this sense, unfocused desires merely consisting of direction (a movement of attraction or repulsion) and value-component. Scheler seems to think of value-components as “thick” or equipped with a built-in descriptive part, which guarantees that we still desire something even when we don’t desire anything concretely. Willing, however, requires a represented “picture-content”. However, consistently with tradition, Scheler here goes on to say: “But it is not possible consciously to prefer what is given as bad to what is given as good”. Incidentally, as noticed in Chapter 4, Aquinas’ standard phrase is not sub specie boni, but sub ratione boni.

10 Epilogue A Fresh Start

Introduction Elizabeth Anscombe (1919–2001) appears to have single-handedly retrieved the guise of the good from the relative obscurity in which it lay, as seen in the previous chapter. One would be hard pressed to find significant references to it in the British philosophy of action and moral philosophy of the time, both of which she vehemently attacked in her “Modern Moral Philosophy” (1958).1 Her inspiration seems to have come from Aristotle and Aquinas themselves, her Catholic faith, arguably, playing a role here.2 In this chapter, I take a closer look at her rediscovery of the thesis in Intention (1957). I leave an account of the ensuing philosophical debate up to now for another occasion.3 I will systematically apply to Anscombe’s text the distinctions made in Chapter 1, in order to better understand her version of the guise of the good, and then attempt to extract an argument for it.

Anscombe’s Guise of the Good The guise of the good is not Anscombe’s central theme in Intention. But it is not the object of a mere historical digression either. In fact, her positive account of intentional action would be far from being complete without the relevant sections, running, roughly, from §33 to §43 (but most centrally §§37–40).4 Her central theme is the nature of intentional action: what makes it the case that I am intentionally writing a book right now, or that I intentionally put the coffee machine on the stovetop this morning? One necessary condition is that “a certain sense of the question ‘why?’ has application” (11). Namely, one could ask me “why did you do/are you doing that?”, in the sense of “what is the reason in the light of which you did/are doing that?”. The possibility of asking the question is what is needed—but it may happen that the answer is “for no particular reason” or “I just did”: “The question is not refused application because the answer to it says there is no reason, any more than the question how DOI: 10.4324/9781003223689-10

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much money I have in my pocket is refused application by the answer ‘None’” (25). Thus, there can be intentional actions that are not done for a reason, although (if Anscombe’s condition is to have sufficient significance) the central case will be one in which the action is done in the light of some reason—in which the question does have a reason-giving answer.5 Few, if any, philosophers would dispute this starting point. But to many philosophers, any admissible answer to the “why” question must refer to something wanted or desired by the agent, or perhaps to her wanting something. It is at this juncture that Anscombe appeals to the guise of the good. “Because I want (to do) x” cannot be, as such, a satisfactory answer, because it itself invites the further question “why do you want that?”, where “why?” means, now, “what is your reason for wanting (to do) x?”. In Anscombe’s terms, any intelligible answer to this question must refer to a “desirabilitycharacterisation” of what we want. Suppose someone says that they want a saucer of mud (70). The question arises, why do they want it: Does it serve as a symbol? Is there something delightful about it? Does the man want to have something to call his own, and no more? . . . To say “I merely want this” without any characterisation is to deprive the word [“want”] of sense. (71) Next, for Anscombe, it is not enough just to gesture at some aspect of what we want that we know to attract us. It must be an aspect whose attraction is intelligible independent of the fact that it attracts us. “Desirability” works at once both as a subjective and as an objective notion here. The aspect is one that the agent finds desirable, or we wouldn’t be talking about her reasons: [T]he notion of “good” that has to be introduced in an account of wanting is not that of what is really good but of what the agent conceives to be good; what the agent wants would have to be characterisable as good by him, if we may suppose him not to be impeded by inarticulateness. (76) At the same time, Anscombe continues, “the good (perhaps falsely) conceived by the agent to characterise the thing must really be one of the many forms of good” (76–77). Her running examples are in terms of pleasure and health, but they also include desirability-characterizations which manifest the agent’s badly distorted take on some recognizable form of good: that a certain action “befts a Nazi” (72) (here the good is something like duty or loyalty) or, in the case of John Milton’s Satan who makes evil “his good”, “my intact liberty in the unsubmissiveness

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of my will” (75) (here the good is something like freedom). Both subjective and objective side are thus held together within her statement of the guise of the good: “Bonum est multiplex: good is multiform, and all that is required for our concept of ‘wanting’ is that a man should see what he wants under the aspect of some good” (75).6 Anscombe thus clearly enough subscribes to a Subjective + Objective version of the thesis. Where does she stand with respect to the other variables discussed in Chapter 1? What the guise of the good is about. Certainly her version is about a notion of “wanting”. But is it also a thesis about intentional action per se? This is a more debatable question than it may seem. First, as seen, when we do something “for no particular reason”, our actions can still be intentional, but in these cases, rare as they may be, we don’t seem to want something under the aspect of some good—even though we may still be said to “want” (in some other sense?) to do whatever we do. Second, Anscombe introduces the relevant notion of “wanting” and the guise of the good in the course of an apparent detour into Aristotle’s concept of practical syllogism, and practical reasoning more generally, while remarking: “[N]ot everything that I have described as coming in the range of ‘reasons for acting’ can have a place as a premise in a practical syllogism” (65). What she has in mind are backward-looking reasons (“he killed my father”) and interpretative motives (“I did it out of friendship”), discussed in earlier sections as perfectly fine answers to the “why” question. But what is “wanted” (in the sense described by the guise of the good) is exactly what such premises are about; something wanted is the starting-point of practical reasoning (66). It thus seems as if there can be many reasons for acting (reasons in light of which we act) which do not require a desirability-characterization. Anscombe’s guise of the good would be only about wanting, in the sense relevant to practical syllogisms, and in turn only about those intentional actions that are or can be informed by practical syllogisms. However, the first point can be got around by understanding intentional action as requiring the applicability of a “why” question, whose admissible reason-giving answers are constrained by the agent seeing some good in her action. It is true that sometimes we act intentionally, but not under the guise of some good; still, the guise of the good does set in whenever we do act for reasons. The answer to the second point is that, despite textual appearances, Anscombe does not mean “wanting” to be confined to what can be expressed in the main premise of a practical syllogism. Anscombe’s purposes are, partly, illustrative: “Aristotle’s ‘practical reasoning’ or my order of questions ‘Why?’ can be looked at as a device which reveals the order that there is in this chaos” (80, my emphasis), that is, the chaos one faces when trying to understand the nature of intentional action quite in general, and not only those intentional actions which are or can be informed by practical reasoning.

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A fair conclusion then is that Anscombe’s version of the guise of the good is about intentional action, because (1) it is about “wanting”, (2) questions about reasons for action are continuous with questions about reasons for wanting something realized in the action, and (3) questions about reasons for action necessarily characterize intentional action.7 The good. Like in the classical canon, the goods under whose aspect we can want and act are various, as Anscombe points out. It is the job of ethics to give an exhaustive description of the possibilities here, though it seems understood that they won’t be limitless: evil, for obvious reasons, is not in the list of possible goods; nor are saucers of mud, without further elaboration; nor, finally, does it seem plausible on this picture that there could be “proprietary” desirability-characterizations such as to make my (your, etc.) wanting x, and only my (your, etc.) wanting x, intelligible. This of course leaves room for goods to be relative to agents (e.g. the good of my family gives me, and not just anyone else, certain reasons), and for different agents to differently interpret what falls under a given good (e.g. Satan sees disobeying God as realizing his freedom).8 Appearing under the guise. Anscombe does not say whether something being seen under the aspect of some good is a matter of having an evaluative belief, perception, or again a matter of the “mode of consciousness” of wanting (not that she would use Brentano’s phrase!). The parallel she draws between wanting/good and judging/true suggests that a representation with the content “x is good” is no more needed for wanting x than a representation “p is true” is for judging that p (76). Thus John Schwenkler writes that Anscombe’s guise of the good is about “the manner in which an object is represented insofar as it is desired, and not a special property that one who desires an object must represent it as having” (2019: 145). Still, the applicability of the “why” question requires that the agent be in a position to understand and answer it, even (maybe especially) when one’s answer is “for no particular reason”. In turn, understanding the “why” question requires at least some capacity to think in terms of goodness and badness—or in terms of one’s reasons for a certain action as good reasons, reasons that do speak in favour of the action. In wanting, the agent’s evaluative or normative thought must be in the offing, whether she actually exercises it or not. Questions of form, status, and scope. The latter point highlights the question of scope (according to one dimension): Anscombe, in fact, says, “of course we are not speaking of the ‘I want’ of a child who screams for something” (76). She may not exactly mean, here, that her thesis restricts to adult human beings only, but it is a hint that the “why” question may not be applicable to the actions of, say, very young children. The same quote, in addition, shows that not everything we call “wanting” falls under the thesis. And, as seen earlier, while she clearly makes no exception for wayward wanting such as Satan’s, she seems relatively

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comfortable leaving room for occasional reasonless, hence “goodless”, intentional action and wanting, as long as the “why” question remains applicable in these cases.9 Regarding form and status, Anscombe puts forth the thesis as a conceptual truth stating a necessary condition on “wanting”, and in turn—if what I said earlier is correct—on intentional action. In this, she is (unsurprisingly) joined by her husband Peter Geach, who around the same time in “Good and Evil” writes: [I]t belongs to the ratio of “want”, “choose”, “good”, and “bad”, that, normally, and other things being equal, a man who wants an A will choose a good A and will not choose a bad A—or rather will choose an A that he thinks good and will not choose an A that he thinks bad. (Geach 1956: 39) It is interesting to point out how Geach’s claim is both stronger and weaker than what Anscombe says in Intention. It is stronger, in that Geach makes a further conceptual connection between wanting, choosing, and the good— Anscombe remains silent on the relation both between wanting and choosing, and between choosing and the good. It is weaker, in that it offcially only concerns, as it were, the guise of the attributive good, where what we want is something that can be intelligibly characterized as “a good A”, for example, a good knife, or a good doctor. It is not obvious that all objects of wanting can be so characterized, although it was part of Geach’s goal to argue that human actions (as opposed to, say, states of affairs) can be so characterized—there are standards for good human action as there are for good knives. If so, then it follows that whenever we “want an action”, that is, want to do something, we will want and choose (normally and other things being equal) to do something we think good as an action. Even when extended to action generally, Geach’s claim is still interestingly different from Anscombe’s. First, Anscombe doesn’t suggest that there must be something “abnormal” or that other things are “not equal” whenever it turns out that the agent wanted to do something for no particular reason, and thus not under the guise of some good. Second, Geach could take cases like Satan’s at face value, by regarding them as “abnormal” or where the other things being equal clause fails: Satan could indeed be acting under the guise of the bad as such, without one being forced to find some desirability characterization in terms of liberty or other goods.

An Anscombean Argument Anscombe does not present the guise of the good as the conclusion of any particular argument. In this, she exhibits a recurrent feature in our

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history: the thesis is formulated, elaborated on, applied to challenging cases, but otherwise taken as self-evident, with only sporadic attempts at directly arguing for it—Aquinas, as seen in Chapter 4, is one noteworthy exception. During certain periods, the lack of explicit argument might have been justified by the assumption of a shared philosophical (and often theological) background. In 1957, of course, such an assumption could no longer be granted; nor could Aquinas’ own argument, based on a teleological worldview, be relied upon to have any currency among Anscombe’s readers.10 Despite this, an Anscombean if not exactly Anscombe’s argument can be extracted from Intention. I will conclude the chapter by articulating such an argument. The idea, in a nutshell, is that unless what is wanted is seen by the agent under the guise of some good, we are unable to explain what she does as an intentional action. Why? In particular: what would be missing from an explanation that only mentioned what the agent wanted and what the agent took to be the case, but left out the evaluative component—the fact that what she wanted was seen by her as good under some aspect or as justifying, if only to a little extent, her action?11 Part of Anscombe’s answer seems to be: what is missing is the fact that the agent acted for a reason (if she did), as opposed to acting as a result of some mental cause—that is, as a result of factors present in (or accessible through) the agent’s psychology, of which she may be well aware, and which led up to the action: A “mental cause” is what someone would describe if he were asked the specific question: what produced this action or thought or feeling on your part: what did you see or hear or feel, or what ideas or images cropped up in your mind and led up to it? (Anscombe 1963: 16–17) There are thus two closely related, but conceptually distinct, kinds of “why” questions about one’s action that the agent is typically in a special position to answer: the mental cause question and the agent’s reason question. The idea is that the guise of the good is the only or the best way to capture the very sense of the second “why” question, whereas mere mention of what the agent wanted and believed can, as far as it goes, only contribute to answering the frst “why” question.12 As can be seen, the point is not one about the agent’s reasons for action being the domain of her distinctive epistemic authority: the agent is no more an authority on her reasons for action than she is on her mental causes (in the aforementioned sense). Moreover, it is not even that her reasons for action are in some sense more hers than her mental causes, and so require that the agent be somehow specifically invested in them by placing them in some conception of the good. Anscombe is not led to affirm the guise of the good because of any concern with a deeply

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first-personal or agent-dependent aspect of intentional action which would otherwise remain unaccounted for. Mental causes (in the aforementioned sense) can account for all of these aspects just as well. The idea that value considerations are what distinguishes reasons for action from mental causes emerges already in earlier sections of Intention: [W]hat the agent reports in answer to the question “Why?” is a reason for acting if in treating it as a reason he conceives it as something good or bad, and his own action as doing good or harm. If you could e.g. show that either the action for which he has revenged himself, or that in which he has revenged himself, was quite harmless or was beneficial, he ceases to offer a reason, except prefaced by “I thought”. If it is a proposed revenge he either gives it up or changes his reason. No such discovery would affect an assertion of mental causality. (22, my emphasis) In other words: our own explanation of our action by reasons, in this sort of cases, is sensitive to facts about good and bad—if those facts are not as we thought they were, our explanation turns from, for example, “that guy hurt me frst” into the “I thought that . . .” format. Call this the “value-test”. That, incidentally, would seem to include also the case (not mentioned here by Anscombe) where we are brought to change our mind about the very value of an act like returning harm for harm. But our own explanation of our action by mental causes is not likewise sensitive to good and bad; in fact, it can be uniformly given in the “I thought that . . .” format all along. However, for all Anscombe says here, this sensitivity to value might be just a local feature of reasons like revenge or gratitude, which Anscombe calls “backward-looking”. She immediately adds: “Whether in general good and harm play an essential part in the concept of intention it still remains to find out” (ibid.). And she thinks that explanations by “forwardlooking” reasons—which refer to ends at some distance: “I did it in order to . . .”—are sufficiently distinguished from explanation by mental causes because they describe something future (and a cause cannot lie in the future), without any need to invoke sensitivity to value (23). But the advocate of mental cause explanations cannot be so easily dismissed: on their view, the future states of affairs mentioned in forwardlooking reasons really refer to contents that are already “in the mind”, as objects of beliefs and desires, and which then can cause action. To block such an opponent, it seems to me that Anscombe could simply run her “value-test” for forward-looking reasons too. Your explanation that you took a certain tablet “in order to calm a headache” turns to the format “I thought it would calm my headache”, should you find out that the tablet was not good for you. By contrast, explanation by mental causes is, again, not affected by any such discovery—one could have mentioned the relevant beliefs and desires all along.13

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However, granted that a value-test can successfully keep reasons apart from mental causes, one should ask just why this is so, before drawing the conclusion that a Subjective + Objective version of guise of the good characterizes reasons for wanting, reasons for action, questions about both, and (as a result) intentional action. Here one needs to draw on things Anscombe either says elsewhere or tacitly assumes. When we ask the “why” question about an agent’s reason, we presuppose something like the intrinsic intelligibility of human action. Human action can make sense to the agent herself only to the extent that it makes sense, as a human action, period. And for something to make sense as a human action, period, is for it to relate, in intelligible ways,14 to the “generic . . . ends which are characteristic of human beings” (Anscombe 1981: 107). But what is actually good (for human beings) is a function of such generic ends (pleasure, health, etc.)—here is Anscombe’s tacit meta-ethical view, which I can do no more than gesture at.15 Therefore, both asking and answering “why” questions about reasons are, ultimately, constrained by the range of actual “forms” of the good. The value-test is successful because the agent’s reasons are sensitive to value. Lest it be thought that this argument goes to the extreme of denying the subjective side of the guise of the good, it will be enough to note that Anscombe, as a follower of Aquinas, builds into the notion of human action a certain requirement of “intelligence”, which includes evaluative thought of a fairly articulate (or articulable) kind (see, again, Anscombe 1981). When operative, a characteristic end of human beings will appear, to me, as a value: as I decide to take a medicine for the sake of health, I don’t need to tell myself, as it were, “my health is something good”, but such evaluative knowledge can be ascribed to me for free (72). An account of intentional action purely in terms of its mental causes would legitimately stop once we have gathered a sufficient amount of causally relevant factors. But there is no guarantee that we will have thereby made the action objectively intelligible, that is, explained it as a human action. Any impression that we have done so—and we are probably bound to have that impression most of the time we give or hear a certain kind of mental causes story—is the result of our tacitly appealing to the guise of the good to understand and characterize what the agent wanted or saw in her action. I will not pause to assess this argument. It is, however, worth noting that it constitutes a fresh start in our history. By divorcing agent’s reasons and mental causes, the Anscombean argument breaks with an assumption more or less tacitly made by the main approaches to the guise of the good seen so far, and terminologically captured (in English) by a concept like “motive” (18): something that both causally sets the agent into motion and presents (or at least alludes to) a reason in light of which she acts, as when we say that revenge was A’s motive for hurting B. In the classical canon, reasons as motives are final causes of one’s action—one

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is quite literally moved by a represented state of affairs-to-be, or by its perceived goodness, in a magnet-like fashion. In the empiricist revisions of the canon, reasons as motives are mechanical causes (“springs”) of (internal or external) movements. Even in Kant’s philosophy, practical reason is said to operate as a special, non-empirical form of causality. Anscombe is probably the first philosopher to firmly place the guise of the good within the “logical space of reasons”, to borrow a phrase from the roughly coeval (1956) work by Wilfrid Sellars (Sellars 1997: 76).

Conclusion A “fresh start” does not mean that Anscombe’s guise of the good is on a better track than its predecessors; in fact, one may well decide to abandon the guise of the good, should it turn out that the best argument for it depends on divorcing agent’s reasons from mental causes. Some philosophers, most notably Donald Davidson, have since explicitly defended versions of the guise of the good whereby the agent’s reasons are both evaluatively characterized and causally effective mental states or attitudes (beginning with Davidson 1963). Other advocates have built their views while largely bypassing causal concerns, yet retaining the centrality of notions like desire in making sense of (and sometimes positively justifying) intentional action (Stampe 1987; Schafer 2013, and to some extent, Tenenbaum 2007), in ways that Anscombe would probably reject as implausibly psychologistic. Her guise of the good conception of “wanting” does not map neatly onto a conception of the mental state or attitude of wanting something; what matters is the logical role played by what is wanted in practical reasoning and, on the present reconstruction, in acting for reasons quite generally.

Notes 1. The guise of the good doesn’t seem to fit either with logical positivism or with Gilbert Ryle’s purely dispositional view of motives and reasons (Ryle 1949: 94–98). But it is also largely ignored among the moral intuitionists, despite W. D. Ross’ work on Aristotle, and H. A. Prichard’s analyses of willing and action. There are two exceptions. In “Unreasonable Action” (1893), Henry Sidgwick did offer a guise of the good diagnosis of seemingly perverse desire (see Pellegrino 2021): [E]ven a man who said “Evil be thou my good” and acted accordingly might have only an obscured consciousness of the awful irrationality of his action:—obscured by a fallacious imagination that his only chance of being in any way admirable, at the point which he has now reached in his downward course, must lie in candid and consistent wickedness. (Sidgwick 2000: 118, my emphasis) G. E. Moore, in the course of his non-naturalist argument against “Metaphysical Ethics”, remarks that it “may possibly be true universally . . . that a perception of goodness is included in the complex facts which we mean by willing and by having certain kinds of feeling” (1993: 131, §79). Moore

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2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14.

15.

Epilogue: A Fresh Start proceeds to argue that precisely because willing and feeling include perceiving something as good, the property of goodness cannot be equated with a state of willing or feeling—this would involve a confusion of the object of an attitude with our having the attitude towards it. On Wittgenstein’s influence, see Teichmann (2015: 142–146) and more specifically Schwenkler (2019: 142–143). I have mentioned recent developments (when appropriate) in previous chapters, and provided theoretical background (which sheds light on current discussions) in Chapter 1. One could also usefully consult Tenenbaum (2013, 2020), and Orsi (2015a). Unless otherwise noted, in this chapter all Anscombe references are to Anscombe (1963), by page only. “The occurrence of other answers to the question ‘Why?’ besides ones like ‘I just did’, is essential to the existence of the concept of an intention or voluntary action” (33). All that is required, that is, for the relation between wanting and the good. Of course, there are other necessary conditions for wanting, for example, trying to get what we want (68). See Alvarez (2009: 205–208) for a similar reading. An untidy alternative would be to ascribe to Anscombe a piecemeal guise of the good, as applying to intentional action generally, but to some intentional actions in virtue of the concept of “wanting”, and to other intentional actions in virtue, perhaps, of the good-related content of backward-looking reasons and interpretative motives. For recent elaborations on what can fall under “the good”, see Vogler (2002), Oderberg (2015), and Yao (2019) (who, however, ultimately rejects the guise of the good). I say “relatively comfortable”, because for Anscombe certain answers within this range (e.g. “I don’t know why I did that”) concerning purposeful but apparently pointless actions—for example, carefully spreading all of one’s green books on the roof—can diagnose such actions as voluntary but not intentional (26–27). The question “why” remains applicable in these cases (indeed, it seems especially appropriate!), but its applicability is not sufficient to brand the action as intentional. Anscombe never suggests, anyway, that such applicability is a sufficient condition for intentional actions. But see Boyle and Lavin (2010) for a contemporary suggestion along Aristotle’s and Aquinas’ lines. Setiya (2007: Part I, and 2010) has forcefully urged this question. In this sense, for the “why” question about reasons, appeal to psychological contents (what is wanted/believed) can be just as irrelevant as appeal to psychological states (the wanting, the believing). As Anscombe sets up things, contents qua representations (and that may include evaluative representations) may just as well answer the “why” question about mental causes. See Dancy (2000) for a classic statement that motivating reasons are what is wanted or believed, understood as states of affairs. If this is right, the “value-test” should be applicable also to distinguish “interpretative motives” from mental causes (20–21, 24–25). One could not, without further elaboration, say that eating or owning saucers of mud is good for one’s health any more than one could say they drink coffee “for the love of Sophocles” (Raz 2002b: 9). Unintelligibly relating to an intelligible value is clearly insufficient on Anscombe’s (and Raz’s) view. See Teichmann (2008: 66–79) for the role of Anscombe’s “naturalism” in this connection.

List of Claims

GG. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good. (Otherwise said: if x does not appear to A under the guise of the good, then A does not desire x.) Subjective + Objective. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good—A takes x as good—on account of some property P, which is something objectively good or sufficiently related to something objectively good. Subjective Only. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of the good—A takes x as good—on account of some property P, which need not be something objectively good or sufficiently related to something objectively good. Objective Only. If A desires x, then x appears to A under the guise of some good. GG+. If A desires x, then A desires x because x appears to A under the guise of the good.

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Index

Notes for the reader: (1) I have not included terms which recur in practically every page of the book, such as “good”, “value”, “evaluation”, “desire”, “want”, “will/willing”, “intentional action”. (2) I have italicized the page ranges where treatment of main authors can be found. Adams, Marilyn McCord 61–62, 65, 70–71n11, 71n16 affect, affection see emotions akrasia 8–9; in Aquinas 52–55, 57n16; in Aristotle 30–31, 37n6, 38n15; in Brentano 139–140; in Descartes 76–77; in Hobbes 93–94; in Hume 106; in Locke 97, 103nn16–17; in Socrates and the Stoics 35, 39n28; in Spinoza 82–83 Alanen, Lilli 78, 86n6, 86n14 Allison, Henry 123n15 altruism 110, 121–122n6, 124n22 animals 25–26, 39n20, 45–46, 68, 71n20, 71n22, 102n8, 111 Anscombe, G. E. M. viii, 2, 7, 37n6, 55n2, 125, 149–158; and Aquinas 56n10, 149, 154, 156; and Aristotle 37n6, 149, 151; and Augustine 55n2; and Brentano 141–142, 147n31 appetite: as appetitive part of the soul (Plato) 18; as epithumia (Aristotle) 26–27, 30, 33, 38nn9–10; as “general appetite to good” (Hume) 108; in Hobbes 87n20, 90, 102n8; in Hutcheson 121n4, 122n7; as inclination (Aquinas) 50, 57n13; as instinct (Hume) 110–111; in Locke 98; in Scotus 61, 70n7; in Spinoza 80–81; in Suárez 6; natural, sensitive, intellectual/rational (Aquinas) 45–46, 48, 56n6 appropriateness see fittingness

Aquinas, Thomas 1, 12–13n2, 40, 44–55, 56–57nn4–17, 71n17, 79, 108; and Anscombe 56n10, 149, 154, 156; and Aristotle 45–47, 49, 54–55, 56n6, 57n16; and Augustine 44–45; and Descartes 73–74, 76–79; and Hutcheson 121n4; and Locke 98; and Scheler 143, 148n36; and Scotus 58–59, 60–61, 70n6; and Suárez 66 Aristotle (incl. Aristotelianism) 24–34, 37–39nn1–19, 84, 98; and Anscombe 37n6, 149, 151; and Aquinas 45–47, 49, 54–55, 56n6, 57n16; and Brentano 138; and Descartes 73, 76–77; and Locke 98; and Socrates/Plato 29–31, 38n16; and Spinoza 84; and the Stoics 33–34, 36–37, 39n25 attitude view vs. content view 8–9, 13n7, 56n9, 142–143; in Brentano 139–140 Augustine 40–44, 55–56nn1–3, 126; and Anscombe 55n2; and Aquinas 44–45; and Hume 118; and Scotus 60–61; and Suárez 68 autonomy 23, 55n3, 84, 113–114, 120, 122n6 axiology see value theory Bacin, Stefano 123n17 bad, badness: guise of the bad (see perversity); see also evil Barney, Rachel 15–16, 21, 23n3

Index Baumgarten, Alexander 112 beatitudo 48–49, 62–64, 104n22 belief (not incl. evaluative or normative belief) 5, 9, 13n6; in Anscombe 152; in Aristotle 37n7; in Brentano 137–139, 141, 147n27, 147n30; in Descartes 73–74, 77–78, 86n16; in Hume 105, 107; in Spinoza 80, 87n24; in Suárez 68; in the Stoics 33 Bobonich, Christopher 23n8 Boler, John 70n7 Bourke, Vernon J. 70n2 Boyle, Matthew 38n18, 158n10 Bramhall, Bishop 85n2, 92, 103n11 Brennan, Tad 39n22, 39n29 Brentano, Franz 137–143, 147nn29–34; and Anscombe 141–142, 147n31; and Aristotle 138 Broadie, Sarah 28, 37–38n9 Calvin, Jean 85n2 Carriero, John 88n30 causality, cause 10, 21–22, 32–33, 39n19, 69, 72, 78, 87n24, 93, 97, 99, 106, 141, 156–157; final causes 32, 38n17, 69, 78, 84, 93, 99, 156–157; mental causes (Anscombe) 154–156, 158n12 children 39n20, 68–69, 71nn22–23, 102n8, 122n7, 152 choice 5; in Aquinas (electio) 47, 54–55, 56n11; in Aristotle (prohairesis) 26–27, 31–32, 37n6, 38n13, 47; in Brentano 137, 142; in Descartes 73, 85n4, 86n7; in Geach and Anscombe 153; in Hegel 144n5; in Hobbes 93; in Kant 114, 119; in Socrates/Plato 16; in Suárez 66–67 classical canon (of the guise of the good) 11–12, 40, 69, 139, 156; and Anscombe 152; and Descartes 74, 76–78; and early modern philosophy 72–73, 85; and Hobbes 101; and Hume 105, 118; and Hutcheson 124n21; and Kant 105, 113–114, 117–118, 120, 123n14; and Locke 89, 98–99, 101; and political philosophy 100–101, 104n21; and post–Cartesian philosophy 111–112; and Raz 101;

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and Scotus 61–62; and Stoicism 34, 39n22; and Suárez 58, 66, 98; rejection of/opposition to 10, 59–61, 63, 72–73, 79, 83–84, 89–91, 101, 105, 114, 116, 122n8, 125, 133, 135–136, 141; revisions to 72–73, 95, 99, 101, 105, 111, 114, 117–118, 122n8, 157 Cohon, Rachel 121n3 contrariness see perversity Cottingham, John 86n16 Crisp, Roger 145n10 Cumberland, Richard 121–122n6 Dancy, Jonathan 158n12 Dante Alighieri viii Darwall, Stephen 104n21, 121n2, 122n6 Davidson, Donald 157; and Locke 103n16 deliberation see reasoning de Sade, Marquis 6–7 Descartes, René 70n2, 73–79, 85nn3–18, 84, 98; and Aquinas 73–74, 76–79; and Aristotle 73, 76–77; and Locke 98; and Scotus 86n6; and Spinoza 78–79 De Sousa, Ronald B. 13n6 diabolical will see perversity, in Kant Diderot, Denis 122n8 Duns Scotus, John 58–62, 66, 69, 70nn3–8; and Aquinas 58–61, 70n6; and Augustine 60–61; and Descartes 86n6; and Ockham 62–64; and Suárez 66 egoism 83, 87n28, 92, 102n6, 103n9, 112 emotions 5; in Aquinas 45, 56n6, 57n16; in Aristotle 27, 37n8; in Brentano 137, 141, 147n30, 148n33; in Descartes 78, 85n4, 86n17, 87n18; in Hobbes 100; in Hume 105–111; in Hutcheson 121n4, 122n7; in Nietzsche 146n18; in Plato 21; in Spinoza 81–82, 87n26; in the Stoics 33–36; in Wolff 123n11 empiricism 93–94, 99, 105, 122n6, 133, 157 end, ultimate see beatitude; eudaimonia; happiness Engstrom, Stephen P. 123n19

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ethical theory see normative ethics eudaimonia 25, 27, 29, 49 evil: “Evil, be thou my Good” (see perversity); evil for evil’s sake (see perversity); in Aquinas 44–45, 52–53, 56n5; in Augustine 42, 55n1; in Hobbes 90; in Hume 106–107, 118; in Kant 119–120, 124nn23–24; in Locke 94–95; in Luther and Calvin 85n2; in Ockham 64, 66, 71n15; as privation 55n1, 66 explanation, direction of (good vis–à– vis desire) 10; in Aristotle 24–25; in Hobbes 91, 102n4; in Hume 107; in Kant 112, 118; in Locke 96; in Nietzsche 134; in Schopenhauer 144n1; in Spinoza 79, 81, 102n4 fittingness: in Aquinas 48, 50–51, 56n5, 57nn13–14; in Aristotle 28, 38n9; in Brentano 147–148n32; in Schopenhauer 144n1; in Scotus 62, 70n8; in Suárez 66, 113; in the Stoics 33, 36, 39n22 freedom (incl. free will): in Aquinas 54, 58–59; in Descartes 74, 78, 86n17; as a good 43–44, 55n3, 61, 68, 76, 118, 151; in Hegel 129, 144n5, 145n9; as an ideal in Spinoza 87n24, 88n29; in Kant 113–114, 120; in Locke 97; in Ockham 62–63; in Scotus 58–59, 61–62; in Suárez 67, 69; in the Stoics 36 Fremstedal, Roe 144n3 Geach, Peter 23n6, 153 God: in Aquinas 45, 49–50; in Augustine 42–44; in Descartes 78; in Locke 100, 103n13; in Luther and Calvin 85n2; in Malebranche 111; in Nietzsche 146n16; in Ockham 62–64, 71n12, 71n16; in Scotus 61; in Spinoza 84, 146n16 good, real vs. apparent 6–8; in Aquinas 48, 57n14; in Aristotle 24, 27–28, 31, 37n2; in Descartes 77; in Hegel 128–129; in Hobbes 104n20; in Locke 99; in Luther and Calvin 85n2; in Mill 131; in Scotus 60; in Socrates/Plato 17–18, 20 goodness/goods, types of, moral vs. non–moral: in Aristotle 38n13; in

Hegel 127–128, 145n6; in Hobbes 91, 102n6; in Kant 112–113; in Locke 94–95; in Suárez 66 Gregory, Alex 6, 71n22, 143 guise of the bad see perversity happiness (as good and as an object of desire) 6; in Aquinas 48–49, 51, 53; in Aristotle 25; in Hegel 128; in Hobbes 102n7, 104n22; in Hume 110, 121n5; in Kant 116; in Locke 95–100, 121n6; in Mill 130–132, 146n15; in Ockham 62–64; in Scotus 58–60; in Socrates/Plato 15; in Spinoza 104n22 hate, hatred see love hedonism: in Aristotle 28; in Hobbes 91–92; in Hume 111, 119; in Hutcheson 122n6; in Kant 112–113, 123n14; in Locke 95, 99, 119; in Mill 132; in post–Cartesian philosophy 111–112 Hegel, G. W. F. 126–130, 144–145nn4–9 Henry of Ghent 70n3 Herman, Barbara 123n18 Hobbes, Thomas 10, 84, 89–93, 93–94, 100–101, 102–103nn1–11, 104n20, 104n22; and Hume 107, 111; and Locke 94–95, 98; and Nietzsche 135–136; and Ockham 65, 71n14; and Spinoza 83, 87n20, 91, 101, 102n4, 104n22; and Suárez 91, 93 Hoffman, Paul 86n8, 86n17 Hoffmann, Tobias 62 Hume, David 105–111, 118–119, 121nn1–7, 123n16, 124nn21–22, 126; and Augustine 118; and Hobbes 107, 111; and Hutcheson 121–122nn4, 6–7; and Kant 118–121; and Locke 106–107, 109, 121n6; and Mill 133; and Nietzsche 135; and Spinoza 111 Humeanism (as distinct from Hume’s views) 137 Hutcheson, Francis: and Aquinas 121n4; and Hume 121–122nn4, 6–7 incontinence see akrasia Incorporation Thesis 114–116, 119, 123n15

Index indifference: in Aquinas 49; in Descartes 74, 86n13; in Hobbes 102n1; in Scotus 59–60, 70n5; in Suárez 67 intellect 26–27, 32, 39n19, 45–47, 53–54, 59, 61, 67, 69, 73–75, 83, 94, 105, 115, 117, 135, 146n20 intellectualism: in Aristotle 24; in Brentano 139, 142; Socratic 14–17, 24, 30; in the Stoics 33, 35 intention (not incl. intentional action) 4–5, 47, 60, 127–128, 135, 137, 142–143, 148n33, 155, 158n5 intuitionism 157n1 Inwood, Brad 39n20, 39nn25–26 Irwin, Terence 19, 23n4, 38n10, 56 Jorati, Julia 122n9 judgement see belief Kant, Immanuel 2, 105, 111–121, 123–124nn12–20, 23–25, 157; and Hume 118–121; and Plato 114 Karlsson, Mikael M. 121n2 Katsafanas, Paul 136, 147n26 Kenny, Anthony 57n13, 76, 86n14 Kierkegaard, Søren 144n3 Kisner, Matthew J. 87n24 Koistinen, Olli 87n24 Kriegel, Uriah 148nn33–34 Lavin, Douglas 38n18, 158n10 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 70n2, 111–112, 122n9 Locke, John 70n2, 89, 93–101, 103–104nn12–19, 24, 111, 121n6; and Aquinas 98; and Aristotle 98; and Davidson 103n16; and Descartes 98; and Hobbes 94–95, 98; and Hume 106–107, 109, 121n6; and Mill 133; and Plato 98; and Spinoza 99 logical positivism 157n1 Long, A. A. 36, 39n20 Lorenz, Hendrik 38n17 Louden, Robert B. 123n12, 124n24 love 5, 23n8, 37n8, 57n13, 65–66, 78, 121n6, 135; as a technical term in Brentano 137 Luther, Martin 85n2 MacDonald, Scott 43, 56n7, 56n10 Malebranche, Nicolas 86n13, 111

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malice: distinct from malitia 56n5; in Hutcheson 124n21; in Kant 119–120; in Nietzsche 136 materialism see Diderot, Denis McInerny, Ralph 56–57n11 McIntyre, Jane L. 107 mechanism 84, 93 Melanchthon, Philipp 85n2 Mérimée, Prosper 126 metaethics: in Anscombe 156; in Hobbes 90–91, 102n3; in Hume 108–109; in Nietzsche 133–134; in Ockham 71n14; in Spinoza 88n29 metaphysics 10; (of good and evil) in Augustine 55n1; in Plato 14; in Spinoza 84, 104n22 Mill, James 146n14 Mill, John Stuart 126, 130–133, 145–146nn10–15; and Hume 133; and Locke 133 Miller, Dale E. 145n10 Milton, John viii, 150 Moline, Jon 18 Montague, Michelle 147n30 Moore, G. E. 157–158n1 moral theory see normative ethics Moss, Jessica 18, 21 Moyar, Dean 145n9 Nadler, Steven 87n21 Nietzsche, Friedrich 126, 133–137, 146–147nn16–26; and Hobbes 135–136; and Hume 135; and Spinoza 135–136, 146n16, 147n25; and Stocker 136 non–cognitivism: in Hobbes 90, 102n3; in Hume 108 normative ethics: in Anscombe 152; in Aquinas 51–52; in Aristotle 25; in Hobbes 102n6; in Kant 113–114, 117–118; in Locke 103n13; in Mill 126, 133 (see also utilitarianism); in Ockham 62; in Plato 22; in Socrates 17–18; in the Stoics 35–36 Objective Only Guise of the Good 8, 38n16 Ockham, William of 62–66, 70–71nn10–16; and Hobbes 65, 71n14; and Scotus 62–64; and Suárez 66–67 O’Connell, R. J. 55n3 Oddie, Graham 143

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Orsi, Francesco 102n3 Osborne Jr, Thomas M. 57n12, 70n7, 71n14 pain see pleasure Panaccio, Claude 71n12 passions see emotions Penner, Sydney 70n2 perversity viii, 10–11, 125–126; in Anscombe 55n2, 150–151; in Aquinas 44–45, 48, 56n5; in Aristotle 38n13; in Augustine 40–42, 55nn1–2; in Brentano 140; in Descartes 76, 86n10; in Geach 153; in Hegel 128; in Hume 118–119; in Kant 119–120, 124n24; in Leibniz 122n9; in Locke 99; in Melanchthon 85n2; in Ockham 62, 64–66, 71n15; in Scheler 143, 148n36; in Scotus 59–61; in Sidgwick 157n1; in Suárez 67–68 Pink, Thomas 71n21, 71n23 Pippin, Robert B. 129 Plato 11, 14–23, 38n10, 38n12, 90; and Aristotle 29–31, 38n16; and Kant 114; and Locke 98; and the Stoics 24, 34, 35, 36–37, 39n25, 39n27 pleasure: defined or classified 18, 21–22, 26, 70n8, 92, 95, 102n7, 107–109, 115, 121n5, 123n16, 124n21, 132, 137, 139, 146n14, 146n20; as a distorting influence 15, 28, 36; as a good (desired or desirable) among others 5, 6–7, 15, 37n5, 38n13, 42, 45–46, 66, 91, 118, 150; in post–Cartesian philosophy 111–112, 122n9, 122n11; see also hedonism Poe, Edgar Allan 125–126 political philosophy 100–101, 104nn21–23, 127 practical reason 117, 123n19 preference 5, 67, 95, 99, 119, 140, 147n29, 148n36 psychologism 157; in Brentano 142; in Hobbes 93, 101; in Ockham 65–66 Quante, Michael 145n8 Quinn, Warren 7 Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 121n5 rationalism 35, 109, 111

Rawls, John 101, 104n23 Raz, Joseph ix, 2, 100–101, 104n23, 143, 158n14 reason see intellect reasoning 20, 26–27, 35, 38n15, 68, 87n24, 97, 102n8, 140, 151, 157 reasons (for action) ix, 23n4, 32, 41–42, 48, 61, 64, 67, 74, 93–95, 112, 122n6, 123n18, 126–128, 134–135, 141–142, 145n6, 157n1; in Anscombe 149; and mental causes 154–156, 158n12; motivating 13n3, 65, 71n24; normative 5–6, 8, 13n3, 143; space of 38n9, 157 Reath, Andrews 123n15, 123n18 right reason 51–52, 54–55, 57n16, 63–65, 71n12 Rutherford, Donald 72, 102n4 Ryle, Gilbert 157n1 Sandis, Constantine 146n19, 147n23 Satan, Satanic viii, 10–11, 55n2, 119–120, 124n24, 126, 150, 152–153 Sayre–McCord, Geoffrey 145n10 Schafer, Karl 56, 142, 157 Scheler, Max 143, 148nn35–36 Schmid, Hans Bernhard 44, 55n3 Scholasticism, Scholastic philosophy 24, 58, 70n2, 73, 83, 85, 85n2, 85–86n6, 93–94, 101, 111, 121n4, 123n19, 125 Schopenhauer, Arthur 125, 144n1 Schwenkler, John 152 Sedley, D. N. 36, 39n20 Segvic, Heda 23n3 self–love 116–117, 120 Sellars, Wilfrid 157 sentimentalism 108–109 Setiya, Kieran 158n11 Sidgwick, Henry 157n1 sin: in Aquinas 45, 48, 56n5; in Augustine 43; in Descartes 74–75, 86n10; in Luther and Calvin 85n2; in Ockham 64–65, 69, 71n16; in Scotus 60–62, 69, 70n8 Singh, Keshav 13n3 Skinner, Quentin 104n21 Socrates see Plato Socratic intellectualism see intellectualism Spinoza, Benedict de 10, 72, 78–84, 87–88nn19–30, 121; and Aristotle

Index 84; and Descartes 78–79; and Hume 111; and Hobbes 83, 87n20, 91, 101, 102n4, 104n22; and Locke 99; and Nietzsche 135–136, 146n16, 147n25 Stampe, Dennis W. 143, 157 Starnes, Colin 55n3 Steinberg, Justin 87n24 Stocker, Michael 136, 145n10 Stoicism 24, 32–37, 39nn20–29, 79; and Aristotle 33–34, 36–37, 39n25, 39n27; and Socrates/Plato 24, 34–37, 39n25, 39n27 Striker, Gisela 36 Stump, Eleonore 57n13 Suárez, Francisco 58, 66–69, 70n2, 71nn17–24, 98, 113, 144n1; and Aquinas 66; and Augustine 68; and Hobbes 91, 93; and Ockham 66–67; and Scotus 66 sub ratione boni 1, 12n2; in Aquinas 46–47, 56–57nn6–7, 11, 16; in Descartes 74, 85–86n6; in Kant 112; in Nietzsche 146n16; in Ockham (vs. sub ratione mali) 71n15; in Suárez 66, 68; and/or sub specie boni 12n2, 143, 148n36 sub specie boni see sub ratione boni Subjective + Objective Guise of the Good: in Anscombe 151, 156; in Aquinas 48–49, 52; in Aristotle 28; in Augustine 42; defined 6; in Hegel 129; in Hume 119; in Kant 120–121; in Locke 99–100; in Mill 146n15; in Socrates/Plato 15, 20–21; in Suárez 67–68; in the Stoics 36 Subjective Only Guise of the Good: in Aristotle 27–29, 36, 49; in Brentano 147n28; defined 7; in Hegel 128–129; in Hume 119; in Kant 120–121; in Plato 20

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subjectivism about good 71n14, 90–91, 93, 102n2, 104n23, 147n29 suitability see fittingness Teichmann, Roger 158n2, 158n15 teleology 32, 49, 84, 113; see also causality, cause, final causes Tenenbaum, Sergio 2, 9, 13n6, 71n22, 89–90, 123n18, 142, 157 theology see God theology, moral see sin Thomism 72, 74, 86n6 utilitarianism 126, 130, 133, 146n15 value theory ix, 7; in Aristotle 25; in Brentano 140, 147n32; in Kant 118; in Spinoza 88n29 Velleman, J. David viii, 2, 12n2, 71n22 vice see virtue virtue (incl. virtue ethics): in Aquinas 49, 53–54; in Aristotle 28, 30; in Descartes 75–76; in Hume 119, 124n22; in Ockham 65; in Socrates 17; in the Stoics 36 Vlastos, Gregory 17, 38n12 Vogler, Candace 158n8 Vogt, Katja Maria 37n3 weakness of will see akrasia Weithman, Paul 104n23 Williams, Thomas 62 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 158n2 Wolff, Christian 70n2, 112, 122–123n11 Wood, Allen W. 124n24, 145n6, 145n8  Woods, Michael 19 Youpa, Andrew 87n24, 88n29 Yrjönsuuri, Mikko 72