The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics 9781783509485, 9781783509492

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THE CONTRIBUTION OF FICTION TO ORGANIZATIONAL ETHICS

RESEARCH IN ETHICAL ISSUES IN ORGANIZATIONS Series Editors: Michael Schwartz and Howard Harris Recent Volumes: Volume 1:

Edited by Moses L. Pava and Patrick Primeaux

1999

Volume 2:

Symposium on Health Care Ethics Edited by Moses L. Pava and Patrick Primeaux 2000

Volume 3:

The Next Phase of Business Ethics: Integrating Psychology and Ethics Guest Edited by John Dienhart, Dennis Moberg and Ron Duska 2001

Volume 4:

Re-imagining Business Ethics: Meaningful Solutions for a Global Economy Edited by Moses L. Pava and Patrick Primeaux 2002

Volume 5:

Spiritual Intelligence at Work: Meaning, Metaphor and Morals Edited by Moses L. Pava and Patrick Primeaux 2004

Volume 6:

Crisis and Opportunity in the Professions Edited by Moses L. Pava and Patrick Primeaux 2005

Volume 7:

Insurance Ethics for a More Ethical World Guest Edited by Patrick Flanagan, Patrick Primeaux and William Ferguson 2007

Volume 8:

Applied Ethics: Remembering Patrick Primeaux Edited by Michael Schwartz and Howard Harris

2012

Volume 9:

Ethics, Values and Civil Society Edited by Michael Schwartz, Howard Harris and Stephen Cohen 2013

Volume 10:

Moral Saints and Moral Exemplars Edited by Michael Schwartz and Howard Harris 2013

RESEARCH IN ETHICAL ISSUES IN ORGANIZATIONS VOLUME 11

THE CONTRIBUTION OF FICTION TO ORGANIZATIONAL ETHICS EDITED BY

MICHAEL SCHWARTZ Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology, Australia

HOWARD HARRIS University of South Australia, Australia

United Kingdom North America India Malaysia China

Japan

Emerald Group Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2014 Copyright r 2014 Emerald Group Publishing Limited Reprints and permission service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. Any opinions expressed in the chapters are those of the authors. Whilst Emerald makes every effort to ensure the quality and accuracy of its content, Emerald makes no representation implied or otherwise, as to the chapters’ suitability and application and disclaims any warranties, express or implied, to their use. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-78350-949-2 ISSN: 1529-2096 (Series)

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CONTENTS EDITORIAL BOARD

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

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EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO ‘THE CONTRIBUTION OF FICTION TO ORGANIZATIONAL ETHICS’ ISSUE Michael Schwartz and Howard Harris

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FICTIVE CREATIVITY AND MORALITY: A MULTI-DIMENSIONAL EXPLORATION Daryl Koehn

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OTHERNESS IN SELF AND ORGANISATIONS: KAFKA’S THE METAMORPHOSIS TO STIR MORAL REFLECTION Ce´cile Rozuel

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WIRED TO FAIL: VIRTUE AND DYSFUNCTION IN BALTIMORE’S NARRATIVE Hugh Breakey

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PROFILE OF A NARCISSISTIC LEADER: COFFEE’S FOR CLOSERS ONLY John F. Ehrich and Lisa C. Ehrich

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INTO DARKNESS: A STUDY OF DEVIANCE IN STAR TREK Jonathan Furneaux and Craig Furneaux

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WHY MORAL PHILOSOPHY CANNOT EXPLAIN OSKAR SCHINDLER BUT KENEALLY’S NOVEL CAN Michael Schwartz and Debra R. Comer

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A CRITIQUE OF BUSINESS SCHOOL NARRATIVES AND PROTAGONISTS: WITH HELP FROM HENRI BERGSON AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE Rosa Slegers

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HOW STORIES CAN BE USED IN ORGANISATIONS SEEKING TO TEACH THE VIRTUES Katalin Illes and Howard Harris

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USING FILMS TO TEACH BUSINESS ETHICS STUDENTS Teressa L. Elliott and Catherine Neal

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EDITORIAL BOARD Joseph L. Badaracco, Jr. Harvard University

Al Gini Loyola University/Chicago

Ida Berger Queens University

Kenneth E. Goodpaster University of St. Thomas

Norman Bowie University of Minnesota

Ellen McCorkle Harshman St. Louis University

M. Neil Browne The Aspen Institute

Laura Pincus Hartman University of Wisconsin-Madison

Debra R. Comer Hofstra University

Daryl Koehn University of St. Thomas-Houston

Wesley Cragg York University

Kimball R. Marshall Jackson State University

Ron Duska The American College

E. Sharon Mason Brock University

Georges Enderle University of Notre Dame

Douglas McCabe Georgetown University

Edwin Epstein University of California at Berkeley

Alex Michalos University of Northern British Columbia

Amitai Etzioni George Washington University

Barry Mitnick University of Texas/Austin

William Frederick University of Pittsburg

Moses Pava Yeshiva University vii

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Mark S. Schwartz York University

Meir Tamari Jerusalem Institute of Technology

Michael Schwartz Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology

Steven Wartick University of Missouri-St. Louis

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Hugh Breakey

Institute for Ethics, Governance and Law and the Key Centre for Ethics, Law, Justice and Governance, Griffith University, Queensland, Australia

Debra R. Comer

Zarb School of Business, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY, USA

John F. Ehrich

Faculty of Education, Monash University, Melbourne, Australia

Lisa C. Ehrich

School of Cultural and Professional Learning, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, Australia

Teressa L. Elliott

Haile/US Bank College of Business, Northern Kentucky University, Highland Heights, KY, USA

Craig Furneaux

Australian Centre for Philanthropy and Nonprofit Studies, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, Australia

Jonathan Furneaux

University of Queensland, Brisbane, Australia

Howard Harris

School of Management, University of South Australia, Adelaide, Australia

Katalin Illes

Westminster Business School, University of Westminster, London, UK

Daryl Koehn

Ethics & Business Law Department, University of St. Thomas in MinneapolisSt. Paul, Minneapolis, MN, USA

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Catherine Neal

Haile/US Bank College of Business, Northern Kentucky University, Highland Heights, KY, USA

Ce´cile Rozuel

Management, Work and Organisation Division, University of Stirling, Stirling, UK

Michael Schwartz

School of Economics, Finance and Marketing, Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology, Melbourne, Australia

Rosa Slegers

Arts and Humanities Division, Babson College, Babson Park, MA, USA

ABOUT THE AUTHORS Hugh Breakey is a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Institute for Ethics, Governance and Law and the Key Centre for Ethics, Law, Justice and Governance at Griffith University, Australia. He researches philosophical issues surrounding the nature of human rights (especially security, intellectual and property rights) and other topics in professional and applied ethics. In his award-winning PhD dissertation, Hugh argued that natural Lockean rights limit the proper scope and strength of intellectual property rights. He has published in top law, philosophy and ethics journals, including The Modern Law Review, The Philosophical Quarterly, and Social Theory and Practice. Hugh’s first book, Intellectual Liberty: Natural Rights and Intellectual Property, was published in 2012 by Ashgate. In 2014, Hugh began a three-year research project into the ethical values guiding international governance, funded by the Australian Research Council. Hugh is President of the Australian Association for Professional and Applied Ethics. Debra R. Comer is a professor of management in the Zarb School of Business at Hofstra University. She received her BA with honors in psychology from Swarthmore College and her MA, M.Phil, and PhD in organizational behavior from Yale University. Her current research interests include ethical behavior in organizations and management education. She is an Associate Editor of the Journal of Management Education. John F. Ehrich is a Senior Lecturer in Language Acquisition and Literacy, Faculty of Education, Monash University, Australia. His varied research interests include dark leadership, language processing, and experimental psychology. Lisa C. Ehrich is an Associate Professor in the School of Cultural and Professional Learning at Queensland University of Technology, Australia. She teaches and researches in the area of educational leadership. Her other research interests include phenomenology, professional development for educators, and mentoring. Teressa L. Elliott, J.D., is an Associate Professor of Business Law and Business Ethics in the Haile/US Bank College of Business at Northern xi

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Kentucky University. She is a graduate of the University of Kentucky College of Law. Professor Elliott is also an arbitrator, mediator, and founding board member of the ADR Center at Northern Kentucky University. In her work for the ADR Center, Professor Elliott has mediated a number of domestic relations cases and has arbitrated cases involving police officers and corrections officers. Craig Furneaux is a lecturer in management and ethics with the Australian Centre for Philanthropy and Nonprofit Studies, Queensland University of Technology. He is an Early Career Researcher whose current research focus is on organizations and institutions. Jonathan Furneaux is a student at the University of Queensland, studying a Dual Degree Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Education (MYS). He was awarded a Dean’s Commendation for Writing and Literature in the School of Arts (2011), and a Dean’s Scholar in the Faculty of Social and Behavioural Sciences (2012). Howard Harris teaches business and professional ethics in the Business School at the University of South Australia where he is the acting head of the School of Management. His PhD research and continuing interest is in the application of traditional virtues including courage and love in contemporary management. Prior to joining the university he worked in industry as an engineer, manager, and as principal of a consulting practice. Katalin Illes is a Principal Lecturer in Leadership and Development at the University of Westminster in London. Previously she held leadership positions in the UK and China, contributed to international collaborative partnership developments and worked as a consultant. Her research interests and publications include ethical leadership, spirituality in leadership and innovative ways of developing leaders. Daryl Koehn is a professor in the Ethics and Business Law department at the University of St. Thomas in Minneapolis St. Paul, Minnesota. The author of numerous books and articles on business and professional ethics, she consults extensively with corporations and appears regularly on radio and TV news shows. Catherine Neal, J.D., is an Associate Professor of Business Ethics and Business Law in the Haile/US Bank College of Business at Northern Kentucky University. She is a graduate of the University of Cincinnati College of Law where, as a Corporate Law Fellow, she focused on corporate law, corporate finance, tax law, and securities law. Professor Neal is

About the Authors

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also the author of “Taking Down the Lion.” While researching her book, Professor Neal was granted unprecedented access to former Tyco International CEO Dennis Kozlowski, his papers, attorneys, family, friends, and former Tyco colleagues as well as transcripts and evidence from two criminal trials. Ce´cile Rozuel is a lecturer at the Stirling Management School, University of Stirling (UK). Her research builds upon C.G. Jung’s analytical psychology, and focuses on understanding the moral aspects of the psyche, in particular how the psyche’s stuff affects ethical behavior in the context of management and organizational life. She also explores the role of imagination in education, self-knowledge, and moral development. She has published several papers in this area, as well as on the meaning of CSR. Michael Schwartz is an associate professor of business ethics in the School of Economics, Finance and Marketing at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology. He is a past president of the Australian Association for Professional and Applied Ethics. He is a member of the editorial boards of the Journal of Applied Ethics and the Journal of International Business and Law; and a joint editor of Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations. Rosa Slegers received a PhD in Philosophy from Fordham University (2007), an MA in Philosophy (2002) and an MA in Literary Theory (2003) from the Catholic University of Leuven (Belgium), and an MBA from Babson College (2013). Professor Slegers teaches philosophy to undergraduates at Babson College and leads discussions on business ethics in the MBA program. Her book Courageous Vulnerability (Brill, 2011) draws on the philosophies of William James, Henri Bergson, and Gabriel Marcel to frame a cluster of moral and aesthetic attitudes in Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. Other publications at the intersection of philosophy and literature focus on the themes of empathy, evil, and the uncanny. She is currently working on the moral philosophy of Adam Smith and its implications for business ethics education today.

EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO ‘THE CONTRIBUTION OF FICTION TO ORGANIZATIONAL ETHICS’ ISSUE Michael Schwartz and Howard Harris Alasdair MacIntyre described humans as storytelling animals. Stories are essential to any organization. They help organizations define who they are, what they do, and how they do it. Tom Peters and Robert Waterman, in explaining their well-known search for excellence in leading organizations, wrote how they ‘were struck by the dominant use of story, slogan, and legend as people tried to explain the characteristics of their own great institutions’ and how those ‘convey(ed) the organization’s shared values, or culture’. Indeed there is the distinct possibility of those inherited stories, slogans and legends creating ethical organizations. This issue of Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations is interested in exactly that: the contribution of fiction to the organization. We admittedly use the word fiction with caution. The bestselling novelist, Sebastian Faulks, has acknowledged that ‘the separation between fact and fiction is not as clear-cut as purists, including me, would like it to be’. And so what we term fiction might in certain cases not be completely fictitious.

The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 1 4 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011007

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Fiction incorporates not only literature but movies, television, poetry and plays. Arguably it incorporates other aspects too such as corporate logos and brand names. Plato and Aristotle disputed the merits of such fiction. Indeed, whilst Aristotle encouraged it, Plato saw it as dangerous. Friedrich Nietzsche, who has been described, perhaps unfairly, by Iris Murdoch as not a philosopher but a writer, described fiction as a lie which enabled us to see the truth. Nina Rosenstand argued that such fiction can ‘be used to question moral rules and to examine morally ambiguous situations’. In this issue we therefore show how fiction has questioned the moral rules, and examined such situations, and in doing so how it has contributed to our understanding of organizational ethics. Iris Murdoch successfully combined the roles of novelist and philosopher. Alasdair MacIntyre wrote that ‘Iris Murdoch’s novels are philosophy: but they are philosophy which casts doubt on all philosophy, including her own’. Arguably much the same could be said regarding other fiction. Peter and Renata Singer have argued that ‘in telling stories, and in writing novels, plays, short stories, and poems, the authors and narrators raise moral questions and suggest possible ways of answering them’. In this issue we explore that very dimension. Nina Rosenstand has described the ‘increasing rapprochement between literature and philosophy’ and the value of narrative philosophy. In doing so Rosenstand mentions both Martha Nussbaum whom she argues is a philosopher who sees the value of fiction, and John Steinbeck, a novelist who ‘fuses literature and ethics’. This fusing of literature and philosophy Alex Mero has described as ‘philofiction’, a genre which ‘appeals to the intellect and imagination simultaneously’ and is, he explains, how we experience life. The ability of narrative to capture the way we experience life has also been noticed by researchers in organization studies. Narrative inquiry is seen as a valid method of organizational research because, as two oft-cited papers in the field suggest, ‘narrative is the study of the ways humans experience the world’, and storytellers have an ‘interest in the social world and how it functions’. Regarding that experience of life, Daryl Koehn, in her chapter ‘Fictive Creativity and Morality: A Multi-Dimensional Exploration’, argues that if we are to consider fiction’s contribution to organizational ethics we first need to examine the connection between creativity and morality and examine six possible relationships. Ce´cile Rozuel, in her chapter, ‘Otherness in Self and Organisations: Kafka’s The Metamorphosis to Stir Moral Reflection’, discusses Kafka’s

Editor’s Introduction

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short-story The metamorphosis. Rozuel relates the story to moral reflection on organizational life and adopts the view that fiction offers a clear way to engage both the reader’s imagination and reflection on moral issues. Whilst Rozuel considers a book Hugh Breakey turns on the television. In his chapter ‘Wired to Fail: Virtue and Dysfunction in Baltimore’s Narrative’ Breakey asks how public institutions can best nurture value in their members. He answers in what he terms as a perhaps unlikely place: the television series The Wire. John F. Ehrich and Lisa C. Ehrich move us from television to the movies albeit a film based on a play. In their chapter ‘Profile of a Narcissistic Leader: Coffee’s for Closers Only’ they explore leadership from the perspective of the narcissistic leader using a fictional character from a popular film. Jonathan Furneaux and Craig Furneaux continuing with the movies use science fiction and in doing so extend our understanding of positive and negative deviance in organizations by developing a new typology of deviant behaviour. In their chapter ‘Into Darkness: A Study of Deviance in Star Trek’ they analyse the deviant behaviour of individuals in organizations. Michael Schwartz and Debra R. Comer return us to a novel. In their chapter ‘Why Moral Philosophy Cannot Explain Oskar Schindler but Keneally’s Novel Can’ they explain how by using a novelist’s tools to tell an historical story, Thomas Keneally allows us to make inferences as to the motives of his protagonist and thereby helps us to understand what propelled the moral behaviour of Oskar Schindler. Rosa Slegers in her chapter ‘A Critique of Business School Narratives and Protagonists: With Help from Henri Bergson and Friedrich Nietzsche’ argues that a large part of experience escapes purely theoretical frameworks and that we therefore need non-theoretical, evocative narratives to make visible those parts of reality that are easily overlooked when we are focused purely on the practical and utilitarian side of existence. Regarding such narratives Katalin Illes and Howard Harris in their chapter ‘How Stories Can Be Used in Organisations Seeking to Teach the Virtues’ focus on the use of narrative in ethics education in organizations and provide examples of how stories can be used to encourage the development of specific virtues including courage, integrity, hope, inquisitiveness, humour and prudence. Lastly Teressa L. Elliott and Catherine Neal in their chapter ‘Using Films to Teach Business Ethics Students’ discuss how to find methods that enhance student learning using films, arguing that because many films now

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address business ethics issues, the content of these films may be used to enhance the teaching of business ethics to students. We are indebted to all of the contributors who have made this a most valuable issue. All of the chapters were double-blind reviewed and we are also indebted to the anonymous reviewers. Without their contribution this issue would remain pure fiction.

FICTIVE CREATIVITY AND MORALITY: A MULTI-DIMENSIONAL EXPLORATION Daryl Koehn ABSTRACT In order to consider fiction’s contribution to understanding organizations and their ethics, we need to examine the connection between creativity and morality. This chapter explores six possible relations, drawing upon a variety of works (creations) from a poet, a playwright, and several philosophers. I argue that any relationship between fiction/creativity and morality is multi-dimensional and should be treated as such in future research in business ethics and organizational studies. In particular, we are not entitled simply to assume that fictive creativity will bolster existing norms or engender virtues. On the contrary, in some cases, fiction reveals just how difficult it is to apply norms or to identify the virtuous course of action, given that we often do not have an accurate understanding of what is going on in an organizational or business setting, much less a cogent grasp on whether the behavior is right and good. Keywords: Moral imagination; creativity; judgment; Hannah Arendt; Primo Levi; art The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 5 24 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011001

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One increasingly sees mentions of creativity and aesthetics in discussions of ethics or morality. (Dobson, 2007; Koehn & Elm, 2014). However, the authors invoking creativity often do not specify creativity with respect to what. We are not told exactly how creativity is supposed to contribute to ethical development. Nor is it clear whether creativity is supposed to be a necessary element of ethical discernment or whether creativity in some way substitutes for ethical principles. My goal in this essay is not to answer all of these questions but rather to argue that there are numerous relationships between creativity and morality. The topic of this book centers on fiction and organizational ethics. Insofar as fiction is creative, the book invites us to examine the ethics of creativity. This area of investigation is a rich one, yet we should proceed with some caution. How we think about issues such as those touched upon above depends crucially upon which one of the many possible relationships between creativity and morality we explicitly or implicitly endorse. Elsewhere I have distinguished what I call “positive” as opposed to “negative” relationships between creativity and morality (Koehn, 2010). That earlier article focused upon creativity as expressed in works of art. Here I wish to delve more deeply into the manifold relations between creativity and morality, looking at actions as well as at made objects. I will sketch six views of the relation, but the actual list of possible relations lengthens considerably, especially if one includes non-Western discussions of creativity and ethics. Much could be said about each one of the six relations outlined here. But, given that the last four have been less talked about in the applied and theoretical ethics literature, I wish to devote more time to elaborating these conceptions of the relationship between creativity and morality. At present, scholars who are theorizing in this area are treating the relationship as univocal and consequently are uncritically endorsing a very narrow and therefore, in my view, highly contentious of the relationship. My intent here is not to push for a single interpretation. Instead, I wish to argue that any relationship between fiction/creativity and morality is multi-dimensional and should be treated as such in future research in business ethics and organizational studies. Broadening the dimensionality of this relationship will inevitably make it more difficult for scholars to present a simple, all-encompassing view of creativity. On the other hand, any theories of “moral creativity” that do emerge within the academic literature will be more persuasive to audience members who are only too well aware of how complex this notion may turn out to be. In particular, we are not entitled simply to assume that fictive creativity will bolster existing norms

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or engender virtues or that creativity can easily be reined in by morality. On the contrary, in some cases, fiction reveals just how difficult it is to apply norms or to identify the virtuous course of action, given that we often do not have an accurate understanding of what is going on in an organization or business setting, much less a cogent grasp on whether the behavior is right and good. Moreover, our human ability to invent norms or to switch among them as we endorse one fictive reality and then another should make us skeptical of those theorists who would valorize creativity and inventiveness.

INTERPRETATION ONE: CREATIVITY IS MORALLY NEUTRAL AND NEEDS TO BE CHECKED BY MORALITY From ancient times onward, thinkers have understood that the arts or technē are creative. An art such as pot-making produces ceramics, while an art such a medicine engenders better health or in the doctor’s patient. Although no one would doubt the goodness of pots for holding water or of bodily health (Aristotle, 2005), we do question the goodness of atomic bombs, huge dams, and other products resulting from creative scientific activity. Manipulation of the human genome has set off alarms; many citizens are concerned about global warming caused at least in part by corporate activities. In these cases, most people would argue that just because we can do something, it does not follow that we should do so. From a virtue ethics perspective, before managers engage in certain creative acts, they ought to deliberate. Deliberation takes the end/goal of a good life for granted and then considers whether the proposed creation of a neutron bomb or of a massive dam is a means to the good life. A just and temperate person would consider harms as well as benefits and examine whether there might be alternative ways of deterring enemies or of generating energy and controlling floods. Even the act of healing, whose end is beyond reproach, needs to be regulated by virtue. The doctor has to heal in the right way, at the right time, using the right instruments, etc. A Kantian would ask whether the development of a neutron bomb truly respects people as ends in themselves or rather treated them as means. Those committed to caring and professionalism would ask still other normative questions about various human inventions. There is no need to belabor the key insight underlying this first conception of the relation

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between creativity and morality namely, that any and all creative acts are subject to moral constraints deriving from a telos (the good life), from the nature of rationality itself (the categorical imperative), from role obligations (Confucianism, professionalism), from our status as creatures of God (Judaism, Christianity), etc. This view has much to recommend it. It is limited, however, insofar as it fails to consider the possibility that the arts and technological development may alter the nature of morality itself, a point I will return to below. It also overlooks the role that creativity and imagination play in the deliberative process itself, which brings me to a second interpretation of the relation between fictive creativity and morality or ethics.

INTERPRETATION TWO: MORAL IMAGINATION AS CRUCIAL PART OF THE DELIBERATIVE PROCESS A second conception of the relation between creativity and morality construes the imagination as creative and then treats the imagination as a central, or even required, resource for moral discernment and deliberation. Patricia Werhane has written extensively about the moral imagination: [M]oral imagination is defined as the ability in particular circumstances to discover and evaluate possibilities not merely determined by that circumstance, or limited by its operative mental models, or merely framed by a set of rules or rule-governed concerns. In management decision-making, moral imagination entails perceiving norms, social roles, and relationships entwined in any situation. Developing moral imagination involves heightened awareness of contextual moral dilemmas and their mental models, the ability to envision and evaluate new mental models that create new possibilities, and the capability to reframe the dilemma and create new solutions in ways that are novel, economically viable, and morally justifiable. (Werhane, 1999, p. 93)

For Werhane, moral imagination involves taking an enlarged and systematic view of matters (Werhane, 2002). Moberg and Seabright have extended Werhane’s work into the organizational context. They characterize moral imagination as “a reasoning process thought to counter the organizational factors that corrupt ethical judgment” (Moberg & Seabright, 2000, p. 845). As the term is used by applied ethicists, “moral imagination” often seems by definition to be morally good to use Werhane’s phrase quoted above, any creative solutions must be “morally justifiable.” On this view, imaginative creativity is somehow constrained so as always to yield helpful, rather than harmful, outcomes (Moberg & Seabright, 2000; Werhane,

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2013). Unlike the first interpretation, this second view does not see creativity as morally neutral. Creativity in the form of the moral imagination and empathizing is discussed as though it is by and large ethically desirable and good. It is not entirely clear, though, what is supposed to be constraining imagination and empathy to insure that they are good. Does the imaginative individual need to be virtuous empathetic and just to insure that his or her empathetic imaginings and re-envisionings do not tend toward the cruel or sadistic? This question is far from academic given the well-developed and extensively documented propensity of human beings in organizations to engage in self-reinforcing groupthink. A creative but dangerous fiction could easily take hold in an organization, especially if it is led by someone prone to sadistic imaginings (Seabright & Schminke, 2002). Even if we grant that the imagination is controllable by virtue, what role does the imagination play in generating a virtuous character in the first place? Are we meant to think that we are in the presence of an Aristotelian virtuous circle that by reframing and generating possibilities as we deliberate, we gain an ever wider and more sensitive outlook, which, in turn, makes us more just and better able to consider the perspectives of others going forward? Although a larger, systems view often is helpful, an especially wicked or cunning individual might also have a refined sense of the larger canvas on which he or she is planning and executing mischief. So much more needs to be said about the exact role imagination plays in ethically sound deliberations. Speaking to these issues is beyond the scope of this short chapter. Let me just say that there clearly is a developmental issue connected with imaginative empathizing. In addition, the work on moral imagination tends to presume a set of viable and appropriate norms. What happens if creativity changes the nature of morality itself? That key question brings me to a third possible relation between morality and creativity.

INTERPRETATION THREE: CREATIVITY ALTERS THE NATURE OF MORALITY ITSELF The philosopher Hans Jonas has argued that the twentieth century witnessed the emergence of a technology threatening the very existence of all life on earth. Jonas’ critique centers on nuclear technology but can readily be extended to include the development of manufacturing processes that

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may irremediably pollute the water we need to drink and that contribute to rising seas that threaten our homes (think, for example, of the Maldives, sea level islands likely soon to be entirely swamped by the rising oceans). Jonas contends that human creativity is not only often harmful but also that it has given rise to a new moral imperative. Before stating that new norm or imperative, I need to provide some of the context Jonas creates in making his case. Jonas stresses that all animals feel pain and pleasure, desire, and fear. These feelings reflect a “concern in being” (Scodel, 2003, p. 354). They all strive to continue in being, and being alive means wresting continued existence from the jaws of death: [T]he essential feature of all life, is … first, the primacy of form over matter the ontological persistence of an individual through material change and, second, the purposeful action of the living individual to keep itself in being against the threat of non-being … It is essential, for Jonas, that categories, which modern philosophers and scientists have consistently applied only to humankind purpose, intention, interest, care should be seen as present throughout the organic world. To be alive not to be human but to be alive is to exhibit an interest in continuing to be. Jonas formulates this at one point by saying that, through metabolism, life “says yes to itself.” (Rubinstein, 2009, p. 166)

All living beings maintain themselves in the world, by it, and against it. In the case of human beings, being concerned for being means remembering always that life is precarious. Thus we are subject to one overriding ethical imperative: “Act so that the effects of your action are compatible with the permanence of genuine human life” (Jonas, 1985, p. 11). This dictum the “imperative of responsibility” is, in a sense, the norm of all norms. For unless we are alive, other norms of respect, various rights, and a host of virtues will be irrelevant. Note, too, that insofar as human life depends on plant and animal life, the dictum commits us to preserving the larger ecosystem. Jonas does not contend that animals and human beings are moral equals but he does extend what Ken Goodpaster has termed “moral considerability” (Goodpaster, 1978, p. 310) to all living beings. According to Jonas, we are responsible to and have stewardship duties for the entire living world. Although this imperative of responsibility does not, in itself, have much content, it is meant to concentrate our attention on just how high the stakes are for all of life on this planet. This newly emergent or revealed maxim requires us to develop habits of mindfulness and attention centered on the possible effects of our action on the ecosystem. As we develop such habits, we come to realize that often we neither understand nor truly control

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the very technologies that we have invented. Adhering to the imperative will make us more cautious about rushing to embrace new technologies and adopting large-scale technological interventions as “solutions” to problems. The imperative dictates as well that, when in doubt, we should choose the more conservative course. For example, it may be true that global warming either will not continue or that it will not result in serious threats to life on earth. However, Jonas counters: [s]ince it is demonstrable that things may deteriorate badly, even if there is a chance that they will turn out better, if there is a substantial risk [that they will deteriorate badly], we cannot play with this kind of risk at this scale. In our private lives we play with all kinds of risks. We do this all the time. But there are certain risks which we are responsibly not allowed to take. That is the gist of my heuristics of fear. That is, the prophecy of doom in this case, if it is founded on sound reasoning, has a certain greater force, and a greater claim to influence action than the prophecy of bliss. As I say, you can live without the highest good, but you cannot live with the greatest evil. And so, even granted that the one side [worried about global warming] cannot completely prove its case, to the extent that it can’t convince the other side, the other side has no particular prerogative for [legitimately] demanding that progress must go on, or that our standard of living must go on as it is now. I mean, this is not in itself a holy goal for which one must stand at all costs, while our preservation from catastrophe is a goal which is valid even at great present cost …. (Scodel, 2003, pp. 366 369)

As in the first interpretation, Jonas understands human creativity as being largely neutral and, therefore, in need of being controlled by norms. However, on this third interpretation of the relation between creativity and morality, human creativity is not subject to eternal, unchanging norms of the sort presupposed by defenders of moral imagination. Rather human inventiveness has brought about a new, emergent imperative of responsibility that trumps older norms. For example, if a state has promised its citizens a certain standard of living but this standard of living comes to be seen as incompatible with ongoing life on earth, the imperative of responsibility would dictate that the state break these earlier promises, a violation that might be seen as unjust in light of a moral obligation to keep one’s promises. Jonas contends that “humankind has new and unprecedented responsibilities that follow immediately from our new and unprecedented power to change the world through technology” (emphasis mine) (Hauskeller, 2014). Jonas offers us no guarantee that adherence by individuals and organizations to the imperative of responsibility will save us. However, we have no alternative but to rely upon our reason understood not only in the formal sense but “in the higher sense of the recognition of what the good of man is and of what duty is” (Scodel, 2003, p. 368).

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INTERPRETATION FOUR: CREATIVE THINKING AS THE ONLY ADEQUATE ETHICAL STANDARD Hannah Arendt, a colleague and friend of Hans Jonas, has argued for yet another understanding of the relation between creativity and morality. Having lived through the initial stages of the Holocaust within Germany and having covered the Nuremberg trial of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann, Arendt was skeptical about the ability of moral norms and imperatives, including Jonas’ imperative of responsibility, to constrain wicked human behavior. Norms are always socially specified and socially enforced as part of determining which acts will be considered legitimate and which not. Legitimacy refers to the recognition of the rightfulness of an actor or behavior and is judged in relation to relevant norms. An action is legitimate to the extent that it is justified in terms of shared norms and those justifications are validated by others (Bellam, 2012). If and when new political powers or social conditions appear, people can and do change their norms overnight: The total moral collapse of respectable society during the Hitler regime may teach us that under such circumstances those who cherish values and hold fast to moral norms and standards are not reliable; we now know that moral norms and standards can be changed overnight and that all that then will be left standing is the mere habit of holding fast to something. (Arendt, 2005, p. 45)

We cannot appropriately regulate individual or organizational creativity with moral norms precisely because human fictive ingenuity extends to the imaginative creation of socially generated moral norms themselves. Although she talked about the behavior of Germans, Arendt was well aware that the phenomenon of norm-switching is generalizable. Examples are easy to find. In Mao’s Communist China, suddenly it became noble and mandatory for children to accuse their parents of ideological sins. The two thousand year old Confucian norm and virtue of filial piety was overturned virtually overnight. The only elders who mattered were Chairman Mao and the Party. And woe betide anyone who dared to contradict this teaching. Now the norms have flipped again in China filial piety is extolled and a new law entitled “Protection of the Rights and Interests of Elderly People” stipulates that children must return to their hometown to visit their parents “often” and to send occasional greetings (Wong, 2013). Employers are required to give employees sufficient time off to fulfill this filial duty.1 The fact that the government thought that a law needed to be

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passed suggests that many young modern Chinese do not see filial piety (to parents or to rulers) as a virtue or controlling norm. Norm-switching occurs within corporations as well. In his book Moral Mazes, Jackall (2010) documents an Arendtian moral fluidity within business corporations. Drawing upon extensive interviews with middle management, Jackall found that middle managers felt that their organizations expect them to have a flexible morality. A willingness to go with the flow and to do whatever it takes to make senior management look good qualify as key organizational virtues. Endorsing whatever happens to be the official version of an ever-changing fictive reality is the way to get ahead: … [B]ureaucracies allow their employees a diverse range of private motives for action in return for assent to common rules and official version of reality, that is, explanations or accounts that serve or at least do not injure the organization itself. Organizations always try … to mobilize employees’ beliefs in manufactured realities; such efforts always meet with some success particularly in the middle levels among individuals who still labor under the notion that success depends on sincerity. However, the belief of insiders in aberrant goals is not a prerequisite for personal success; belief and subordination to individuals who articulate organizational goals is. One must, however, to be successful in a bureaucratic work situation, be able to act, at a moment’s notice, as if official reality is the only reality. (Jackall, 2010, p. 56)

Jackall’s findings accord well with Arendt’s observations regarding the reality and pervasiveness of norm-switching. Every time new management comes in, the fictive reality all employees are expected to endorse is wont to alter, and the supporting norms inevitably change as well. According to Arendt, norms are malleable for a second reason. She coined the term “natality” the phenomenon of individuals being born. Each birth introduces something new into the world. In that sense, every birth alters the world, including regimes and organizations. Part of what makes totalitarianism so awful is that it aims at destroying all individuality and spontaneity. For Arendt, totalitarian systems are evil precisely because they set out to destroy spontaneity understood as “man’s power to begin something new out of his own resources, something that cannot be explained on the basis of reactions to environment and events … No ideology which aims at the explanation of all historical events of the past and at mapping out the course of all events of the future can bear the unpredictability which springs from the fact that men are creative, that they can bring forward something so new that nobody ever foresaw it” (Arendt, 1958, p. 458). Of course, having children is a prime instance of generating the new. Thomas Jefferson famously suggested that the US constitution ought to have to be re-ratified every ten years because younger generations might

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have different concerns, needs and outlooks than their predecessors. Arendt does not go that far but she does repeatedly suggest the need for a new ethical foundation, one that does not depend primarily upon social norms and that has some built-in ability to deal with new things as they arise. Arendt finds such a foundation in the act of thinking itself. Socratic discourse of ourselves with ourselves may sometimes be the best (if not only) guide to the right course of action. By thinking, she does not mean employing cunning or using hypothetical end-means reasoning. Thinking refers rather to the activity of asking ourselves whether we could continue to live with ourselves if we, say, performed a murder or stole money from those who had invested in our business. So understood, thinking is identical with conscience. (An individual clearly has a conscience, a corporation may or may not have one.) In Arendt’s eyes, such thinking serves as a subjective but non-arbitrary and non-relativistic basis for judgment (Parekh, 2008). This thinking attempts to imagine the objections to our beliefs or positions that might be raised by others (including the next generation) with whom we share the world. We do not merely seek to satisfy some individual or even group preference. Instead, we try to imagine in an empathetic way how the world looks to others. Conscience understood by Arendt as our thinking of ourselves with ourselves actively seeks out and fairly presents alternative points of view. It is in and through thinking that we experience the world as a world rather than merely as a mirror or projection of the self. Thinking seeks to find a truth that is inter-subjective without presupposing the eternal existence of particular truths. In the absence of such thinking, we human beings can and will do horrible things. Arendt’s contends that the Nazi Eichmann and others of his ilk did not think badly. They simply failed to think at all. In that sense, their evil was banal (Arendt, 2006). By contrast: [n]on-participants [in the murder], called irresponsible by the majority, were the only ones who dared to judge by themselves, and they were capable of doing so not because they [had] a better system of values or because the old standards of right and wrong were still firmly planted in their mind and conscience … The nonparticipants were those whose consciences did not function in this, as it were, automatic way …. Their criterion, I think, was a different one: they asked themselves to what extent they would still be able to live in peace with themselves after having committed certain deeds; and they decided that it would be better to do nothing, not because the world would then be changed for the better, but simply because only on this condition could they go on living with themselves at all. Hence, they also chose to die when they were forced to participate. To put it crudely, they refused to murder, not so much because they still held fast to the command “Thou shalt not kill,” but because they were unwilling to live together with a murderer themselves. The precondition for this kind of judging is not

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a highly developed intelligence or sophistication in moral matters, but rather the disposition to live together explicitly with oneself, to have intercourse with oneself, that is, to be engaged in that silent dialogue between me and myself which, since Socrates and Plato, we usually call thinking. (Arendt, 2005, p. 44)

Part of this dialogue involves taking the perspective of others who frequently are not physically present. Creative imagination is the faculty that makes such perspective-taking possible. In that respect, Arendt, like Werhane and other defenders of moral imagination, sees imagination as a necessary part of deliberation. But imagination must operate as part of the thinking conscience, not as an element of cunning. One must make present to oneself that which is absent with a view to eliciting a general agreement from others who bother to think things through: Common sense, by virtue of its imaginative capacity, can have present in itself all those who actually are absent. It can think, as Kant says, in the place of everybody else, so that when somebody makes the judgment, this is beautiful, he does not mean merely to say this pleases me … but he claims assent from others because in judging he has already taken them into account and hence hopes that his judgments will carry a certain general, though perhaps not universal, validity. (Arendt, 2005, p. 140)

In the absence of such aesthetic thinking (which Arendt appears to equate with conscience), we will find ourselves adhering to all sorts of new moral “norms,” some of which justify abhorrent behavior.

INTERPRETATION FIVE: CREATION AS AN ATTEMPT TO UNDERSTAND WHO IS A PERSON If we take critical writing as a form of creation, then another complex relationship between creativity and ethics emerges. Primo Levi’s writings embody this relationship. Levi wrote extensively about his experience in Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp. Levi adamantly insisted that he did not write to serve as a witness to the horrors of these camps. Precisely because he survived because he is not one of those whom he terms “the drowned” he cannot truly act as a witness to the ultimate degradation the utter destruction of one’s humanity that was the purpose and effect of these camps. I must repeat: we, the survivors, are not the true witnesses. This is an uncomfortable notion of which I have become conscious little by little, reading the memoirs of others and reading mine at a distance of years. We survivors are not only an exiguous but also an anomalous minority: we are those who by their prevarications or abilities or

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DARYL KOEHN good luck did not touch bottom. Those who did so, those who saw the Gorgon, have not returned to tell about it or have returned mute, but they are the … submerged, the complete witnesses, the ones whose deposition would have a general significance. (Levi, 1988, pp. 83 84)

Instead of trying to serve as a witness, Levi creates in an effort to understand what happened to him and all the others who suffered at the hands of the Nazis and to grasp why the Germans did what they did. Such understanding should be considered an integral part of ethics insofar as ethics involves judging and we cannot correctly assess that which we do comprehend. In particular, we must try to grasp: “Who is human?” Part of seeking to understand “who is human” involves speaking with the hope of encountering some resonance in his audience, especially the Germans who were the perpetrators and the bystanders during the Hitler years. But I cannot say I understand the Germans. Now something one cannot understand constitutes a painful void, a puncture, a permanent stimulus that insists on being satisfied. I hope that this book [Survival in Auschwitz] will have some echo in Germany, not only out of ambition, but also because the nature of this echo will perhaps make it possible for me to better understand the Germans, to placate this stimulus. (Levi, 1988, p. 174)

Why does Levi desire so to understand the Germans? Perhaps in part so that he can better comprehend what befell him and millions of other Jews. But also in order to be able to assess them correctly and then to judge them: Perhaps you have realized that me the Lager, and having written about the Lager, was an important adventure that has profoundly modified me, given me maturity and a reason for life. Perhaps it is presumption: but there it is, today I, prisoner no. 174517 … can speak to the German people, remind them of what they have done, and say to them: “I am alive, and I would like to understand you in order to judge you.” (Levi, 1988, p. 174)

All of this is true enough as far as it goes. But it strikes me as significant that Levi’s attempt to understand who is human takes him into the realm of the poetic. In his powerful poem “If This Is a Man,” Levi excoriates and warns those “who live safe in your warm houses” and who have wombs like a frog not to consider and remember those who are starving and who are “without hair and without name” (Levi, 1988, p. 178). Through ambiguity, this poem raises questions more questions the more one ponders it. Its very indirection and ellipticality can prompt us to pose some uncomfortable questions, wonderings that take us beyond the issue of Nazi genocide. Who exactly are those in the warm houses? The Nazi commandants

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returned to hearth fires and food after spending the day killing others. If the poem refers to these men and women, then perhaps they are more inhuman than the walking dead in the camps. Or are we the audience who reads this poem at our leisure we who dwell among friendly faces the inhuman ones? You and I, too, have the luxury of food and shelter. If we ignore the plight of those who are suffering often at the hands of other human beings how human are we? This question applies in spades to organizations and organizational leaders who have been complicit in genocide and mass killings around the world (e.g., IBM, which provided the machines used to run the death camps). Another question: The women with the frog wombs and the men who fight for any and every morsel of food would seem to be human their collective noun names suggest as much. On the other hand, they have clearly been reduced to shadows of what they once were. Levi intimates they are perhaps little better than animals (e.g., frogs). If so, is it possible for people to be alive and yet to cease to be human? And what about the writer himself? The author Levi no longer “lives” in the Lager. He writes the poem from within the safety and shelter of his home. Has he moved, therefore, from the inhuman to the human? Or is the reverse the case? Is such a transition, regardless of its directionality, even possible? If so, how exactly? We don’t typically think about species change at this level. Can a cat turn into a rock and back again into a cat? And what is Levi’s relation to the millions who still suffer around the world? Is he writing to reconcile himself to himself, or is he writing to push himself out of his comfort zone? Levi does not answer any of these questions but his poem poses the questions with a driving insistence. The questions he raises destabilize our outlook and puncture our moral complacency, making us feel uneasy about both our past and future responsibilities to others and about the security of our own identities. As the various wars and genocides of the twentieth century have shown only too well, in almost no time at all, we can lose our families, professions, country, possessions and perhaps even our humanity. If so, is the real mark of our humanity the willingness and ability to ponder, to acknowledge and to respond to the entire range of the “human-inhuman” condition?2 Or as Howes in his discussion of Levi’s works puts it: … the Lager crushes all possible links to human community. Irrespective of how we define humanness, the distinctive feature of the Lager is that it seeks out and eliminates every aspect of what we know and desire even the desire to survive physically. Yet … [the fact that] the Lager leaves a presence, a being of some sort, is the most troubling fact of all … Levi suggests that we must hold on to and consider the drowned.

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DARYL KOEHN Indeed, their presence in our collective memory, however tenuous and unbelievable, is not just an object of morbid fascination. It is among the range of ways “we” can be. (Howes, 2008, p. 269)

Human beings dreamt up the Lager. Levi suggests that now we need acts of creativity (e.g., his poem and our imaginative responses to it) to examine the nature and meaning of this and other monstrous products of our individual and collective creativity. Thus Levi construes human creativity as an ambivalent power. On the one hand, we need it to under who a person is. On the other hand, he knows only too well that imagination can come up with monstrous innovations. And, like Arendt, Levi appears to be skeptical of the ability of moral norms to regulate human behavior. Indeed, the Lager should compel us to rethink the basic human category of “human being.” Thus, unlike Werhane’s moral imagination (which seems to presuppose Kantian ethical norms), Levi’s imagination takes us to the limits of what is barely conceivable. What would it mean to apply Kantian norms to those with “frog wombs”? Like Jonas’ ecological imperative and Arendt’s thinking with conscience, Levi’s approach does not have much content. Its moral worth lies rather in his poetic art’s ability to shock us into thinking that which is borderline unthinkable and to make us rest uneasy at night in our warm beds.

INTERPRETATION SIX: CREATION AS A WAY OF SYNTHESIZING AND LIVING ETHICAL TRUTHS I will end with a sixth interpretation of the relation between creativity and morality, a conception derived from a play Hwang’s Ch’inglish (2012). In this play, as in many works of art, creativity is present and operating at several levels. The play itself, understood as a written work, springs from the playwright’s imagination. When the play is performed, the director’s and actors’ creativity give life to the written word as they speak and act out the text. The audience’s creativity is central as well and crucial from a moral point of view. For good literature and art help to reveal ethical truths without asserting them dogmatically and without providing any explicit argument for them. I say “help to reveal” rather than “reveal” because any moral insight gained by audience members comes through their experience of the work of art. The artist’s creativity conditions and structures this experience, but the audience, by paying attention and seeking to understand the portrayed action, spontaneously synthesizes their

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own ethical insights. The audience’s experience of the novel or play, not any reasoned speech or argument, is what validates any ethical truth revealed by and through the artwork. The artist’s work functions as the meeting ground between the author’s and audience’s creativity. Creative “storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it, [and] it brings about consent and reconciliation with things as they really are …” (Arendt, 1970, p. 105). In this respect, art critics are right to insist that imaginative works should not be reduced to morality plays (Seaton, 2006). All of this is rather abstract. So I will illustrate the point I am trying to make by looking at Hwang’s Ch’inglish (2012) in some detail. This play creates the conditions under which audience members may arrive at two important realizations concerning applied ethics. The first stems from a growing sense on the part of the audience as the play unfolds of the dynamic nature of practical understanding. The play features an American businessman David Cavanaugh who has come to China to persuade a local Chinese minister of culture Mr. Cai to buy signage in English from Cavanaugh’s Cleveland firm. Although Cavanaugh’s sales pitch appears (to Cavanaugh) to go pretty well, he does not get the business. We soon learn that Mr. Cai has already given the English signage contract to his sister-inlaw. Initially, we as audience members may feel a bit outraged. Cavanaugh has a good product. He is a native English speaker and so can produce signs with correct grammar, syntax, and vocabulary. The Chinese producer is likely to reproduce the same “Ch-inglish” signs that the minister of culture himself has conceded are embarrassing. The only moral conclusion seems to be that Cavanaugh’s organization has been treated unfairly because the minister is corrupt. However, we learn a few scenes later that Cavanaugh’s “firm” does not really exist. He has a website but he is the only employee of the firm. He needs to win this contract with the Chinese to jumpstart the firm’s business. At this point, a thinking audience member likely feels somewhat uncomfortable about the earlier rush to judgment in favor of Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh is at a minimum misrepresenting himself and his firm. It is not clear whether even if Cavanaugh is awarded the contract he will be able to ramp up production to deliver the promised product. Therefore, it seems that Cavanaugh has treated the minister unfairly. As the play develops, we witness a series of deeds and speeches that prompt such reversals and modifications of earlier moral judgments. Mindful audience members trying to make sense of the play (notice the creative element in “making sense” of something) spontaneously begin to

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suspend their judgments, because they realize either implicitly or explicitly that their understanding of the characters and their motives is far from complete. Notice that this course of action has been arrived at not through theorizing and applying some extant norms but rather through the practice of trying to comprehend the characters’ behavior. In this respect, Hwang’s play accurately represents our situation. We are not spectators in our own lives but rather agents who interact with each other and with the world at large. While most business ethics cases dissect events after the fact, here the audience is thrown into events as these unfold. Like the characters themselves, we must grapple with meaning and significance as our understanding dynamically develops. That practical realization ought to engender caution and check our tendency to rush to judgment. This ethical insight is one that we can take from the theater straight into our “real lives” as we struggle to make sense of what is going on in the organizations where we spend many of our waking hours. The play creates the conditions for a second moral epiphany on the part of reflective audience members. This second insight derives not so much from the dynamism of our understanding per se but from a growing realization on the part of audience members that they have unwittingly entered into a world of interpretive quicksand. The audience struggles to gain its footing and to figure out how individuals are to know whether and when they are making progressively more grounded ethical judgments. Suppose, for example, that we opt to rely upon others’ assessment of our communication skills to ascertain whether we really understand what is going on in a business transaction. Ch’inglish invites just such a reliance but then highlights its dangers. Upon arriving in China, Cavanaugh promptly hires the British expatriate Peter who has lived many years in China. Peter is to serve as a consultant and translator for the American businessman. During the initial meeting between Cavanaugh and the Chinese minister of culture Mr. Cai, the latter repeated praises Peter’s excellent spoken Mandarin. In comparison to the Mr. Cai’s hired translator Ms. Xian who makes comical errors, Peter appears as a veritable wunderkind in the eyes of both Cavanaugh and the audience. Yet, as the action develops, it becomes ever clearer that Peter does not grasp how business relations work within China. Mr. Cai’s earlier praise progressively rings more and more hollow. Ms. Xian the seemingly incompetent translator may well comprehend far more of the subtext of the situation than the excellent translator Peter. Mr. Cai’s praise of Peter turns out to be rather pro forma, with Chinese cultural norms of politeness favoring the encouragement of foreigners who try to speak Mandarin. It seems, therefore, that placing our faith in what

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other people say about our comprehension of them or our interaction with them is not a prudent way to determine whether we truly grasp what is occurring. Such faith is especially misplaced when we or our organization are operating in a foreign culture. Perhaps then in order to gauge our progress in understanding others, we should look to our past experience with them. This approach turns out to as fraught and as non-viable as the first strategy of relying upon what others say about us. To see why, let us return to the play. Peter tells David at the beginning of the play that business in China does not operate according to the rule of law but rather depends upon guanxi or relationships. Guanxi, Peter insists, yields predictable results. He presumably has seen guanxi in action in the past and has sought to cultivate his own guanxi. On the face of it, then, Peter’s opening lecture to David strikes the audience as credible. Like Cavanaugh, the audience is inclined to trust in Peter’s authority. The playwright again pulls the rug out from under us as we discover that Peter has not correctly understood how guanxi works. Since Peter has gotten Minister Cai’s son into the University of Bath, Peter thinks that the minister will feel beholden and will give David the sign contract on Peter’s urging. Unbeknownst to Peter, Cai has already awarded this particular contract to his sister-in-law. Having opened the “back door” to her, Cai will not and cannot renege on his promise. Guanxi with family members apparently trumps guanxi with foreigners. In a sense, guanxi does produce predictable results but crucially not the results Peter had expected. In China, family relations are supremely important, and Cai honors those relations. From Cai’s point of view, he has acted entirely reasonably and predictably in giving the contract to his sister-in-law. The minister judges that Peter has been both unreasonable and unethical in requesting the signage business as a reciprocal favor; Peter should know that Cai cannot go back on his promise to a relative. From Peter’s perspective, however, it is Cai who has acted unjustly and unreasonably. Peter worked hard to get Cai’s son into a good British university, so Cai should honor the Confucian norm of reciprocity and should give Peter’s client the signage contract. Peter and Cai have drifted along companionably for years, each believing he understood the other very well and could justifiably rely upon their past interactions to predict one another’s future behavior. In fact, all along there has been a huge hidden chasm that the play’s action suddenly discloses. Each man’s conceptions of the other do not have the sound basis each has assumed. Attentive audience members spontaneously synthesize a second moral insight: we cannot correctly assess our progress in understanding others in

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a different culture either by taking at face value what they say about our comprehension or by relying upon our experiences. Both of these hermeneutical strategies reflect and are conditioned by social norms and mores, the very things we are seeking to grasp. There is no ready escape from the interpretive quicksand. Maybe the ethically best thing we can do is repeatedly to reconsider our actions and those of others. I have spent some time examining this play because Hwang gestures at another possible relation between morality and fiction or creativity. On this sixth view, ethical truth need not reveal itself imaginatively, as Werhane thinks, through an explicit reframing of questions or through a conscious broadening of perspective. On the contrary, Hwang would, I think, challenge Werhane’s overly optimistic account of imagination’s relationship to ethical judgments. We have already seen how Primo Levi’s poem creates and embraces ambiguity while posing discomfiting questions. Hwang shows us how an imaginative work destabilizes our ethical judgments while simultaneously getting us thinking about hitherto unsuspected and non-obvious ethical dimensions of the action we are watching and assessing. He shows the problem, rather than merely telling us about it. He gets us to live the issue. We as the audience, like the characters themselves, experience the difficulties in understanding one another and learn only through reflecting upon that experience and synthesizing our own insights. It seems that from Hwang’s perspective, the play is indeed the thing, for we are condemned to play with ideas and possibilities forever. We presumably can cultivate and sharpen our imaginative insights over time but doing so may make ethical judgments of situations far harder rather than easier. Unlike Hans Jonas, Hwang does not place any particular faith in normative reasoning from some categorical imperative. Hwang’s view may be closest to Arendt’s view that the only way to act well is to keep thinking “without banisters.”

CONCLUSION Scholars often talk about the relation between creativity and organizational or institutional morality as though it is a simple and univocal one. As I have attempted to show, the relation is complex and multivalent. Creative imaginings may help us take a wider view of a situation and better understand various stakeholder perspectives. But human creativity can also lead people to switch their moral norms, thereby rendering the whole category of ethical norms problematic. Human creativity may disclose as well newly

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emergent norms or even super-norms for example, the ecological imperative while at the same time calling into question our ability to assess accurately what is going on in a particular situation. We may be lulled by our imagination into believing that we are understanding more than we truly are. Before we place too much faith in the creative imagination’s ability to promote better judgments, we should carefully consider the dark side of human inventiveness.

NOTES 1. Wong (2013). 2. Howes notes that this poem appears (in all of Levi’s texts apart from his memoirs) under the title of “Shema,” suggesting that he regards the poem as a kind of Jewish prayer (Howes, 2008, p. 275).

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Levi, P. (1988). The drowned and the saved. New York, NY: Summit Books. Moberg, D., & Seabright, M. (2000). The development of moral imagination. Business Ethics Quarterly, 4, 845 884. Parekh, S. (2008). Hannah Arendt and the challenge of modernity: A phenomenology of human rights. New York, NY: Routledge. Rubinstein, A. (2009). Hans Jonas: A study in biology and ethics. Society, 46, 160 167. Scodel, H. (2003). An interview with professor Hans Jonas. Social Research, 70(2), 339 368. Seabright, M., & Schminke, M. (2002). Immoral imagination and revenge in organizations. Journal of Business Ethics, 38(1 2), 19 31. Seaton, J. (2006). Conrad’s moral imagination. Humanitas, 91(1 2), 65 66. Werhane, P. H. (1999). Moral imagination and management decision making. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Werhane, P. H. (2002). Moral imagination and systems thinking. Journal of Business Ethics, 38, 33 42. Werhane, P. H. (2013). Moral imagination. In C. L. Cooper (Ed.), The Blackwell encyclopedia of management. Hoboken, NJ: Blackwell Publishing. Blackwell Reference Online. August 22. Wong, E. (2013). A Chinese virtue is now a law. New York Times, July 2. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/03/world/asia/filial-piety-once-a-virtue-in-china-isnow-the-law.html?_r=0

OTHERNESS IN SELF AND ORGANISATIONS: KAFKA’S THE METAMORPHOSIS TO STIR MORAL REFLECTION Ce´cile Rozuel ABSTRACT Informed by Jung’s analytical psychology, this chapter discusses Kafka’s short-story The metamorphosis in relation to moral reflection on organisational life. Adopting the view that fiction offers a promising path to engage the reader’s imagination and reflection on moral issues, I explore such process in light of The metamorphosis. I argue that this story not only outlines important moral issues of relevance to workers in modern organisations, but is also particularly effective in eliciting a reaction from the reader which calls for further analysis. Reading about Gregor Samsa’s transformation precludes indifference; instead, it asks us to reflect on our own moral values and behaviours, and to ponder on our tolerance for what is ‘other’. In turn, this enhanced knowledge and understanding of ourselves help explore ethical issues in organisations in a more subjective, creative and holistic manner. Keywords: Alienation; imagination; Jung; otherness; rejection; shadow The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 25 50 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011002

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INTRODUCTION Rare are the literary works that can, from the very first line, startle the reader while being so simply descriptive as Franz Kafka’s The metamorphosis: ‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.’1 Kafka’s life itself is an interesting story. A frail boy dominated by his father, Kafka struggled to accept himself as a person of worth, and to assert himself towards his family and society. His fairly mundane (yet important) work at the Workman’s Accident Insurance Institute in Prague provided him with the necessary financial resources to live, but he only truly expressed himself in his writings. These were apparently published against his will, following his death of tuberculosis in 1924, a few weeks short of his 41st birthday (Mairowitz & Crumb, 2011). It is debatable whether Kafka’s wish that his manuscripts be burnt after his death should have been respected, for we would never have been exposed to some remarkable pieces of writing. The influence of Kafka on popular culture is undeniable, whether people have read his books or not. He is one of a few authors who have had their names adjectified. Situations or organisations are called ‘kafkaesque’ to denounce an absurdly painful series of events or experiences usually set in or involving a bureaucratic organisation (see for instance Hodson, Roscigno, Martin, & Lopez, 2013). The term itself echoes senselessness, an existential struggle that does not convey much hope, or that even exhausts any thoughts of hope. It is life itself which does not seem to make much sense. It is existence that is estranged from happiness. Yet, in the very questioning of the situation, in the absurdity of the context and the content, we are invited to ponder on the meaning of our own life, and subsequently on the extent and nature of our moral responsibility. It is that precise point which, I believe, informs reflection on organisational ethics. Much has been written about Kafka’s novels. Such materials range from literary analysis (e.g. Collignon, 1955; Stine, 1981) to political or metaphysical interpretation of hidden themes (e.g. Bennett, 1991; Margolis, 1958; Ryan, 1999), from debate on the sources and influences of Kafka’s ideas (e.g. Spilka, 1959) to discussion of the philosophical contribution of Kafka’s novels and stories (e.g. Straus, 1989; Swales, 1981). In these commentaries and analyses, the ethical dimension of the quest for meaning is ever present, demonstrating how Kafka’s stories call forth at least some moral discussion. Parallels are often drawn between stories, notably between The metamorphosis and The judgment, or between those stories in

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which the main protagonist is K (The trial or The castle). That Kafka’s works have attracted so much interest from so many different perspectives and disciplines is evidence of the richness and subtle complexity of his writing and existential philosophy. It certainly would be possible to analyse systematically the ethics or lack of ethics of Kafka’s characters and organisations, and attempt to draw some lessons or parallels with contemporary issues of moral commitment or responsible agency. Certainly, Kafka’s contribution to scholarship on bureaucratic forms of organisations and their ethical flaws has been duly noted (e.g. Huber & Munro, 2013; Munro & Huber, 2012; Warner, 2007). My intent in this chapter is slightly different however. Rather than focusing on the story itself and what it symbolises, I wish to invite reflection on how engaging as a reader with a specific story (The metamorphosis) stirs up serious questions about our own moral agency and responsibility. In other words, I propose that the reading experience is itself a source of insightful moral knowledge about ourselves, and that some stories such as The metamorphosis are particularly rich in revealing our deep moral ambiguity. Tastes in reading are very subjective: whether one likes or dislikes a story depends on many factors, starting with one’s disposition towards the story. Some people love factual narratives and loathe fictional stories; others cannot get through a biography but devour fantasy novels or literature classics. Not everyone likes Kafka though there is a fair chance that some of those claiming to have an opinion on Kafka’s works have never read any of his books. In truth, Kafka’s stories are distinctive in content and form. They may not ‘speak’ to everybody in the same way. I would nonetheless venture that it is difficult not to react to the very idea of a man waking up one day to discover he has turned into a giant insect. This impossible indifference, I argue, is the special gift of The metamorphosis, particularly effective given all is said in the very first sentence. At minima, one could find the very idea rather silly which already implies a reaction and position on the matter. More elaborate reactions would include imagining what it would feel like if one were to witness a loved one turning into a giant insect, or further, what it would feel like if one were to be in Gregor’s position. From this very simple premise, the reader is thus already confronted with many questions of moral significance. My purpose in the present paper is to outline how reading The metamorphosis, a seemingly simple if supernatural story, forces the reader to confront their own fear of otherness, their own disgust at what is ‘abnormal’, their own (in)ability to empathise with a variety of characters, and their

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own complex moral positions. I propose to explore these deeply personal considerations through the lens of Carl G. Jung’s analytical psychology, which recognises the importance of the subjective experience of life whilst also accounting for the influence of collective structures on the choices and behaviours of individuals. After a brief overview of analytical psychology’s approach and exploratory value, I outline the two most important themes for moral reflection identified in the story, namely alienation of self and otherness. I then discuss how fictional material engages the imagination, and explain how The metamorphosis is particularly effective in stimulating moral reflection on issues that relate to individuals and to life in work organisations.

ANALYTICAL PSYCHOLOGY AND FICTIONAL MATERIAL TO KNOW ONESELF Analytical psychology, developed by Carl G. Jung at the turn of the last century, offers a unique and holistic pathway to understand the influence of the unconscious on our conscious behaviour. Distinct from other approaches in the depth psychology tradition, analytical psychology acknowledges that an individual’s psyche is not merely influenced by the actual experiences, history or memories of the individual, but also carries traces of collective memories pertaining to humanity as a whole. This collective unconscious is ‘inhabited’ by archetypes, that is, collective motifs, primordial images or patterns of instincts that are commonly observed across communities and throughout ages (Jung, 1970, par. 847). Archetypes manifest through characteristic behavioural or emotional expressions or tendencies, both at the individual and group or collective level (i.e. a community or a whole nation), although these are not consciously expressed (Haule, 2011, pp. 11 15 esp.). They are often captured figuratively through images, or literarily through folk tales and myths. Thus, archetypes such as the Great Mother, the Wise Old Man, the Fool or Trickster, the Divine Child, the Hero or the Shadow are conjured up through stories in different cultural traditions, but are equally present in each individual’s psyche, expressed in one form or another. These archetypes, both source and drivers of psychic energy, can have a strong influence on an individual’s conscious life: they are found in complexes, in psychological projections, in inflated identifications, in role playing and deception (Jung, 1970). An understanding of archetypes, and an

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appreciation of the influence of the unconscious on conscious behaviour, are thus highly relevant to studies of organisational life. As organisations are shaped and peopled by individuals with complex psyches which they do not entirely control (the conscious part of the psyche is indeed fairly small, although it appears to the individual ego to be all there is and all that counts), many of their internal dynamics are subjected to archetypal influence by default. It seems therefore relevant to pay close attention to the psychological life of individual organisational members in order to analyse ethical issues in organisations. Jung argued that psychological work is inherently moral work as well, whose implications are felt not merely by the individual agent but also by their social environment (see Rozuel, 2010). The extent to which an individual is consciously aware of the unconscious’ influence on and interference with their behaviour is important in ascribing moral responsibility and facilitating ethical development. The more a person knows who they actually are and what they actually are capable of (morally speaking), the more insights they have on their moral values, moral strength and moral integrity. These insights in turn help understand how and why people behave in certain ways in situations of moral conflict whether such behaviours are morally praiseworthy or ethically condemnable. By definition, of course, the unconscious can never be known; however, some of its effects can be consciously observed and analysed. This forms the basis of self-knowledge and self-understanding. Self-knowledge and self-understanding are not achieved purely through rational observation of the mind; rather, emotional and affective reactions are as valuable as cognitive processes to capture psychological and moral insights. Inner work that is, conscious engagement to unveil the unconscious parts of the psyche necessitates both rational sense-making and creative imagination, withholding judgement that one means is better or more reliable than the other. This implies taking into account the subjective experience of each individual when examining a moral issue, a process which puts the spotlight back onto the individual and their degree of selfknowledge. Jung believed that the process of inner work is essential for the development of a socially and morally healthy psyche (see 1970, par. 489 524, for instance). To know ourselves in depth is no trivial matters, and it demands great courage to face our inhumanity and ugliness what Jung called the archetypal shadow. Because inner work requires that we suspend judgement in order to capture what is really there and what lies further below, it has been argued that fictional stories offer a useful alternative to real-life examples or even self-experiences (e.g. Boylan et al., 2011; Townsend, 2005).

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Factual stories can implicitly constrain our interpretation of the situation and, more importantly, our behaviour in this situation. It may thus be harder to suspend judgement when examining the process of reaction and action which we undertook then, although it is necessary to do so if we want to reveal patterns of behaviour and deep complexes that unconsciously influence how we behave (Jung, 1969; Neumann, 1969). In contrast, fiction frees the imagination from the limitations of facts and scientific evidence. Anything is possible, for example awaking one morning as a giant insect for no explicit reason. Because there are no limits as to what could happen, we are made more acutely aware of the importance of moral questions: anything could happen, but should anything happen, or should we place limits as to what could be allowed to happen? If something different happens, then how should we cope with it? How stringent should our moral rules be? How flexible should we afford to be in ascribing rights to moral agents? How honest are we with regards to living in accordance with our proclaimed values of care, love and justice? It is not incidental that science-fiction novels are well-loved amongst ethics teachers as they offer a more drastic account of the challenge of maintaining a coherent moral behaviour in extremely different circumstances and contexts (e.g. Gerde & Foster, 2008; Pease, 2009).

MORAL REFLECTION ON LIFE, WORK AND ORGANISATIONS: THEMES FROM THE METAMORPHOSIS The story of the metamorphosis of dutiful and duty-bound Gregor Samsa into a giant insect (i.e. a vermin) is rich of meanings and can be interpreted in a multitude of ways. I propose here to identify some important themes of moral significance for economic and social organisations, in particular those which engage implicitly or explicitly our individual moral responsibility. I thus address below the question of the alienation of the individual, and the attitudes towards ‘the other’ and the ugly. These two themes are not only central moral concerns for modern work organisations, but also set the tone for a substantial reflection on what it means to be human in a supposedly tolerant and multicultural world, and what we should and can expect from work in a business-oriented society. Although each of these questions deserves thorough attention (far beyond the scope of this chapter), they lie at the heart of any debate on the moral responsibilities of

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organisations towards people and society, and shape how we analyse moral issues within organisations.

Alienation of Self Gregor Samsa is by every definition of the term an alienated individual. He works in a job he does not particularly enjoy to support his family and to pay back his father’s debt. At work, he is bullied by his ungrateful and selfcentred chief, and does not receive any acknowledgement for the care and dedication he puts into his work (pp. 94, 97, 101). At home, he does not allow himself to think about his needs and desires, and instead accepts the responsibility of providing for the needs of his parents and younger sister; yet, there too, he does not receive much acknowledgement for his commitment (e.g. p. 106). Indeed, when he does not get out of his room that morning, his family shows concern at first, but then reminds Gregor of his duty (p. 92). He is trapped twice: trapped by his body and trapped by his social obligations. In fact, Gregor cares very much about his family: he is supportive of his sister’s talent for music, and is sensitive enough to appreciate the music she plays; he does not condemn his father for letting him carry the duty of providing for the whole family, and does not rebel against his father’s authority; he cares for his mother, and does not want to scare or worry her. Gregor also shows a remarkable work ethos, getting up earlier than any of the other commercial travellers to achieve more in the day, moved only by a sense of duty (p. 90). Gregor may think he is somewhat happy or at least satisfied with his life. Gregor may not even ponder on whether his life is fulfilling. Nonetheless, Gregor is alienated from his own desires as a man and as a human being. Prior to his metamorphosis, Gregor already had no voice. After then, his inability to communicate with his family or his manager only becomes more obvious, and more painful for Gregor. Except for his physical appearance, Gregor feels the same, thinks the same. He wants to get up; he feels guilty he cannot do so promptly and fulfil his duty, that is, go to work, come back home for the evening supper, start again the following day and the day after. His will remains so he must be human, mustn’t he? Yet, slowly, his transformed body alters his reactions: he notices changes in his taste in food, his impulses and instincts, and those physical positions which feel right and those which feel uncomfortable. He becomes further alienated from his humanity, on some levels at least. When he dies, of physical (and perhaps moral?) exhaustion, he still is

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Gregor however. To others, he is indeed a disturbing and inconvenient insect that needs to be discarded. To him, he is a man who has tried and, perhaps, failed to support his family in whichever way he could.

Systematic Alienation in Work Organisations The process and experience of alienation operate on different levels. The economic alienation of the individual, however, plays a particularly significant role in the background to the story itself. Indeed, Gregor leads the life he leads primarily because of economic needs: someone has to work, so it has to be Gregor since his father cannot. It does not matter whether his job corresponds to what Gregor aspires to do or to be; rather, from society’s viewpoint, what matters is whether this job pays enough to cover the bills and the needs of the family. Furthermore, or logically perhaps, the job itself does not nurture the development of the individual worker in a meaningful way (see Bowie, 1998, on what constitutes meaningful work). Gregor is a human resource, not a human being (see Legge’s thorough and critical assessment of human resource management, 2005). The reaction of his manager, the chief clerk, who comes to Gregor’s house upon realising he is not at work, is telling of how organisations value (or devalue) their agents: Gregor is at first accused of faking an illness to get out of a workday, then is suspected of having abused his position and stolen cash payments (which demonstrates how little attention his manager or the organisation has really paid to Gregor as an individual, for else they would know it would be absolutely out of character for duty-bound Gregor to act in such a way); then, once the chief clerk sees Gregor as an insect, he runs and flees, unable or unwilling to accept any change in his employee’s physical being. Once the organisational man ceases to be a dutiful organisational agent, then the organisation rejects him and nothing is left of the man but a hollow shell (effectively what is left of Gregor at the end of the story). As Whyte (1956) noted, the organisational man does not merely work for the organisation, but belongs to the organisation, and therefore dilutes his identity and his deep sense of self in the social and organisational rhetoric. The organisational man is ‘good’ because he conforms entirely to the organisational ideal. Any hint of dissent or disruption, either voluntary or a mere effect of external circumstances, is met with artificial benevolence at best, or stern remonstrance more frequently. The organisational man is told to get back in line, get back to work, get on with it for that is how things ought to be, that is how things work. For Jung (1970), nothing is

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more dangerous than a society made of formatted people, for the organisational man is no longer an individual but a malleable part of a collective with a merely artificial sense of moral autonomy and agency. The organisational man is easier to control and easier to manipulate; it is, consequently, easier to convince him to take part in systems that harm others (e.g. fellow organisational men, external civilians, the natural environment) without anybody challenging the legitimacy of the systems or methods employed. This is also what Fromm denounces as a substantial element of the moral problem of past and present: ‘Man’s submission to this combination of threat and promise [of care and protection] is his real “fall”. By submitting to power = domination he loses his power = potency. He loses his power to make use of all those capacities which make him truly human’ (2003, p. 184). This, in turn, invites reflection on how modern work organisations care for and value the dreams and aspirations of individual workers, especially in the context of slow economic growth and high employment uncertainty. What would Gregor have been had he had a choice in the matter? Would he have embraced so earnestly (if artificially) the suit of the organisational man had he not felt bound by duty to his family? Would he have transformed into an insect had he been working for an organisation which would have valued his individuality and given him space to explore and express it further? Do our organisations push individuals towards the edge by accounting for them in purely economic terms, despite the rhetoric of humanisation and social responsibility? The answer to the latter question is most probably ‘yes’, the result of a combination of factors including the market society mindset with its ability to turn everything and everyone into a marketable commodity (Sandel, 2012), the rhetoric of ‘human resource management’ which has enhanced concern for organisational strategy at the cost of individual human needs that do not directly support the organisation’s goals (Legge, 2005), and their implicit contribution to the ‘fragmentation in man’s existence and consciousness which impedes the wholeness of experience and activity’ so essential to a meaningful human life (Blauner, 1964, p. 32). In this context, the moral and social responsibility of employers towards the well-being of their employees is of paramount importance. Yet, only a handful of research studies have tackled the emerging phenomenon of ‘suffering at work’, and the term remains more prominent in France than in the Anglo-Saxon world. Stories of violence and distress in the workplace are sadly more commonplace than one might think (e.g. Herreros, 2012; Peze´, 2008). In fact, Terkel’s opening line in his compilation of workers’ stories in the early

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1970s sets the tone: ‘This book, being about work, is, by its very nature, about violence to the spirit as well as to the body’ (1975, p. 1). The modern, technology-oriented workplace is most often denounced as enticing suffering because of (1) the increasingly unrealistic expectations of performance placed upon employees, along with a comprehensive system of disciplinary measures and ‘motivation schemes’ which further isolate and devalue the individual employee; and (2) the perceived impossibility to take some time off to care for oneself, leading to tendencies to contemplate suicide as the only escape route from a hopeless life. Psychoanalyst Marie Peze´, who established some fifteen years ago one of the first consultation services in France dedicated to suffering at work (now closed following her departure), states that out of the 900 patients or so she met every year, most of them mentioned death as a possible solution to their problems at work. These individuals are not all predisposed to melancholia or suicide fantasies. Rather, ‘intensification of work, pressure of targets impossible to achieve, strategic conviviality, geographical fragmentation of teams, individualised work performance evaluations are so many examples of organisational models leading to a loss of solidarity and reinforcing the loneliness of the worker. Alone, so alone! Death becomes hope that “this will stop”’. (2008, p. 162). The phenomenon may not characterise all work organisations, but the existence of such experiences and their recurrence in various countries and industries are enough to call for a serious reassessment of the system. This sense of isolation, and consequently of alienation, certainly characterises Gregor, both prior to and following his metamorphosis.

Rejection of the ‘Other’ Whilst the sense of alienation is perceived subjectively, the attitude of rejection is, for itself, expressed socially. When Gregor turns into an ‘other’, his closed ones struggle to recognise him. His physical appearance is of course entirely different, and he cannot even speak to reassure them that that is him. The shock at the metamorphosis and the struggle to come to terms with the change are understandable, both from Gregor’s and from his family’s part. The ultimate rejection of Gregor by those who should care for him the most is, perhaps, less understandable, or at least less morally acceptable. The rejection is likely facilitated by the fact that Gregor can no longer prove he remains himself by telling his family it is him and he is there. Although his sister and mother at first recognise that it must be him, they slowly lose interest in caring for it, and justify this by telling

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themselves that it has completely taken over him. He, Gregor, cannot possibly still be there, otherwise he would have done the decent thing and left the house (or died) for the sake of his family’s welfare, as his sister remarks (p. 134). By projecting onto Gregor-the-insect an image of total otherness and, further, of total ugliness and uselessness the family members allow themselves to disengage from any moral responsibility towards what happens to it. This moral distance (embedded in the ideal of the efficient bureaucracy) is in itself dehumanising (Huber & Munro, 2013), and is one of several ways through which we consciously or unconsciously disengage from our moral responsibility (Bandura, 2002). Blaming the victim for the situation is a particularly efficient way of evading (albeit artificially) one’s responsibility. In a twisted way, the cruel actions are presented as the only decent thing to do because the victim is partly responsible for their situation: ‘By fixing the blame on others or on compelling circumstances one’s own injurious actions are excusable but one can even feel self-righteous in the process. […] Exonerated inhumanity is, thus, more likely to instill selfcontempt in victims than inhumanity that does not attempt to justify itself’ (Bandura, 2002, p. 110). What is other and does not prove useful in any socially acceptable way is condemned, implacably and without hope of salvation. Individuals discriminated against in the workplace because of age, gender, ethnicity or disability, often have to walk a fine line to prove that their otherness is not a burden, especially when the primary criterion for performance assessment is a mainstreamed definition of one’s contribution to organisational goals and strategy. Strangely, the charwoman’s pragmatism is almost more honest than the family’s ambivalence and ultimate shift in attitude: ‘Just look at this, it’s dead; it’s lying here dead and done for!’ (p. 136) reveals the charwoman; ‘you don’t need to bother about how to get rid of the thing next door. It’s been seen to already’ (p. 138) she later informs the family whilst ‘giggling so amiably’. The family, on the other hand, does not even acknowledge the news, as if pretending nothing so disturbing even happened. Instead, the parents go for a trip in the countryside, and positively assess their daughter’s value for social (and economic) promotion and validation. Life goes on, the system remains. In an individualist yet de-individualised society, what remains of our humanity? Is our self-awareness enough to define us as human, and therefore to claim that we deserve respect and dignified care? Do we need to speak and be heard to be entitled to claim for moral rights? What if we do not speak the language or have access to the ears of the decision-makers?

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What if we cease to conform through no fault of ours? These questions emerge from Gregor’s situation, and they are essential. Gregor’s metamorphosis somehow illustrates how much one’s humanity is fragile, and how much of one’s humanity depends on the willingness of the social environment to accept a more or less broad view of the notion of ‘humanity’. From the standpoint of history, only recently have healthy white heterosexual male Westerners granted equal human status and the subsequent inalienable rights to other races, to disabled people, and to the female gender (up to a point …). Still, we struggle with facing the other. The other evokes fear, distrust, disgust (Pelzer, 2002). The other fascinates too, because its otherness makes it strangely powerful; this is why it must be kept at bay. The other captures what we could be, what we do not want to be anything but what we are. To ensure preservation, the other is thus rejected, repressed or destroyed. Besides, the greater the otherness, the easier the process of rejection since it is arguably easier to lack empathy and understanding for what is not close to us or does not look like us. If, like Gregor’s family, we can convince ourselves that the insect we have in front of us is not a man but just an insect, that thing, then we feel limited guilt when stripping it of any moral rights or claims to dignified care. This process, we often forget, works both ways however: ‘… the power of humanisation to counteract cruel conduct also has important social implications. The affirmation of common humanity can bring out the best in others’ (Bandura, 2002, p. 110).

Shadow in Individuals and Communities We can then ponder on whether such process occurs frequently, especially in our supposedly tolerant and multicultural societies. Jung’s notion of the shadow is here extremely useful in apprehending the complexity of our relationship to the other. As the archetype containing all that is repressed, rejected or censored, the shadow carries a tremendous amount of energy which has the ability to disrupt conscious behaviour. Everyone carries a personal shadow, and at once also contributes to and carries the collective shadow that is, the dark side of humankind, the destructive potential of work organisations and institutions made by men (Jung, 1970, par. 572). However, most of us struggle to face the shadow or even appreciate its influence, for this would mean admitting that we are not masters of our lives (Jung, 1963). Because of such lack of consciousness of the scope of unconscious influences on our behaviours, we project the

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unacceptable onto an external other be it an individual or a group, either way a scapegoat (Brinton Perera, 1986; Johnson, 1993). To face the shadow implies accepting the fact that we are far less good than we ever thought we could be, and that evil and ugliness lie in our soul on the same par as goodness and beauty. Rare are those individuals capable of accepting such truth, and few are those societies able to operate in awareness of such paradox. We much prefer the safety of rules and clear boundaries than the implacable uncertainty which emerges from a constant struggle between good and evil. This explains why the ‘organisational man’ ideology is so pervasive and powerful, hiding the dark complexity of life behind a veil of illusory control and progress (Whyte, 1956). The individual living in a complex world of constant tension of opposites apparently bears greater moral responsibility for his or her actions than the organisational man who relies on external collective structures to guide his life. The latter, in effect, is no less responsible than the former from a moral perspective; however, he likely feels less anxious about his moral responsibilities for these are seemingly shared by the collective and most of his actions are seemingly condoned by the collective. Shadow work is difficult but essential for moral awareness and moral integrity. Truly human and humane communities, either in the shape of work organisations or social gatherings, need to make space for shadow work if they are to be sustainable. As Jung (1970, par. 579) explains: ‘recognition of the shadow … leads to the modesty we need in order to acknowledge imperfection’, which in turn allows human community to be defined through real connections of actual individuals who need the support of one another because they are imperfect. This is not unsubstantial. What Jung describes, and what Gregor fails to achieve (for lack of social support and personal strength), is the need to embrace our own (moral) deformity and otherness in order to engage in an authentic caring relationship with the other. This does not mean we ought to excuse evil; rather, it implies that we recognise the objective existence of evil in each individual, each community, each organisation, and that we consciously discipline our tendency for evil without pretending we can eradicate it. And then, we may perceive good potential in what we thought was pure darkness or ugliness. Johnson (1993, p. 30) warns us that: Apparently, the collective need for shadow expression supersedes the individual determination to contain the dark. And so it happens that an era of disciplined creativity is always followed by an astounding display of annihilation. There are better ways of coping with the shadow, but until they are common knowledge we will continue to have these outbursts in their most destructive form.

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Identifying and implementing the ‘better ways of coping with the shadow’ are no small tasks, not least because they implicitly challenge the foundations of our modern economic order. Johnson (1993) recommends rituals to rehabilitate the sacredness of unconscious forces and thereby bound their influence on human consciousness to a dedicated time and space. Jung (1970, par. 572) urged us to engage in inner work and develop some ‘imagination for evil’ so as to avoid feeding evil by our naivety and inflated ego. Either way, the approach we take cannot rely on reason alone, for the shadow is not rational. Instead, imagination provides a more uncertain but richer path to understand the shadow, integrate the other, and tolerate if not love the ugly. As Jung (1970, par. 574, original emphasis) recalls: It is not that present-day man is capable of greater evil than the man of antiquity or the primitive. He merely has incomparably more effective means with which to realize his propensity to evil. As his consciousness has broadened and differentiated, so his moral nature has lagged behind. That is the great problem before us today. Reason alone no longer suffices.

This is why fiction has much to contribute to organisational ethics. Fiction frees the individual mind from the constraints of factual reality, and opens up the possibility to relate to the other in a more creative, yet at once more intimate manner (Boylan, Ackerman, Palmer-Fernandez, Anderson, & Spence, 2011, p. 72). The following section will consider such process through the experience of reading The metamorphosis.

FICTION AND MORAL DEVELOPMENT: IMAGINATION TO NURTURE INDIVIDUAL AND ORGANISATIONAL ETHICS The narrator describes the story from the viewpoint of Gregor, but seemingly offers an objective or factual description of what happens. We read what Gregor sees, what he thinks, what he feels, what he says or wants to say, what he hears. And we read what his family does once he has died. The tone is morally neutral, thus deliberately allowing the reader to make up their own mind as to the meaning and moral of the story. Besides, the beauty of Kafka’s story lies in that although he never provides an explanation as to why Gregor has turned into a giant insect, this does not matter. The reader at first cannot help wondering why and how this has

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happened and indeed, Gregor and his family (his mother mainly) keep on hoping this is merely a temporary situation, and that all will get back to normal in due course. We never understand why or how this has happened (though we can speculate), but by the end of the story, the why is no longer important. As we read through the struggles, emotions and endeavours of Gregor to accommodate his situation, we realise that the important aspect of the story is the what: What now? What shall we do? How shall we react and respond to that unsettling situation? What is the right attitude and behaviour? What does it reveal about ourselves? What do we have to learn from this? My argument in this chapter is that we can learn more about ourselves and our moral attitudes by observing our reactions to The metamorphosis. Besides, this learning can be translated into a broader reflection on how we respond to challenging situations in the context of work organisations. The appeal to the imagination as a source for moral knowledge, moral reflection and moral development is generally well accepted in the context of the moral imagination (see for instance Guroian, 1996; Rozuel, 2012; Werhane, 1999). I presently argue that discussing The metamorphosis contributes to enhancing the moral imagination of individuals and of groups, and I explore this process in the remainder of the paper. As the reader proceeds with the story, he or she is invited to reflect upon Gregor’s situation and subsequent behaviour, as well as upon the reactions of Gregor’s family (and, to some extent, the secondary characters, including the chief clerk, the maid and later the charwoman, and the three lodgers). I suggest that our reactions towards the various family members and secondary characters is revealing of the limits of our moral resources, in particular our ability to tolerate otherness; whilst the extent to which we relate to Gregor’s experience reflects our ability to engage with the inhumane in ourselves. I will discuss each of these points further below.

Testing the Limits of Our Tolerance In his essay The undiscovered self, initially published in 1958, Jung stresses the need for love and care for one another: ‘Where love stops, power begins, and violence, and terror’ (1970, par. 580). The relevance of this statement to The metamorphosis is striking: when the relationship with the other is not grounded in love, we cease to see the other as an individual worthy of care just like us (moral distance ensues). Then we start to

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treat each other in harmful ways. When Gregor becomes the insect, his father reacts with violence (repeatedly), his sister and mother try their best to contain their terror, whilst the chief clerk does not even hide his fright. That is not the person they arguably loved. That is not lovable. That does not deserve love. Interestingly, although the family feels powerless in light of what has happened, they have the power to contain Gregor by locking him inside his room. This physical distance echoes the emotional and moral distance that will slowly grow between Gregor and his family. In truth, Gregor’s situation is most unsettling, particularly because he quickly loses the ability to communicate with others. Would the family react differently if Gregor could at least still speak ‘human’? Perhaps. Nevertheless, as an insect, his inability to be economically productive and socially presentable would undoubtedly still be a matter of concern and reproach from his parents, especially his father. As readers, we are thus witnesses to a range of behaviours in response to a dramatic turn of events, and we can ponder on the extent to which we sympathise with or recognise ourselves into such or such character. The characters we spontaneously identify with the most would reveal aspects of our psyche and our moral make-up. Furthermore, this process can serve as a basis for a broader reflection on how we actually tolerate otherness, let alone accommodate it or embrace it. Of all the family characters, the father is the least able to relate to his emotions and feelings. He lives for social conventions, and does not sympathise the least with Gregor following his son’s transformation. His ability to think beyond his short-term interests and to contemplate how Gregor might feel is very limited. He may even be slightly dishonest, having set aside money from his bankrupt business without revealing this to his son, even though Gregor is the one who has to work to provide for the whole family (p. 110). The father represents the uncaring, strategic and materialistic aspects of a capitalist economy, in which a man is valued as a means towards economic growth. He is a ruler, but an autocratic, unsympathetic one. In fact, he is not unlike the chief clerk, Gregor’s manager, or the lodgers to a large extent. Ethics, in this sense, is about rules and duties, albeit whoever has power can adapt the rules to better suit their interests. The father is the character who lacks moral imagination the most, but he is also the one who learns the least from the story. Set in an organisational context, and facing a drastic change, a team of workers with the father’s profile would be driven by anger and would likely scapegoat the change agent, all the more so if the change carries a sense of betrayal. This pattern can

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explain some instances of workplace bullying, especially when the ‘weak’ element is condemned because he or she has not managed to prove their worth, to bond with the rest of the team, to integrate as prescribed, to do as they were told (e.g. Herreros, 2012; Peze´, 2008). Ethically speaking, the situation cannot sustainably improve if tolerance and deep understanding of the other (in whatever shape or form) is not consciously nurtured in the organisational culture. The feminine characters, especially the mother and the sister, display greater sensitivity but eventually also reject the other. The mother is caring but helpless; she cannot really face the truth, she cannot be in the presence of the other. She lacks strength, despite her good intentions. She represents an ethical attitude one would qualify as feeble. Her heart may seem in the right place, but without the willpower to act in accordance with the heart, no meaningful change can take place. This is the case of many who want to help in a situation but fail to do so, for they have not developed the moral resilience and psychological grounding to face and accept a painful transformation. In fact, it is the mother who hopes the most that things will go back to normality, thereby showing that she does not really accept the change and the otherness. Being attached to how things were can turn counterproductive and ethically limiting, for it also does not activate the moral imagination to address the needs of the new situation, especially the needs of the people affected by the situation. The sister (Grete), on the other hand, reacts to the shock more insightfully than the rest of the family, and proves she is much more resourceful than her parents initially thought her to be. Over the course of the story a few months, perhaps a year she grows into an independent, assertive young woman capable of taking charge and leading initiatives. Ironically, she is at once the most caring towards Gregor, and the most upfront when it comes to dealing with the weakened and wounded insect. She first tries to engage with the other and somehow succeeds in making a connection with Gregor-the-insect, identifying which types of food he now likes, and attempting to clear up the space in the room so that Gregor can crawl around more easily. She faces the change, but only up to a point. Indeed, she remains physically distant from the other, never entirely at ease. As time passes, she becomes busier with work obligations and running the household, and no longer pays much attention to Gregor, until she states out loud what the rest of the family probably did think but did not want to admit out of fear of failure for the father, out of commiseration for the mother: this is no longer Gregor, it is time to try and get rid of it (p. 133). When she reaches that conclusion, she echoes the pragmatic attitude of

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the charwoman, a secondary character who plays an important part in ‘dealing with’ Gregor-the-insect. The charwoman provides an interesting moral perspective: she does not fear the insect, in fact she almost engages with it more than the rest of the family. She sees it as it is, but she only sees it as an insect (that ‘old dung beetle’, p. 127), and not as a man-turned-into-an-insect. Her moral attitude is not sophisticated but draws upon a ‘good old common sense’ which has its appeal: it helps get things done, in a sensible and efficient way. It also has its limits: she only deals with the present situation, but does not activate her moral imagination to make sense of the situation and put herself in other people’s shoes. She only processes what is of interest and of concern to her, but does not think beyond that. Thus, she delights in finding a way to discard the body of Gregor, but only because it provides her with an opportunity to use her practical imagination (as opposed to her moral imagination) in a way that is efficient. Again, this moral attitude is limited and limiting, for it does not allow the moral agent to take into account the broader needs and wants of others in so far as it does not ponder on the actual nature of the other. Yet, moral responsibility and moral agency lie in the nature of beingness, and not merely in the external appearance of one’s being. The sister is possibly the most appealing character from a moral perspective, for she is considerate and caring, but also responsible and pro-active. She combines many qualities which would be considered desirable in a work organisation run responsibly. Yet, her virtues are not enough to redeem the other, to recognise the humanity left in the now disgusting and unproductive insect. She represents an ethic of care that does not stretch far enough to include more than the primary stakeholders. She is morally imaginative, but only applies her imagination to parameters already set by external institutions: she effectively reshapes her role, challenges the prescriptive guidelines attached to her role, but she does not go as far as challenging the organisational script itself (see Gioia, 1992). In this purview, she also somehow remains prisoner of a system that encourages people to think strategically and economically rather than dynamically and humanely. Thus, all three family members illustrate the limits of moral commitment when confronted with a disturbing other. Their inability to successfully integrate otherness suggests that more conscious work is needed to understand how the other can be better perceived and respected (Rozuel, 2012). This issue, however, is even more acute when we experience this otherness in ourselves.

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Feeling Human, Being a Beast I would venture that most readers would find it hard not to sympathise with Gregor, at least partly. He is a man who suffers, and a man who tries to cope with his suffering with silent resignation and quiet dignity. He occasionally expresses anger at his situation, anger at the behaviour of his manager and colleagues, anger at the fact that his family does not treat him with greater care. He expresses sadness and loneliness, and a desire to love and be loved. He tries to be brave and perceives being brave as ultimately letting go of life, out of love for his family. He could be defined as a sadly or tragically heroic figure, although we could wish he would try harder, fight further to assert himself. But it seems Gregor cannot fight any harder for he has been defeated a long time ago by the system in which he lives and to which he belongs. Gregor is a man who has internalised his social duty to such an extent that he cannot free himself from its grip, even if he so desired. His individuality, the richness of his personality had already been annihilated by the collective norms which determined he would solely be a bread-winner, and would receive little gratification for this. And somehow, Gregor has resigned himself to such a life. Two questions arise: is it enough to live a life of collective duty at the cost of personal meaningfulness? And how can an individual cope with discovering in himself an otherness that is not socially acceptable? To address the first question, we need to consider what a worthwhile life or a life well lived would consist in. If we turn to humanistic traditions (e.g. Frankl, 2006; Fromm, 2003; Maslow, 1971), we note that a life worth living is a life that has meaning for the individual in question, or rather, it is a life in which the individual finds substantial meaning that he or she personally and subjectively values. A sense of duty may well be an honourable and meaningful source of motivation, but it may not be enough to sustain the quest for meaning so essential to the human experience. Indeed, Gregor’s outbursts of anger and secret dream of sending his sister to the Conservatory to study music demonstrate that his routine-life is too narrow, and that he would lead a different life if only he felt free to do so. This is a major moral concern in modern societies, for a perceived lack of meaning is the cause of great suffering (Moore, 1992). We thus need to question the extent to which we successfully embed meaningfulness in our work organisations (see LipsWiersma & Morris, 2009 for a critical discussion on the matter). More precisely, we need to question the extent to which we allow the individual to search for and affirm personal meaning in their working life.

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This can become a very personal question: do we tend to accept our fate, with dignified resignation, like Gregor did? What do we miss out on if we do so? What does society miss out on when we do so? What is the moral cost of such attitude? For Jung (1970), the psychological, social and moral cost is great. The individual fails to manifest his or her potential, and only suffers without understanding why. Society (or the work organisation) does not benefit from the virtues, qualities and skills that lay dormant in the individual stuck in a collectively-defined role, and remains static or repeats harmful patterns of development (see Whyte, 1956, p. 366). Furthermore, de-individualised people are more likely to blindly follow orders from the collective leader, even when these orders are detrimental or harmful to them or to others (Jung, 1970). Fromm (2003, p. 187) would concur: the ability to support sustainable and socially meaningful development ‘rests upon [man’s] ability to take himself, his life and happiness seriously …. It rests upon his courage to be himself and to be for himself.’ If moral development aims to strengthen moral agency and integrity of character and actions, then in this context, moral development cannot be pursued in any significant manner, for the individuals are discouraged from expressing their authentic subjectivity. But is it always desirable to express one’s authentic subjectivity? What if we feel human but are truly a beast? Will society not be hurt more by individuals who uncover their ugliness? Should not individuals hide their inner bestiality rather than let it rise to consciousness? Jung (1970) advises here that it is in fact more dangerous to ignore the beast than to face it, bearing in mind that facing the beast is not the same as unleashing it without care for the well-being of one’s fellow companions. The beast in us is in fact a complex sum of potentialities, which need to be explored carefully and consciously. To start with, it is important we learn to accept that ‘normalcy’ is forever deceptive. Jung (1970, par. 494) asserts that we should consider each person as a statistical anomaly, ‘an irregular phenomenon’, whilst Whyte (1956, p. 366) comments: Everyone knows that they themselves are different … but they are not sure that other people are different too. … It is hard enough to learn to live with our inadequacies, and we need not make ourselves more miserable by a spurious ideal of middle-class adjustment. Adjustment to what? Nobody really knows and the tragedy is that they don’t realize that the so-confident-seeming other people don’t know either.

This positioning challenges the tendency to normalise, standardise and mainstream processes and relationships for the sake of consistency. When the individual is diluted in the mass, or worse, when he or she willingly abandons his or her individuality to merge with the mass, the integrity of

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moral agency is profoundly jeopardised, and the strength of organisational ethics is questionable. Thus, if we are not normal and should not aim to be, we are left with the need to deal with the beast in a more constructive manner than purely seeking to destroy it or repress it. The dynamic of shadow awareness and its subsequent conscious integration, as discussed by Jung, can serve as a guide not only to learn how to face otherness, but also to learn how to love otherness, especially when it takes the form of a socially unacceptable beast. If we do not learn to accept that otherness lies in ourselves, that is, that we are less good and less perfect than we want to believe, and that what we find disturbing and disgusting in others is also present in ourselves in the form of the shadow, then we will not learn to live with ourselves fully and meaningfully. Like Gregor, we will restrain ourselves through duty and, once life becomes unbearable, the beast in us will take over and we will not be able to engage with it constructively. In contrast, if I know that I am also a beast and I learn to live with that bestial part of myself within a negotiated space, then the beast can be contained and its influence can be used just as it needs to be, for instance as a way of self-assertiveness, of greater empathy or humility, of deeper reflection on past mistakes or recurrent behaviours (Johnson, 1993, 2008). This may seem easy or simplistic, but it is one of the most difficult and morally challenging tasks any individual faces (Jung, 1970; von Franz, 1964). This is the task Gregor fails to complete because he lives in a society and works in a community that do not value such task and do not give individuals the means to engage with their inner otherness. In turn, we may ponder on whether we know how to value such task and how to facilitate such inner work in the context of modern organisations. Most organisations fail in that respect. As Herreros (2012, pp. 162 163) underlines, the rhetoric of organisational reality as offering to each worker opportunities for self-realisation, for valuable relationships and human adventures, technological enchantments and greater autonomy, is divorced from the actual reality of organisational life, which is characterised by much violence and suffering. For Herreros (2012), stories of workers who suffer, however ‘anecdotal’, are in themselves meaningful and revealing. Researchers and organisational members alike have a duty to listen and hear the distress, for the distress is real and forms the basis for meaningful change through reflexivity. Listening to the stories that emerge from reading Gregor’s story can provide rich material to better perceive the actual limits of the supposedly moral organisations we are so proud of. Many questions emerge, answers are more elusive; the themes for moral reflection and organisational responsibility discussed in the paper are thus summarised in Table 1 to help guide self-exploration at the individual, organisational and

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Table 1. Theme

Moral Lessons from The Metamorphosis. Organisational Responsibility

Alienation of self

Choice and Affirmation of self [Fear to separate from the group to explore own potential] Personal meaning and Sense of worth [Surrendering own sense of agency to group/ authority]

Offering personal space and support for the worker as an individual being [Undifferentiated pressure]

Rejection of otherness

Authenticity and Acceptance of own complexity [Inflated view of self, unrealistic expectations and demands placed on others]

Societal Concerns

Allowing the expression of individual citizen voices Valuing individuality [Conformity, cult of individualism] Adopting a more holistic and Balancing collective duty humane view of with right to pursue individual creative performance expressions [Mere economic valuation of all things and beings] [Senseless and unfair sacrifice] Identifying inclusive values Understanding the deep Supporting diverse, layers of diversity and creative and nurturing otherness communities [Extensive formatting of [Moral disengagement, individuals, diluted unreflective masspersonalities obedience, collective organisational men projection] prevailing]

Some Questions to Ponder on Do I speak with my own voice? To what extent do I conform? Why? Do I feel I am myself? What is a life worth living? What do I aspire to do in my soul? Who do I feel I am?

What am I really capable of? Why do I value what I value? Am I honest with myself? How tolerant am I of myself? Of others?

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Inner Work

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collective level respectively. In square brackets are listed the risks we most likely face or would face if due attention is not given to each of the core factors.

CONCLUSION Human beings are storytellers and story-makers. Myths and stories are the foundations of our cultures and traditions; narratives are the foundations of our history and self-knowledge. Stories are a primary vehicle for learning, partly because they are able to convey a wide range of issues in more or less complex forms, and partly because they stimulate not only the mind, but also the heart and the soul of the learner. This is why fiction offers rich material to make sense of, interpret and reflect upon organisational ethics, both collectively and individually. In this chapter, I have proposed that the story of The metamorphosis is particularly evocative of moral issues relevant to modern life, and particularly effective in engaging the reader and inviting him or her to reflect upon their own moral stance. I argue that reading The metamorphosis can help stir moral reflection in individuals and groups, with relevance to life both within and outside of work organisations. For example, it can be used (as I have done) as core material for class discussions with university students on ethics-related modules. Even when students are from very different cultural backgrounds, they usually appreciate the moral dimensions of the story and start reflecting upon their own values in light of Gregor’s reactions and those of his family. When encouraged to explain which character they identify with the most, a more refined reflection and discussion on their moral preferences emerge. Some argue Gregor is somewhat responsible for his condition because he could have rebelled but then, how many of us would rebel when this risks jeopardising our financial security? Some empathise with Gregor’s fate but find his sister’s driven reactivity more appealing so how many of us have already been acculturated to the view that a praiseworthy life is about efficient action with results visible shortterm, whilst standing still or collapsing in the face of deep suffering and injustice is a sign of unforgivable weakness? The class discussion opens up a space to explore and examine a more intimate aspect of ourselves, something we often avoid revealing or admitting to. By all means, the originality and bluntness of The metamorphosis is gripping, and students are never indifferent. Not being left indifferent is the first and most essential step in moral development. This is why we need

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fiction: fiction frees imagination, and imagination is what helps us find meaning in life. Organisations would do well to remember that ‘the meaning of life is not exhaustively explained by one’s business life, nor is the deep desire of the human heart answered by a bank account’ (Jung, 1964, p. 93). We, in turn, would do well to remember the desire of the heart so as to avoid waking up one morning, after uneasy dreams, to find ourselves transformed into a less-than-human being.

NOTE 1. All of the quotations from The metamorphosis are from Kafka (2005). The translation of The metamorphosis in this edition is by Willa and Edwin Muir.

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WIRED TO FAIL: VIRTUE AND DYSFUNCTION IN BALTIMORE’S NARRATIVE Hugh Breakey ABSTRACT How can public institutions achieve their goals and best nurture virtue in their members? In this chapter, I seek answers to these questions in a perhaps unlikely place: the television series The Wire. Known for its unflinching realism, the crime drama narrates the intertwined lives of police, criminals, politicians, teachers and journalists in drug-plagued urban Baltimore. Yet even in the thick and quick of institutional dysfunction the drama portrays, human virtue springs forth and institutions (despite themselves) sometimes perform their roles. I begin this exploration of The Wire by drawing on Montesquieu and other political theorists to evaluate the problems facing state institutions problems of diversity and principle as much as selfishness and power-mongering. I then turn to the prospects for virtue within modern institutions, developing and applying the system of Alasdair MacIntyre and paying particular attention to the role of narrative in cementing and integrating virtue. Keywords: Institutional integrity; Alasdair MacIntyre; narrative ethics; professional ethics; police ethics; The Wire

The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 51 80 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011003

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INTRODUCTION Screening over five seasons from 2002 to 2008, the television crime drama The Wire explored the gritty side of contemporary Baltimore. In its opening season, the drama related the efforts of a cadre of police targeting a major crime family (the ‘Barksdale’s) entrenched in the lucrative local drug trade. An ensemble work, The Wire showcased both sides of the battle lines, from police superiors to new officers struggling to make stripes, from the top echelons of drug gangs to the school children carrying out street sales. An assortment of other characters filled out The Wire’s dramatis personae: likeable drug addicts, despicable lawyers and family members of the police and the criminals. Capturing this broad swath of Baltimore’s population, The Wire wove a complex tapestry, accreting new characters and events into the panorama as it progressed. Unlike most television crime dramas, there were no simple storylines. Developments in the police case occurred fitfully. Setbacks were routine. Unintended consequences and chance events littered the plot; long-term projects stumbled and collapsed, while offhand remarks and actions ramified to devastating effect. Even the end of the first season achieved little closure arrests were made, but the Barksdale enterprise rolled on. In each of the following seasons, The Wire returned to the same police cohort in various forms, but the drama shifted focus: to the port workers; the local politicians; the education system; and finally the news media. A long-term police reporter with the Baltimore Sun, David Simon, created the drama. Simon was also the primary writer for the show, along with collaborator Ed Burns himself a Baltimore homicide detective for twenty years and then a teacher for seven in the city’s troubled schools. The drama exudes the lived experience of both writers. Lauded by critics as some of the best television ever produced, the show warrants its description as ‘unflinchingly realistic’. This chapter explores issues of institutional governance and professional ethics as they emerge in The Wire. The idea that fiction can help us think about social and political arrangements is not new. Even if a work comprises pure fantasy, so long as we recognize its characters and situations as realistic, the fiction can help frame our moral imagination and political thought. For instance, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies evoked the bloodthirsty anarchy lurking just outside civilization the war of ‘all against all’ sketched earlier by the seventeenth century political theorist Thomas Hobbes. Fear of this lawless war and its horrors fuelled the dynamic of Hobbes’ political theory, as people contractually acquiesced to

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a supreme sovereign the ‘Leviathan’ (Hobbes, 1651/2008, p. 84). But the Leviathan could itself threaten human freedom more than the anarchy it superseded. George Orwell’s 1984 portrayed how despotism rivals war in its horrors, capturing the fears animating John Locke, Montesquieu and other moderate, democratic political theorists of the modern era. David Simon and Ed Burn’s The Wire presents us with another chapter in this oeuvre, narrating how constitutional, democratic bureaucracies governing capitalist, liberal milieus (the very institutions recommended by early modern theorists like Locke) carry their own human costs. But unlike Lord of the Flies and 1984, The Wire is not pure fantasy. While no characters or plot-lines take up real people and events (though some come close), the writer’s intimate knowledge and comprehensive research into crime, drug-use, education, policing and bureaucracy in Baltimore explicitly informed the writing. Indeed, one of the driving purposes behind the show’s creation was to tell these tales and empower the show’s audience to understand the true complexity and depth of the problems assailing America’s urban poor, a task that might once have fallen to journalists as much as dramatists (Simon, 2008). In The Wire these issues are brought to life as fiction, but a fiction rooted in lives lived and researched by the writers. Throughout I will refer to the institutions and characters in Baltimore italicized so as to remind the reader of the fictitious nature of The Wire’s setting. Baltimore is not real, it is not Baltimore but its recognizable characters and situations, drawn from lived reality and close research, make it alarmingly lifelike nonetheless. As well as its level of realism, The Wire is also a helpful resource for thinking through institutions and virtues because of its complexity. Academic treatises often specialize, looking through a single lens at multi-dimensional problems. Explaining why they teach The Wire, Harvard lecturers stress how the show captures the web of institutional interrelations economic, educational, criminological and ethical that conspire to crush America’s urban poor (Chaddha & Wilson, 2010). This chapter shadows this multidisciplinary aspect, bringing together lessons for institutional governance from political theory before turning to the cultivation of professional ethos and virtue. (Even so, I cannot cover everything. Economic decline, to take one thread I shall not pursue, contributes heavily to Baltimore’s failings, depriving government institutions of desperately needed funds and sundering locals’ prospects for legitimate employment.) I begin our exploration in the section ‘Problems Impel Institutions’ recollecting some of the traditional reasons why we need institutions like Baltimore’s namely, they help prevent serious abuses of state power.

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In the section ‘Institutions Impel Problems’ I then consider the flipside of such institutions; the way integrity measures can themselves impel problems and subvert the best of intentions (this being perhaps the major theme of The Wire). The section ‘A Solution: Ethos and Virtue’ explores the main solution to these problems present in Baltimore the professional ethic of a select group of police and other institutional actors. Baltimore’s police refer to their ethic in a particular way: they praise an officer by saying, ‘He’s real police’ or ‘She’s a natural police’. The first syllable is emphasized police and in what follows I will refer to the ethic in this way. Thus, ‘police’ are the officers populating the police department; ‘police’ refers to this special ethic and the small coterie of police officers who abide by it. I investigate this police ethos by applying Alasdair MacIntyre’s work on virtue ethics, and I develop MacIntyre’s account by filling out some of the ways these virtues relate to the available narratives the stories told by institutional role-holders making sense of what they do and relating it to their larger life. I conclude by drawing together the two threads of institutional structure and virtuous ethos, arguing that even as they provide vital resourcing and oversight, institutions must learn how to stay out of the way of virtue.

PROBLEMS IMPEL INSTITUTIONS In a snapshot, The Wire narrates the story of a small coterie of (mostly) dedicated institutional agents being systematically punished for trying to do their job well. Making the show at once frustrating and perplexing, the lead characters are stymied not so much by evil villains, but by the very institutional processes and actors designed to facilitate and promote correct action. As Simon puts it in his audio commentary to episode three of Season Three, The Wire isn’t cynical about human beings but it’s very cynical about contemporary institutions. For this reason, commentators routinely characterize The Wire as showcasing institutional dysfunction. I follow this lead in employing the drama to highlight how mechanisms we might suppose empower institutional integrity in fact undermine it. But at the outset we have to be careful in making allegations of institutional dysfunction. I do not mean we should question the very idea of institutional dysfunction. For our purposes I assume we can speak sensibly about institutions having a ‘function’. This function describes the purpose for

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which the institution was created, and constitutes the continuing public justification for it. When critics challenge the existence of the institution, questioning whether society should tolerate its social, political or brute monetary costs, defenders of the institution justify it by marshalling the institution’s function. So for police we might say the function is (something like) keeping the peace by arresting and building solid legal cases against those who commit criminal acts; for teachers it is to educate children to the point where they can function as adults and join the workforce; for journalists it is to faithfully relay relevant events to their audience, especially regarding political issues and governance; and so on. In each case, the function justifies the institutions, and we say the institution has ‘integrity’ when its structure and ethos ensure the institution reliably performs this function. Now consider how we judge when an institution counts as dysfunctional. It will not do to simply assert that the institution fails in its function. Almost any institution fulfils its function to some extent and imposes various costs even as it succeeds. We would hardly gain from comparing Baltimore’s institutions to some imagined utopia unpopulated by human beings as we know them to be. Equally, we would not learn anything by comparing Baltimore’s institutions to other television dramas where every institutional actor, except in exceptional cases, diligently carries out their assigned role. The Wire differs from (say) Law and Order not insofar that Baltimore’s institutions are dysfunctional, but that they are so realistic, filled with human beings that we all recognize from our own occupations (and, sometimes, our own mirrors). As a consequence, I submit we deliver a comparative judgement when we speak of dysfunction. For an institution to be dysfunctional, it must be that we can locate other institutions that are actual options and could perform the role better. (Alternatively, in extreme cases we might decide that the function is not worth filling at all, given the costs we will later return to this possibility in the context of the war on drugs). As Buchanan and Keohane stress in the international context, before we make a judgement about an institution’s legitimacy, we should consider the realistically available alternatives to that institution (2006, p. 422). Despite grievous flaws, an institution yet may be the best option we possess for fulfilling a vital role. Winston Churchill once described democracy in such terms, extolling it as the worst system of government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time. What does this comparative point mean in concrete terms? This point forces us to reflect on the attractiveness of other options. Such reflection,

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I suggest, cautions us against setting the standard too high. Containing the signature defence of the ‘separation of powers’, Montesquieu’s (1748/1989) The Spirit of the Laws was destined to become one of the most influential treatises on institutional design and constitutionalism ever penned. Yet the Frenchman lambasts the capacity of human beings to build humane institutions. Despite men’s love of liberty and hatred of violence, he laments, most people remain subject to despotic government (1748/1989, p. 63). If Montesquieu is correct, then The Wire’s unrelenting cynicism about institutions, combined with guarded optimism about human beings themselves, may prove a pervasive feature of our political reality. People may be decent enough, but we should not expect too much from their attempts to build humane institutions. I want to stay with Montesquieu’s separation of powers a moment longer, for it draws attention to issues that can slip too easily from our attention as we bemoan Baltimore’s institutional problems. One of the key reasons for separating governmental powers between legislative, judicial and executive institutions (including police) is to make political persecution more difficult (Breakey, 2014). The separation requires coordination across different institutions and groups in order for political repression to occur for example, a ruling faction in government arresting opposition figures. This requirement for coordination does not render persecution impossible, of course. Institutions may conspire but the separation of powers at least forces conspiracy to occur. Even amid all the problems besetting Baltimore’s institutions, there is little political persecution in any of the direct forms feared by (say) Montesquieu or Thomas Madison. Certainly, incumbent Mayor Royce illicitly strives for electoral advantage by shutting down services to the constituents of his challenger Councillor Tommy Carcetti, and manipulating the paychecks of the police and teachers to force their respective unions to endorse him. But direct persecution through criminal prosecution lies beyond the Mayor’s political reach. The same follows for the police themselves. The Wire’s second season surrounds the attempt by a vindictive police colonel, Major Valchek, to persecute a community rival, port union boss Frank Sabotka. But Valchek possesses only a limited capacity to do this, even given the considerable powers at his command. Initially his attempt consisted of no more than petty fines and timewasting measures to inconvenience Sabotka and his workers. Valchek then shifted gear and set up a dedicated police squad to target Sabotka but even here Valchek suspected Sabotka of actual criminal activity and the squad focused its attention on Sabotka’s actual crimes. For all the alleged

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dysfunction therefore, at least some parts of the political machinery work as designed. The problem of discerning what counts as a merit or flaw of an institution intertwines with the question of comparative judgement. From one standpoint, we might criticize any institution where a small-minded, spiteful character like Valchek can claw his way into a position of power (indeed, in the series’ stinging closing montage, Valchek rises to the top position in Baltimore’s police hierarchy). We might interrogate further, and question whether the institution was responsible for fostering his ugly character, or at least of failing to nurture his growth in a better ethical direction (Fagan, 2013, p. 18). Equally though, we might approach the issue from an opposite standpoint. If we suspect that no political institution can completely prevent men and women like Valchek forging their path to power, then we will do well to consider whether we would prefer him in an institution where his capacity for vindictive persecution is limited by the need for coordination with other rival institutions, as compared to the damage he could wreak as a monarch’s general, or as a one-party state apparatchik in a Soviet-style bureaucracy. Appraised from that standpoint, Baltimore’s fractious institutions might emerge as a surprisingly attractive option. Nor is this the only instance of Baltimore’s institutions achieving their institutional purpose. While none of the institutional arrangements work seamlessly, Baltimore’s institutions regularly solve problems: civilian councillors justifiably hound police officials about their job performance sometimes to significant effect; metrics used to evaluate police performance occasionally give vindictive superiors reason to bury their punishment of disruptive but proficient subordinates; and so on. The result is we should be cautious about optimistic assessments of the capabilities of human-built and -staffed institutions, and acknowledge that sometimes Baltimore’s institutions actually fulfil their mandate. But these two points hardly justify Baltimore’s institutions. Even if these institutions help prevent the worst of anarchy and political persecution, it remains possible that the cure for such ills may be worse than the disease. It was on this general point that Locke rebuked Hobbes, arguing that Hobbes’ drastic solution of a supreme sovereign was worse than the internecine violence the sovereign was supposed to banish. Locke countered that people guarding against interpersonal violence would be wary of opening themselves to despotism: ‘This is to think, that men are so foolish, that they take care to avoid what mischiefs may be done them by pole-cats, or foxes; but are content, nay, think it safety, to be devoured by lions’ (1690/1947, p. II:93).

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In many places, we might countenance a certain amount of interpersonal criminal violence (foxes) in order to restrain the horrors of state violence (lions). But the grim state of Baltimore reminds us that the scales may not always tip in this direction. Residents of drug-torn Westside might well prefer the occasional rampages of a lion to the incessant attacks by foxes fomented by their socio-political environment. To sum up: in taking a reforming eye to institutions we must take care not to throw the baby out with the bathwater. The institutional gap between the local executive (the Mayor’s office) and the police department and both of these from the judiciary serves an array of important purposes, such as making political persecution more difficult. But this very point condemns us to having one institution (the executive) making judgements and decisions about the performance of another institution (the police department) about which it possesses little real knowledge and often quite different priorities. But the executive’s efforts to make these judgements and decisions, as we will see, invite the use of metrics and devices that can frustrate the very action they aim to measure.

INSTITUTIONS IMPEL PROBLEMS The Problem of the Unprincipled: Selfishness Let’s define an ‘integrity system’ as the entire complex of institutions and interrelations serving to keep a given institution performing its function (Sampford, Smith, & Brown, 2005). Why do we need integrity systems? A familiar answer responds that we need integrity systems because human beings tend to be selfish and power-hungry. This commonplace perhaps requires little defence. One of the ways institutions survive and achieve their goals is by funnelling power (authority, knowledge, resources, money, control over personnel) to certain role-holders within the institution (Sampford, 1988, pp. 194 196). Such power attracts the power-hungry, who so far as possible employ it to serve their own agendas. Even those who initially pursue institutional power for public-spirited reasons can fall into temptation once they hold that power in their hands the rise of Councillor Tommy Carcetti exemplifies this tragic process in The Wire. Even an agent not selfish in the sense of grasping power and money may be afflicted by other more quotidian flaws: Baltimore overfills with the lazy,

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the alcoholic, the thuggish, the ambitious, the self-absorbed, the distracted, the contrary and the jaded. In order to prevent the abuse (or just waste) of power, we can situate institutions into a larger complex the ‘integrity system’ constraining the institution’s powers and inducing its members to accord with the institutional agenda. Unfortunately, the very reason driving our need for the integrity system (namely, humanity’s selfishness) limits what we can expect from the integrity system. If we need to hold Institution A accountable to Institution B because Institution A’s members are, after all, only human, we must remember that this same point applies to the membership of Institution B. If power corrupts and attracts the already corrupt, then vesting Institution B with power over Institution A renders Institution B a potential problem itself. The Wire showcases this feature continually, with self-interested police officers monitoring self-interested criminals; the officers themselves accountable to self-interested superiors; who in turn find themselves judged by self-interested politicians. True, sometimes the system works. In some cases, politicians acknowledge self-interested reasons to fulfil the desires of the public for improved safety, and this impetus trickles through the bureaucratic layers to induce better policing. But just as often the self-interest of the watchdog institution distorts the work of the watched institution in less helpful directions. So much rehearses the commonplace query, ‘Who watches the watchers?’ But The Wire draws our attention to an even more straightforward point though one easily missed. If Institution A needs to be accountable to Institution B because Institution A’s personnel are, after all, only human, then we must expect Institution A’s personnel to respond to the new accountability mechanisms with that same less-than-perfect spirit. The Wire delights in driving home this point. While Baltimore displays endless instances of institutions (schools, media, politicians) avoiding responsibility and distorting oversight mechanisms, its best example is found in the metrics measuring police performance. Each police homicide department (and each detective) has a ‘clearance rate’, tallying up how often they solve the murders assigned to them. The higher the clearance rate, the thinking goes, the more effective the detective or department. Unfortunately, some murders are much harder to solve than others, rendering the clearance rate a coarse-grained measure of police efficiency. Baltimore’s police distinguish between ‘dunkers’ (murders that are easy to solve, usually performed by the victim’s partner, ex-partner or family member) and ‘stone cold whodunits’ (the hardest murders to solve, such as anonymous victims shot dead on isolated street corners).

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Now it might be thought that, over time, differences on this scale will even out, making the metric useful in a rough and ready sense. However, this ignores the capacity of the police to ‘game’ the system that is, to manipulate the environment to perform well on the metric without improving their actual performance. In this particular case, police can stage-manage the system by picking and choosing which murders they will investigate. The police realize that if they continually investigate easy cases and avoid the harder ones, then their clearance rate will shine. How can they avoid responsibility for harder cases? One way is to argue that a particular murder falls outside their jurisdiction this occurs at the beginning of Season Two, when police uncover the grisly murder of 12 women who were entering the country illegally in a shipping container. For most of the ensuing season, opposing police units wrestle to avoid being left holding responsibility for working the case. On a different tack, police can report that the death was not a murder, even if evidence suggests the contrary. This happens with the immigrant women, and again later when a contract killer stages a jailhouse murder as a suicide. Our lead detective, Jimmy McNulty, uncovers the ruse, but his institutional fellows resist acting on his finding. As far as the other police are concerned, McNulty is perversely making work for everyone: doesn’t his department already have enough murders to solve? The murder rests labelled as a suicide, its brutal perpetrator unpursued. Most chilling of all, when confronted with new evidence, the police can resist revisiting prior successful investigations ‘successful’ as measured by the ‘clearance rate’ metric. When Detective Bunk Moreland begins to suspect the dangerous but principled Omar Little is innocent of a murder charge, the detectives that initially built the murder case against him react angrily to Bunk’s unwanted intrusions into their work. All this adds up to police detectives and departments actively avoiding conscientiously working a murder, not in spite of the accountability mechanism, but because of it. Far from facilitating the effective investigation of crimes, the accountability mechanism actually stymies investigation. Even more troubling, what I have said so far applies to the simplest crime to evaluate externally murder. Murder is easier than other crimes to evaluate because (as Major ‘Bunny’ Colvin) caustically observes, police departments cannot make bodies disappear. Crimes that do not lead to death or injuries demanding hospital treatment can be creatively recategorized. In Season Three, with the stroke of a pen police chiefs downgrade serious crimes to petty ones; crime rates miraculously fall. Again, far from the accountability mechanism promoting effective police-work, the

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device provides an institutional impetus for criminals to be accused of lesser crimes and given inappropriate sentences and records. Now because the stakes here are so high, with innocents sent to jail and murderers walking free, we can easily feel appalled by the police officers’ self-serving manipulation of these metrics. But we need to acknowledge that, from the perspective of the agent in question, the wrongdoing in such cases probably appears negligible and perhaps even necessary and justified. After all, the incentives the metric creates push the institutional actors in this direction if they didn’t perform in these ways, they may well have to surrender any possibility of promotion, and some would struggle to even survive in their current roles. Such agents will also see many others around them routinely playing the system to their advantage and prospering because they do so. ‘In a rigged game’, observes Fagan (2013, p. 16) in his analysis of Baltimore’s institutions, ‘to play straight up is to invite exploitation’. Omar puts it more pithily again: ‘Play or get played’. It would take a virtuous person indeed to stand fast to their principles in the face of the skewed incentives created by such metrics and their implementation. The lesson here is that if we decide to impose accountability mechanisms because (some) institutional role-holders are selfish and power-hungry; we must ask: ‘Given some of these institutional role-holders are selfish and power-hungry, how can we expect them to respond to these accountability mechanisms?’ Usually, the answer will be: if these mechanisms can be manipulated to an agent’s advantage, then they will be.

The Problem of the Principled: Diversity The difficulty with designing effective integrity mechanisms is not limited to addressing the sort of selfish and power-hungry actors we might extract from the political writings of Hobbes, Machiavelli and other pessimistic political theorists. Most of The Wire’s dramatis personae do not sink to such levels of callousness. Rather than being cardboard cut-out villains, Baltimore’s characters just have their own agendas and values, and they engage with their institution as they pursue these. Even the values of The Wire’s most principled characters fail to perfectly synchronize with their institutional mandates; quite simply, they have better things to do, their own lives to live. Each character understands his or her role differently, telling a different story of their life and the significance of the institution. Given the different places from which each person begins, their different agendas, and their different experiences with the institution, they each can

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hold different ideas about the nature of the institution and the purposes for which it is fit. The problem is, then, not merely one of Hobbesian foxes and Lockean lions institutional design for humans requires herding cats. Baltimore’s skein of different perspectives tests the limits of leadership, coordination and accountability mechanisms. Institutions fail to achieve their purposes not because villains deliberately manipulate them for naked personal gain, but because each institution-member understands their role, and the institution itself, in different ways. This results in institutional failures created by the values and principles of the role-holders. The Wire abounds with examples of this failure. In the third season, Major ‘Bunny’ Colvin attempts to lower crime in his district by turning a blind eye to drug dealing in specially designated ‘free zones’ (nick-named ‘Hamsterdam’ by the dealers). Colvin’s desires are all principled ones. He wants to improve the safety of his community, to empower his subordinates with greater time to devote to more rewarding and effective policework, and to leave his neighbourhood in a better state at the end of his policing career than when he entered it. Yet the plan involves systematically misleading the higher echelons of the police department about what he is doing especially when the initiative begins to bear fruit and the crime rate drops. Some of Colvin’s senior officers stay true to the plan out of loyalty to their commander Lieutenant Carver even transports a murder crime scene away from one of Colvin’s protected free zones. In so doing, Carver protects his commander’s precious experiment in crimereduction by thwarting the efforts of the homicide detectives assigned to investigate the murder, who quickly unravel the ruse. In the end, Colvin’s subordinates scuttle the plan because it does not accord with their views on the criminal police relationship. Many of the rank and file police identify themselves at the front line of the war on drugs, battling the enemy, and they reject Colvin’s attempts to broker a ceasefire. This storyline contains failures of institutional integrity at every juncture and at every level of command and all of them fuelled not by selfishness but by each agent’s deep-seated principles: Colvin’s wish to improve his community; his aides’ loyalty to their superior; and his subordinates’ belief about their proper role. Yet without question the most poignant case of values inducing corruption lies in the story of Frank Sabotka, related in the drama’s second season. Sabotka is the union leader for the local Baltimore port workers. But Baltimore’s ports have fallen on hard times; key industries have collapsed and rival ports have improved, and the local port no longer draws the ships it did in its heyday. As a result, there is less work to go around

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for Sabotka’s men including his friends and his family. It is not just Sabotka’s source of power and importance that is dying, however neither is he anguished purely over the whittling away of this source of employment for his men. The waterfront community possesses its own culture and way of life, a shared history and interwoven relationships knitting it together as a supportive society. The collapse of the port threatens all of this: ‘It breaks my heart’, he laments, ‘that there’s no future for the Sabotkas on the waterfront’. With the port’s prospects worsening, Sabotka resorts to criminal activity. Needing to bribe key public officials (for instance to fulfil his dream of having the river dredged), Sabotka conspires in smuggling and stealing from the ships. When work injuries befall his members, and even when some cannot cope with the lack of regular paid work, Sabotka delves into his purse of ill-gotten gains to ease their tragedies. As his best laid plans collapse, and police and criminals threaten his freedom, his family and his very life, Sabotka realizes his own tragedy: ‘In my head, I thought I was wrong for the right reasons, you know?’ The lesson for institutional integrity here is that we must guard against the designs of good people no less than wicked people. An individual’s personal conscientiousness does not guarantee they will contribute to the integrity of the institution. Ironically, and in some rare good news, The Wire demonstrates that this same problem bedevilling institutional integrity equally confounds criminal operations. While perhaps not rising to the heights of Sabotka’s values, genuine principles constrain many of Baltimore’s criminals. Like the protagonists on the other side of the law, these principles betray striking diversity. This emerges vividly in the talk of ‘the game’. Many of the gangsters invoke the game to explain and account for their actions, yet they all have violently (literally violently) opposing understandings of what the game involves, its purposes and its rules. For example, intensely loyal to his family, concerned with fairness to his fellows and his reputation on the street, Avon Barksdale valorizes the ‘game’. And Avon observes its principles even when they constrain him he chastises ‘Stringer’ Bell when Bell ignores the ‘Sunday truce’ to seize an opportunity to kill an enemy. ‘Sunday truce been around as long as the game’, Avon objects. But Avon’s enjoyment of the game’s gangster wars eventually imperils Stringer’s calculated strategies for increasing their wealth, even as Stringer’s violation of Avon’s principles threatens to destroy Avon’s reputation and connections on the street. The occasional collision of their values over the years becomes intolerable, and each ultimately betrays the

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other. Just as the diversity of human values creates problems for integrity systems, it creates points of tension and vulnerability in the operation of criminal enterprises.

A SOLUTION: ETHOS AND VIRTUE We have seen that the twin phenomena of diversity and selfishness pose serious problems for institutional integrity and the crafting of workable incentive structures. How can we solve (or at least mitigate) these difficulties? The Wire foregrounds one mechanism in particular: the professional ethos of each group. The plots involving the police continually showcase this feature, but it surfaces to some extent in Baltimore’s media, politicians, teachers and dockworkers. In all of these cases we find role-holders inspired by their work within the institution, driven to pursue it as an end in itself. This professional ethic does not expunge human diversity nor overthrow selfishness, but it furnishes its devotees with a common perspective and language, and grants them an intrinsic reward for pursuing core institutional goals. As I noted earlier, Baltimore’s police invoke a special term for their professional ethic: ‘police’. But what creates and sustains the police ethos? How can an institution capture and cultivate this most precious resource: actors who value the work for its own sake and act within their proper ambit because they desire to do so? In this section I explore the police through the lens of Alasdair MacIntyre’s virtue theory.

MacIntyre on Virtue and Narrative MacIntyre grounds his ‘communitarian’ theory of virtues in the Aristotelian idea of virtues as excellences of character. For Aristotle, these excellences apply to human beings as such: he enquired into the objective good life (the ‘being-at-work’) characteristic of humans, and then developed the virtues from this account (Aristotle, 2002; Sachs, 2002). Such excellences, however, also can be applied to specific professions and occupations. Indeed, Aristotle began his argument from the vivid cases of excellence in specific occupations, noting the distinctive work of the flute-player, sculptor and artisan before moving towards the characteristic being-at-work of the human being more generally (Aristotle, 2002, p. 1097b). In his landmark

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work, After Virtue, MacIntyre rejected Aristotle’s account of an objective good for man, but preserved the core idea of virtue as excellences of character empowering a person to perform a specific role or activity. Three key stages make up MacIntyre’s ‘general theory’ (Beadle & Moore, 2006, pp. 330 332; Schneewind, 1982, pp. 655 656). His theory begins with communities engaging in ‘practices’ coherent, complex and cooperative activities with their own goals and rules (MacIntyre, 1981, pp. 175 179). These activities acquire their own standards of excellence as community-members striving to achieve the activity’s challenging goals must behave in particular ways. Pursuit of these standards of excellence generates what MacIntyre calls ‘internal goods’ newfound pleasures unique to the practice. Actors come to find fulfilment in the activity for its own sake, and not because of external rewards. But in pursuing excellence and seizing these internal goods, actors must behave (and think, feel and respond) in particular ways; they must adopt particular values, cultivate new relationships and shift their perspective. In this way their characters develop virtues virtues understood as evaluative judgements, modes of thinking and emotional dispositions enabling them to pursue excellence and the practice’s internal goods. These virtues can then expand beyond the strict confines of the activity itself the person begins to sense the good of a certain type of life, a vision that can provide an answer for the best kind of life the person can live (1981, pp. 177, 187). MacIntyre argues that every practice fuels at least some of the standard suite of virtues, including justice, courage and honesty. In order to enter the practice and achieve its goods, he says: We have to learn to recognize what is due to whom; we have to be prepared to take whatever self-endangering risks are demanded along the way; and we have to listen carefully to what we are told about our own inadequacies and to reply with the same carefulness for the facts. In other words we have to accept as necessary components of any practice with internal goods and standards of excellence the virtues of justice, courage and honesty. (1981, p. 178)

MacIntyre illustrates his idea with the game of chess (1981, p. 176), but we can draw on an example from Baltimore. In a moving search for redemption, former violent criminal Dennis (‘Cutty’) Wise decides to open a gym to train local teenagers in boxing. One of his first and longest serving trainees is a young teenager, Justin. At first, Justin and his friends come along for their own reasons to handle themselves better in street fights. Their interest in the art and discipline of boxing lies only in this external reward they hope to achieve. But over time, and as a

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trainee like Justin improves at the sport, he can come to appreciate boxing’s internal goods the sense of achievement, progression, power and enjoyment that can only be secured by boxing within the rules of its practice. Justin might come to thrill in the internal pleasure of being part of a great fight even in losing a great fight a consummation that he cannot access through other means of defeating his opponents. In this way the practice creates standards of excellence and internal pleasures that Justin can only seize by fostering changes to his judgements, perspective and emotional dispositions by shifting his character in a virtuous direction. As he becomes further inculcated into the practice, Justin might find he cannot quarantine these personal changes to the boxing ring the contagion of virtue spreads, and beings to infect his character itself. Now this may all sound a little rosy, and I will shortly inject some qualifications. But to Baltimore’s residents at least, the link between the training, internal goods and the possibility of virtue seems obvious enough. Everyone police, religious leaders, politicians, nurses and most of all the mothers of the boys training understands that Dennis’ gym benefits the community and the young men training. To some extent, no doubt, this is because the boys’ presence at the gym keeps them from selling drugs on the street. But the full depth of support Dennis receives across Baltimore’s population suggests, I think, that they recognize the possibility of a deeper shift in the lives of the trainees, an increasing self-discipline and sense of pride in their achievements. Even so, we can reasonably doubt whether the virtues of Justin’s boxing practices will come to permeate his entire life (Schneewind, 1982, p. 656). The virtues of the gym need not spread to Justin’s life as a whole and even if they do, Justin might take part in other practices with countervailing virtues. If so, then virtues will not play their signature role of allowing their holder to achieve wellbeing across the course of his life (MacIntyre, 1981, p. 148). With this in mind, we progress to the second stage of MacIntyre’s system, where he introduces the importance of narrative of the stories people tell of their lives (1981, pp. 194 208). One answers the question of what one is to do, MacIntyre argues, by first answering the prior question: ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’ Seeing themselves as a character in a story empowers people to make sense of their own actions, to understand them as intelligible parts of the journey of their life. MacIntyre argues this narrative then encourages the spread of virtue into the life as a whole, by furnishing an archetype where the various practices (and their accompanying excellences) can be assimilated alongside one

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another in a recognizable way. Rather than just playing his role as a boxer engaged in a particular discrete activity, then, Justin might begin to think of himself as a character in a larger story (who trains and boxes sometimes) pushing him to integrate his boxing virtues with this larger role as a character in an over-arching narrative. Now we need to reflect on what exactly is meant by ‘narrative’ in this context. A standard definition of ‘narrative’ reads: ‘a spoken or written account of connected events; a story’. An ambiguity lurks here. Events can be connected without thereby creating anything worthy of a story. Arguably, a story is richer than a connected concatenation of events story evokes features such as: a beginning, middle and end; character, transformation and growth; conflict and resolution; symbol and theme; plot, drama and tension; and so on. Story, we might say, is not just any connection, but connection of a special and deep kind. The literature on narrative ethics reflects this definitional ambiguity between dramatic stories and mere connection (Schneewind, 1982, pp. 658 659). On MacIntyre’s telling, narrative evokes the depth of story, and his theory directly considers storytellers such as Jane Austen (MacIntyre, 1981, pp. 170 172, 222 126). So too, MacIntyre acknowledges the richness of story when he admits there are better and worse storytellers some people learn to tell stories that grip us, others are bores (MacIntyre & Dunne, 2002, pp. 9 10). When MacIntyre speaks of ‘narrative’ then, he invokes the richness of what we might call ‘story-narrative’. However, later work on narrative ethics pares down this thick concept of story. In bulwarking the view that human beings inevitably consider their lives in narrative terms, theorists whittle down the concept to its barest bones, capturing little more than intentional actions consciously connected (or just reconciled) with one another (Rudd, 2007), perhaps augmented by a thin sense of ‘beginning, middle and end’ (Crowther, 2002). I term this impoverished but still connected conception, ‘episodic-narrative’. The episodic-narrator’s life-events remain connected via his memory and forethought he is aware that one action in a practice or relationship today can impact on a separate event planned for tomorrow (cf. Rudd, 2007, pp. 69 70). In comparison, the story-narrator seeks a greater intelligibility for her life, and she routinely converses, imagines and reflects upon her life as a whole. The more she does so, and imports lessons from these reflections into her life, the more she draws together the strands of her life together into a larger whole. She integrates the events in her life: through their thematic and symbolic unity; by their being driven by the agency of a stable and developing character; and, as stages (of inception, struggle and resolution) in a larger journey.

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As she employs these devices, the story-narrator unites the events of her life through the signature dramatic elements: theme, character and plot. In a nutshell, episodic-narratives connect events; story-narratives vivify them. This distinction between the two helps explain how every person cannot help but conceive their lives in narrative terms (episodic-narrative), but also how some people achieve a greater integration of their life through narrative (story-narrative). Returning to MacIntyre’s account, we can ask: How will the virtues of one practice incorporate into the larger lives of episodic-narrators versus story-narrators? For a person living an episodic-narrative life, we might expect at best some limited spread of virtues; emotional dispositions developed in one arena might unconsciously spread to others or they might not. Clashes are possible between practices, after all, and what works in one context might not suit the episodic-narrator in another. A person journeying through a story-narrative, on the other hand, will display a greater integrity of character from one situation to the next. The story-narrator strives to create a particular and stable character, developing as she voyages through her life-events. For this reason she deliberately exports her virtues from one context to the next and (allowing for context) incorporates the different virtues of her different practices together into a larger character. As we might express the result: the episodicnarrator has context-sensitive dispositions; the story-narrator possesses virtues. But will the tale the story-narrator’s is trying to tell align with the other stories enacted by other characters in her community? The third stage of MacIntyre’s system sees the virtuous agent’s personal narrative fitting into the larger collective narrative. In this happy situation, the story-narrator succeeds in enacting her story because others around her are not collectively enacting stories that jar with her own. So too, the story-narrator will be able to picture her story as one part of a larger narrative, shared by others in her community and extending backwards into historical traditions and forward into the community to come. This larger tradition will not fully determine the narrative the story-narrator guides her own journey but it creates a crucial structuring device for that journey. On MacIntyre’s telling, the story-narrator’s writing of her own life story in concert with the stories of her community, and fuelled by her engagement in practices, empowers her to live the good life. However, while a person requires the full three stages to live a fully ethical, virtuous life, the world offers her no guarantee any of the stages will actually be available to her as Baltimore demonstrates.

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Real Police Let us now travel from the virtuous historical communities of MacIntyre’s ethical theory to the dangerous streets of Baltimore. Over its five seasons, The Wire’s core cadre of characters all exemplify the ethos of police: the seasoned detectives Jimmy McNulty, Bunk Moreland and Lester Freaman, the less-experienced Kima Greggs and (to an extent) their supervisor: Colonel Cedric Daniels. They are not the only police in the drama more peripheral characters such as ‘Bunny’ Colvin and Leander Sydnor share the virtues as well. We can discern many of the features of MacIntyre’s ethic in the police. Baltimore’s police understand themselves engaged in a specific practice: namely, of keeping the peace by preventing, apprehending and bringing criminals to justice especially violent and senior criminals. The police do so in a particular way: not as vigilantes, but within legal constraints. They want to make a ‘case’. To count as a practice, this activity must give rise to internal goods and specific excellences. (Of course, the practice of policing also must produce results as well. After Virtue did not consider such ‘productive practices’, but MacIntyre later expanded his account to include them (1994, p. 194).) It turns out there are many required excellences: Police must be intelligent enough to outsmart criminals; perceptive to clues; inventive in approaches to uncovering crimes; and knowledgeable of the law. They need sophisticated social skills, especially in cultivating and exploiting confidential informants, and breaking criminals in interviews and interrogations. They need to work effectively in partnerships and investigative teams, and be patient, diligent and disciplined in their work. When it comes to police, then, the standards of excellence in the tradition are high. Needless to say, few possess this combination of intellectual and character traits. MacIntyre implies in After Virtue that all those taking part in the practice can pursue the virtues appropriate to that practice. But Baltimore puts the lie to such egalitarianism. Police is an elite ethic. The challenging nature of the work means only a select cadre possess the necessary intelligence and mindset. Indeed, most of Baltimore’s sworn officers cannot even see the ethos of police. Assigned to the same detail, young officers Herc and Carver are frustrated by Kima’s sense of superiority. Formally, she does not outrank them. But instantly recognizable to her superiors as police, Kima takes part in strategic discussions, and thoughtlessly orders around Herc and Carver. This elitism tinges the police with a darker edge; the police can be neglectful of the contribution and work of

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those outside the ethic. This neglect comes to a head when Herc and Carver are left staking out a target’s house long after the target has turned himself in to the rest of the team. Busy with breaking developments, none of the team’s police spare a thought for the assignment set their two menial workers. At times the elitism stretches to outright scorn: McNulty crunches the numbers of the overall police population, whittling down the thousands of sworn officers to the small handful of police (most in the room listening to him) who venture out of the ‘shallow end’ and achieve genuine accomplishments. Not all those unable to attain these standards are blind to them, however. The tragedy of Officer Roland Pryzbylewski (‘Prez’) lies in his getting a taste of the joys of police revelling in the meticulous and patient pursuit of master criminals through records, wiretaps and tracking devices. But the police force fires him after a series of incidents where Prez made disastrous spontaneous decisions, culminating in his fatal shooting of an undercover officer. ‘I’m not sure I was supposed to be a police’, he laments to Freamon, his friend and mentor. Do police evince the signature virtues MacIntyre related of justice, courage and honesty? They do, at least in certain contexts. In accord with MacIntyre’s understanding of justice, the police recognize desert when it is due. Kima, for example, is young, inexperienced, black, female and gay any of which might prove a source of discrimination in the tough world of Baltimore. But the police recognize her potential swiftly, mentoring her and instinctively elevating her above her colleagues. The police display courage too, accepting great risks as they perform their roles. In Baltimore their own superiors and institutional processes threaten police more than the gun-barrels of violent criminals. Lester Freamon, for example, begins the drama having served 15 years in a pointless desk job as punishment for pursuing a case ‘the way it should be done’. Honesty within the police clique at least is also visible, especially for recognizing others’ contributions and excellences. Genuine frankness also emerges in their disagreements. Framing their arguments within the police ethic, at times McNulty and Lester Freamon challenge each other; McNulty accuses Freamon of compromising the pursuit of the criminal kingpin Barksdale; Freamon counters that McNulty betrays the police ethic with his personal obsession with the criminal. Turning to the question of internal goods, the practice swells with intrinsic rewards. The police revel in the thrill of the chase and the battle of wits as they pit their minds against the most cunning criminals. ‘You have to admire it’, breathes Freamon, appreciating the lengths Barksdale’s crew go

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to in avoiding wiretaps, ‘The discipline of it’. They understand well the impact and social significance of what they (only they) can do. The police yearn for the moment of success when the handcuffs go on and the criminal realizes he has been beaten and outsmarted. Their sense of their own excellence also emerges in their dim view of most other police they enjoy the distinction of being police. All this adds up to a way of life and selfconception with its own meaning and intrinsic value. ‘What am I?’ asks McNulty, bereft when he is stripped of his rank and left without a case to work.

The Narratives of Police I have argued that, evincing a range of excellences and internal goods, the activities of police count as a practice. But do the virtues of police extend into their lives and (all the more) into a life-well-lived? The different characters of Baltimore’s police in fact illustrate a range of diverse answers to this question, and to the role of reflection and narrative in improving true virtue. Since there are three stages in MacIntyre’s ethic, each of which may or may not take place, there are four possible alternatives. First, some police offers never enter the practice never become police. For a character like Herc, policing is a mere means to the end of a paycheck or perhaps the accoutrements of a prestigious career. As the social scientists might express it, Herc’s perceives his work as either a job or a career, rather than a ‘calling’ (Beadle & Knight, 2012, pp. 442 443). Herc has not uncovered the internal goods of policing, nor attained the excellences required to succeed at policing’s highest level. (Arguably, he lacks the intelligence, creativity and perceptiveness to do so, even if he altered his mindset regarding priorities, discipline and focus.) Next there are those who engage in the practice, but without knitting the virtue of that practice into the larger concept of a life-well-lived: residing at MacIntyre’s Stage One, they are episodic-narrators, not story-narrators. The Wire alerts us to two possible versions of this stage. First, a person might keep different practices in their life completely isolated. They fragment their life, effortlessly switching character as they turn from one role or context to the next. But there is another way a practice might be ill-fitted into a life, namely, when that practice becomes an over-riding priority, and swamps all other factors. In this case, far from benefiting one’s larger life, the practices (and the effects on character it fuels) derail it. McNulty exemplifies this

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situation, though Bunk and Kima also reflect the ways the police life can scorch relationships and families. In a wrenching moment of realization, McNulty sunders himself from his calling as a detective: ‘The things that make me good at this job’, he says, ‘make me wrong for everything else’. But how is this possible? How can the admirable excellences recounted above undermine the life as a whole, rather than ennoble it? Clearly, priority and effort make a difference. The more the intrinsic good of the pursuit mounts, the more the felt significance of the achievements builds, and the stronger the person’s identification with being police, the less time, energy and commitment the police finds for his or her family and relationships. One’s wider existence reduces to a life-support vessel for the practice. Social existence outside fraternizing with fellow police becomes fixed on quick, isolated thrills of intoxication or sexual infidelity. While we think of narrative as a device integrating life-as-a-whole, some of the stories told by Baltimore’s police undercut this assumption. Rather, these stories recount characters and situations where the police succeed in their jobs but fail in their lives. In doing so, they risk crafting a character archetype that serves to justify and make intelligible this monomaniacal life. The stories and anecdotes McNulty and Kima swap serve only to fracture the links between home and work (complaining about partners not understanding the police life, giving advice on how the job can cover for infidelities). So too, the poignant eulogy and send-off given in Season Three to the fallen Detective Ray Cole reflects this fracturing. His personal failures interweave seamlessly into the story of his policing efforts. If this worrying thought is on the right track, then narratives can grant a sense of character and intelligibility to lives fractured and fragmented by the job. But it is not all bad news. Lester Freamon shows that a police can integrate work and life. His character is stable and balanced, with no indications of a failing home life supporting his excellence in the job. In an intriguing parallel to the earlier discussion of episodic- and storynarrative, an exchange between Freamon and McNulty contrasts the episodic from the integrated life, ultimately fuelling McNulty’s realization about the effects of the job on his life. Seeing him in at work on a Sunday, Freamon questions how McNulty thinks it will all end for him: ‘The job will not save you, Jimmy’. McNulty rebuffs Freamon’s charge, reflecting on the fulfilment of being in the midst of a good case. Cases end, he acknowledges, but another one always beckons. In the terms described above, McNulty perfectly expresses our Stage One: he revels in the internal goods of the practice, but the narrative he tells is episodic.

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He acknowledges the string of cases may not add up to anything, but so long as you are in the grip of an engaging case, he implies, you scarcely notice. From the integrated perspective of Stage Two and the storynarrative, Freamon shakes his head at the younger man: ‘You know what life is Jimmy? It’s the shit that happens while you’re waiting for moments that never come’. While Freamon possesses virtue and integrity, we might doubt whether any character in Baltimore attains MacIntyre’s final stage, living in a shared community with a shared type of life, where each member tells intelligible and interwoven stories, integrated with all the others in their community. To the contrary, Freamon’s integrity seems so admirable precisely because it endures an institutional and social context so inimical to it. MacIntyre, perhaps, would pin this lack of shared community as a endemic feature of capitalism and modernity’s institutional treasuring of external goods (money, power) over internal goods (Beadle & Moore, 2006, pp. 329 330; MacIntyre, 1981, pp. 178 185, 245) and The Wire’s creators might agree in locating the problems in late-state capitalism and postmodern institutions (Simon, 2003). Certainly, large-scale bureaucracies struggle to understand and accommodate internal goods (a point to which we will shortly return). But another reason more specific to Baltimore also demands mention: the drug war. The effect of the war on drugs on the police force fuels Bunny Colvin’s experiment of turning a blind eye to drugsellers in his ‘free zones’. The worst thing about the drug war, the Major mourns, is that ‘it ruined this job’. Some of this wreckage occurs because of the huge amount of resources required to stem the sale of the drugs, distracting police from more traditional and rewarding police-work. But another factor resides in the mentality of the drug war. Warring is not policing, Colvin observes. Good policing requires having a strong relationship with the policed community. But the us-and-them nature of the war, pitting police against all those who use or peddle the drugs, or receive money from the trade, or have family who do, threatens to sunder this link with the community. One reason Baltimore offers little prospect for fully integrated narratives, then, is that police and community tell their stories from different sides of the trenches. Still, the divide can be crossed; the informant and struggling drug addict Bubbles forges genuine relationships with Kima and McNulty; Detective Bunk Moreland morally challenges, and is challenged by, the principled gangster Omar Little; and Bunny Colvin himself reaches out to the convicted killer ‘Wey-Bey’, speaking to him soldier-tosolider, as it were, albeit ones caught on opposing sides.

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Ethos and Institution The reader might feel scandalized by Major Colvin’s reasons for decriminalizing the local drug trade rethinking drug enforcement to make police-work more rewarding might appear to Baltimore’s urban poor an extraordinary mistaking of the real priorities. But there remains a vital feature of police I have not yet mentioned: the efficacy of the ethos. At least in The Wire’s Baltimore, very little substantive police-work is achieved without the police. Ordinary police are simply incapable of the type of demanding work required to impact on the source of criminal problems, as opposed to their mere symptoms. Certainly, they can perform straightforward, formulaic work. The ordinary police keep in check the more overt criminality of the teenager drugsellers working the obvious corners. They succeed in solving the easier cases, and they play a serviceable role in plans orchestrated by the police. But beyond these limits, ordinary police simply do not have the capacity, patience or will to impact on the real sources of violence and fear. They stay in the ‘shallow end’ but Baltimore’s real sharks swim in the deep. Now I would not want to overplay the actual impact made by the police. Even when the police successfully build cases against notorious murderers, the next aspiring drug-lord simply steps into the breach. Demand for drugs drives their supply, new kingpin Marlo Stanfield replaces the jailed Avon Barksdale, and the game rolls on relentlessly. But even accepting this grim truth, effective police-work does have an impact, at least in occasionally removing the most violent gangsters from the streets, and encouraging the major players to prudentially limit the violence they wreak on ordinary civilians. (Those who doubt the significance of these efforts might compare Baltimore with, say, current-day Buenaventura in Columbia, where criminal groups operate with almost total impunity (Human Rights Watch, 2014).) So, if we accept that some police-work does have an impact, we might wonder why the ordinary police struggle to contribute. Some of the answer is simply a question of intelligence, creativity and perception: even if ordinary police were perfectly motivated, they do not possess the capacity to outthink the most sophisticated criminals (and colluding defence lawyers). But at least some of the inadequacy is explained by the skewed incentive structures and the difficulty of ensuring accountability related earlier. Police-work carries myriad opportunities for the abuse of power; as well, external bodies struggle to appraise the effectiveness of the work performed. As we saw in the section ‘Institutions Impel Problems’, the same

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selfishness and diversity that renders oversight and metrics necessary means such mechanisms will be manipulated and distorted. Ordinary police tend to exert themselves to dodge the accountability spotlight but that is not at all the same thing as putting effort into doing their job well. In contrast, police accomplish so much because their energies focus on doing the job right (and hence of acquiring the internal goods and excellences available in doing so). If this is right, then it implies that cultivating the ethos of a practice is vital when we are faced with an institutional context where: we require excellence to overcome the intrinsic challenges of the work; we struggle to ensure external oversight and measurement; and, we perceive wide potential for the abuse of power. For the most utilitarian of reasons, then, we need to worry about whether police jobs are good jobs not in the sense of being easy or stress-free, but in the sense of there being space for engaging in the practice of police and cultivating its ethos. Faced with the challenges presented by Baltimore’s criminal class, it turns out that caring about productive output requires prioritizing internal goods. Institutional authorities must ensure the work is rewarding not out of a concern for the objective good life and its just distribution (Beadle & Knight, 2012), but rather out of the desperate need to achieve the institutional task. Lest all this sound too sanguine, the ethos of police possesses a darker side that threatens institutional integrity: police in Baltimore deceive and subvert institutions. This deceit emerges when police become frustrated with what they perceive to be inadequate resourcing. Doing the job ‘the way it should be done’ requires a certain minimum of time (sometimes overtime), personnel and material equipment, including money for confidential informants and protecting witnesses as well as technological devices for tracking and wiretapping. For the most part, the police avoid being grasping and unrealistic about what they need, but when resourcing drops below a certain threshold doing the job properly becomes impossible. In The Wire’s final season, financial pressures force officers to work overtime for only a promise of eventual pay. In response, McNulty and Freamon pry open the funding faucet by fabricating evidence for a serial killer. The idea of such a predator seizes the public imagination and the money flows. Another institutional threat posed by the police arises from their unyielding brittleness. Institutional priorities shift as executives respond to the pressures of the moment, often driven by the fickle attentions of the electorate, and sometimes by the personal desires of superiors. These

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shifts impact upon the police department and related institutions, including the judiciary and federal agencies. But the ethos of police sets its own goals and its own goods, and these do not yield to external pressures. Scorning other institutions that bend to the political mandates of the moment (such as the FBI and its post-9/11 obsession with terrorism), the police subvert attempts by their superiors to reassign roles and tasks against the grain of the police ethos. Curiously, this situation parallels Montesquieu’s eighteenth century analysis of the use of honour by kings and despots. ‘Honor’, the Frenchman observed, ‘has its laws and rules and is incapable of yielding, as it depends on its own caprice and not on that of another’ (Montesquieu, 1748/1989, p. 27). A monarch can make use of this valuable moral spring, but must never request his nobles to transgress its dictates. The despot, however, must eschew all appeal to honour, as honour’s demands will not yield to the despot’s caprice. What is the lesson in all this? I submit the lesson is the very one Montesquieu tried to teach the monarchy (specifically, the French monarchy to which he belonged). The monarchy hinges on honour as its fundamental principle, Montesquieu argued, depending on it as the moral lifeblood driving authorities to perform their institutional roles. But this principle shows why a monarch cannot wield absolute power without undermining his own standing (Montesquieu, 1748/1989, pp. 21 30). Suppose the King forces the authorities (the nobles) to act on his caprice and against the dictates of honour. Two possible results present. The nobles might spurn honour and submit to the King’s caprice; but with the demise of honour the King (now strictly speaking a despot) can henceforth trust only in the precarious power of fear. Alternatively, the nobles might scorn the King’s caprice; in this case honour is upheld but the King is compromised. From the courts of French nobility to the backstreets of Baltimore, I submit the lesson remains the same. The ethos of police helps Baltimore endure. Asking police to bend to the priorities of the moment, or failing to provide them with the minimal tools necessary to perform their tasks the way they should be done, can have only two outcomes. The ethos of the police may yield and so fracture and everything must be thenceforth trusted to fear of external accountability measures. Or the ethos stands firm, and the police subvert the attempts to distort their activity to the instrumental needs of the moment. What does this mean in concrete terms? I don’t suggest that the police department should aim to systematically cultivate the police ethos. While in some contexts institutions might aspire to this virtue-promoting goal

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(Moore & Beadle, 2006), realistically Baltimore’s police department’s power-mongers would successfully manipulate and undermine any such attempts. However, it is not naı¨ ve to think the institution could undertake measures to prevent its most egregious clashes with the ethos. From a narrow instrumental perspective, a police commissioner might suppose that when circumstances dictate he can apply whatever resources he has to investigate a crime, assign whatever case-priorities to police-work he wishes, request compromises in how police present their cases and transfer officers from one case to another. But if he issues such orders without sensitivity to the ethos, these dictates can force police to choose between obeying their superiors, and respecting and pursuing the ethos of the police. Of course I do not mean no infractions on the ethos can be tolerated, but that Baltimore’s institutions would do well to at least recognize the ethos and factor its importance into the decisions that are made. This is so even for the most brutally Machiavellian of the police hierarchy. When push comes to shove, superiors sometimes need to show real results as the increasing desperation of the police hierarchy reveals in The Wire’s third season, as the leaders squirm under the spotlight of public opinion and the Mayor’s office. In the weekly administrative ‘COMSTAT’ meetings the Police Commissioner and Deputy Ops harangue and demote their subordinates, flailing about with no understanding of who really can solve crimes and why they do so. Taking any resistance to their orders as intolerable insubordination, Baltimore’s police command have undermined and removed the very police who could get real results just as a French monarch whose caprice undermined honour wonders why he must now rely on fear and punishment to have the most basic institutional tasks performed. The lesson is that an enlightened concern for institutional outcomes forces us to pay heed to the internal life of those in the institution. If we need an institution to perform a job well, we must avoid stifling and subverting the ethical practices that alone can achieve that level of performance. In a similar spirit, we must return to the spectre of Baltimore’s war on drugs. Imagine Major Colvin’s instinct was right: the war on drugs ruined the job by chewing up massive resources in time and money, creating soldiers instead of police and severing the link between police and community. All these factors undermine the capacity and drive of police to become police. Even if we were winning the war on drugs, conducting that war threatens the ethos of the police and with it arguably the most precious crime-fighting resource we possess.

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CONCLUSION: THE WIRE AS NARRATIVE I began by arguing we have good reasons to structure institutions as we do; those reasons do not disappear merely because we encounter other problems (such as those expounded in The Wire). I then observed that even as the selfishness and diversity of humans impels us to create integrity systems governing institutions, these very features of humanity limit how effective we can expect such systems to be. External oversight will be stymied; metrics will be manipulated and misdirected. In the final section I considered a device that promised to ensure institutional actors would value intrinsically the activities that fulfilled the institution’s function: their professional ethos. The Wire’s core example of this ethos was the police, and I discussed how narratives and institutions could work to support, but also to subvert, the virtues of this MacIntyrean practice. I suggested our scepticism about institution-building might make us resist believing integrity systems can cultivate such virtue but I argued a more modest goal of keeping institutions out of the way of role-holder’s pursuit of virtue may prove manageable and desirable. In closing, we have seen the way narratives can bolster virtuous action and integrate practices into a life-well-lived. But as well as containing narratives about the police in the stories McNulty, Kima and Lester tell themselves, The Wire itself constitutes a narrative and an instructive one at that. Arguably, The Wire offers a realistic model of what human narratives in the modern world must look like a question of utmost importance if what was said above about practices, virtues, narratives and human happiness was on the right track. Like our own narratives, The Wire’s are not pat, easy storylines, with issues raised and resolved within a discrete timeframe. As David Simon explains, ‘The show is crafted as a visual novel; most of episodic television, even when its very good, is crafted as a series of short stories’ (2003). As a result, The Wire struggles to form it’s storyline the way ordinary humans struggle to form their own narratives. The drama presents stories made up of at first seemingly unrelated moments, rife with dead-ends and false leads and the ever-present threat of the sheer pointlessness of any given endeavour. Contingency ricochets through the character’s lives like a random bullet connecting with a state witness and setting in train an electoral revolution. Ultimately, the characters in The Wire shoulder the same work as the audience to piece together meaning and sense from events that are sometimes causally connected, and at other times utterly contingent. They, like the audience, see the meaning of what they do as a live

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question demanding an answer an answer that is not presented to them, and so one that must be built in a painstaking and piecemeal fashion, with no full idea of where the journey is leading and what exactly the story will come to mean. Yet even amidst the gunfire, confusion and the institutional oppression, The Wire’s characters do glean a sense of meaning and direction and so did its audience. And perhaps we may take some heart from the thought that if we can find narrative and meaning in Baltimore, and with it the nascent stirrings of virtue, then we can find it anywhere.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT This chapter benefited greatly from comments on a previous draft provided by two anonymous reviewers for REIO.

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MacIntyre, A. (1981). After virtue: A study in moral theory. London: Duckworth. MacIntyre, A. (1994). A partial response to my critics. In J. Horton & S. Mendus (Eds.), After MacIntyre (pp. 283 304). Cambridge: Polity. MacIntyre, A., & Dunne, J. (2002). Alasdair MacIntyre on education: In dialogue with Joseph Dunne. Journal of Philosophy of Education, 36(1), 1 19. Montesquieu. (1748/1989). The spirit of the laws. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Moore, G., & Beadle, R. (2006). In search of organizational virtue in business: Agents, goods, practices, institutions and environments. Organization Studies, 27(3), 369 389. Rudd, A. (2007). In defence of narrative. European Journal of Philosophy, 17(1), 60 75. Sachs, J. (2002). Three little words: Habit, mean, noble Nicomachean ethics (pp. xi xxv). Newbury, MA: Focus Publishing. Sampford, C. (1988). The disorder of law. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Sampford, C., Smith, R., & Brown, A. J. (2005). From Greek temple to bird’s nest: Towards a theory of coherence and mutual accountability for national integrity systems. Australian Journal of Public Administration, 64(2), 96 108. Schneewind, J. B. (1982). Virtue, narrative, and community: MacIntyre and morality. Philosophy, 79(11), 653 663. Simon, D. (2003). David Simon answers fans’ questions. Retrieved from http://web.archive.org/ web/20031204070427/http://www.hbo.com/thewire/interviews/index.html Simon, D. (2008). A final thank you to The Wire fans. Retrieved from http://www.hbo.com/ the-wire#/the-wire/inside/interviews/article/finale-letter-from-david-simon.html/eNrjcm bO0CzLTEnNd8xLzKksyUx2zs8rSa0oUc-PSYEJBSSmp-ol5qYy5zMXsjGyMXIyMrJ JJ5aW5BfkJFbalhSVpgIAXbkXOA==

PROFILE OF A NARCISSISTIC LEADER: COFFEE’S FOR CLOSERS ONLY John F. Ehrich and Lisa C. Ehrich ABSTRACT Purpose In the past, leadership scholars have tended to focus on leadership as a force for good and productivity (Ashworth, 1994; Higgs, 2009; Padilla, Hogan, & Kaiser, 2007). However, recently attention has been given to the ‘dark side’ of leadership (see Higgs, 2009; Judge, Piccolo, & Kosalka, 2009). The aim of this chapter is to explore dark leadership from the perspective of the narcissistic leader using a fictional character from a popular film. Methodology/approach Using the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th edition, 1994 (DSM-IV) (American Psychiatric Association, 2000) as an operational definition of narcissistic personality disorder we explore the psychology of the narcissistic leader through a fictional character study in a popular film. Findings We have created a psychological profile of a narcissistic leader which identifies specific behavioural characteristics within a toxic organizational culture.

The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 81 102 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011004

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Social implications This study has implications for employees within any organizational culture. It is significant because it can illustrate how dark leadership can impact negatively within organizations. Originality/value The use of actual living persons on which to base case study material in the study of dark leadership is problematic and constrained by ethical issues. However, the use of characters in fiction, such as contemporary film and drama, represents an excellent source of case study material. Given that little empirical works exists on narcissistic leaders and leadership, the chapter adds originality and value to the field. Keywords: Narcissistic leadership; power; case study

In the vast leadership literature there has been a tendency for writers and researchers to provide a one-sided view of leadership; a view that has emphasized its light, positive and effective side (Ashworth, 1994; Higgs, 2009; Padilla, Hogan, & Kaiser, 2007) denying it has or can have a destructive or dark side. Indeed some writers go as far as saying that leadership is a positive force for good and destructive leadership is an oxymoron (Howell & Avolio, in Padilla et al., 2007). Our position is that leadership can be a force for good or bad; it can empower or it can disempower; and it can serve others or it can be self-serving. Thus, we would argue that to view leadership in positive and humanistic terms only is to take a romantic and unrealistic stance of leadership (Schilling, 2009). It has been in more recent decades that attention has been given to the ‘dark side’ of leadership (see Higgs, 2009; Judge, Piccolo, & Kosalka, 2009; Kellerman, 2005; Khoo & Burch, 2008). This attention may be due in part to recent abuses of authority in politics, business and religion (Padilla et al., 2007) and the recognition that people continue to experience the impact of destructive hierarchical relationships (Schilling, 2007). Examples of negative or bad forms of leadership that have been used in the literature include ‘leadership derailment’, ‘toxic leadership’, ‘evil leadership’ and ‘abusive leadership’ (Higgs, 2009). Kellerman (2005) divides bad leadership into two main types ‘ineffective’ and ‘unethical’. Ineffectual leaders are those who are incompetent and lack the strategies and abilities to affect the desired changes in their organizations. Unethical leaders are those who may or may not be effective in their organizations but lack morality, decency and good conduct. Bad leadership usually consists of leaders

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who are both ineffectual and unethical (Kellerman, 2005). These examples of bad leadership practices often involve inflicting damage on others, abuse of power, over-exercise of control to satisfy personal needs and rule breaking for self-serving purposes (Higgs, 2009). Tyrannical leadership is another example of destructive leadership as tyrannical leaders are said to obtain results at the cost of followers since they ‘humiliate, belittle, and manipulate subordinates in order to the “get the job done”’ (Einarsen, Aasland, & Skogstad, 2007, p. 212). Similarly, there are ‘petty tyrants’; leaders who lord their power over others and engage in oppressive and vindictive behaviour (Ashworth, 1994). Boddy, Ladyshewsky, and Galvin (2010) refer to ‘corporate psychopaths’, those individuals who tend to be found in senior management positions, who lie, cheat, are ruthless and act callously towards others. Subclinical psychopathy, along with narcissism and Machiavellianism are character traits collectively known as the ‘Dark Triad’ of personality (cf. Paulhus & Williams, 2002). Therefore, it is likely that corporate psychopaths are also narcissistic leaders. Goldman (2009) refers to ‘destructive leaders’ and ‘dysfunctional organizations’ and examines ‘hubris and narcissism’ and the ‘obsessive compulsive leader’ as examples of the behaviours of destructive leaders. Some writers have argued that particular types of individuals (e.g. narcissists and corporate psychopaths) who have a great desire for power and privilege, tend to be attracted to leadership positions in organizations where they can meet their self-serving needs (see Boddy et al., 2010; Kernberg, 1979 in Kets de Vries, 1993; Kets de Vries & Miller, 1985). Such individuals tend to be successful in procuring senior leadership positions because of their strong motivation and single-mindedness for power and prestige. The wider organizational culture or context is said to play an important role in regulating the type of leadership (i.e. destructive or more humanistic) that is apparent in society (Boddy et al., 2010). For example, an organizational climate that is characterized by pressures to compete, win and make more profits, is likely to breed individualistic behaviour in leaders rather than power sharing and service to others. Over thirty years ago, Lasch (1979) argued this point when he said that large business corporations in the United States had become breeding grounds for managers who demonstrated competitive, individualistic and narcissistic qualities. In such organizations, success is achieved through defeat of rivals, strong independence, self-absorption and vanity. A similar argument is put forward by Boddy et al. (2010) who claim that societies such as the United States not only promote but idealize

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individualism and a ‘me-first’ attitude that allows leaders to dominate others in the pursuit of greed and profit. Stout (2005 in Boddy et al., 2010), a leading author on corporate psychopaths, argues that North American society allows and reinforces certain leadership behaviours such as impulsivity, irresponsibility and lack of remorse. It is these values plus others such as self-confidence and single-mindedness that allow destructive leaders to enter into business organizations, politics and government and the same values that can bring about their downfall. Padilla et al. (2007) argue that environmental factors are important to consider when understanding how particular types of destructive leadership can flourish. One of these factors is environmental instability rather than environmental stability. Here leaders can assert their power and domination because a volatile situation warrants it and there is faith in the strength of a leader who is believed to be able to restore the situation. Rosenthal and Pittinksy (2006) concur and maintain that narcissists tend to emerge and flourish in times of crisis that require leaders to make significant decisions that ‘call for a new order to be established’ (p. 625). Another environmental factor that is conducive to destructive leadership is when people feel threatened and vulnerable due to difficult economic or social situations. In such circumstances, they are likely to follow assertive and even domineering leaders. Finally, an environmental factor that supports destructive leadership is the absence of checks and balances in organizations. In other words, when leaders are free from institutional constraints, they can act with more discretion (and destructive leaders can abuse their power more easily). In this scenario, a culture of dependency and vulnerability amongst followers can enable leaders to exercise a greater degree of domination and control (Padilla et al., 2007). Of interest to this chapter is narcissistic leadership, a particular type of destructive leadership that began to receive attention in the literature over a decade ago (see Godkin & Allcorn, 2009; Humphries, Zhao, Ingram, Gladstone, & Basham, 2010; Judge et al., 2009; Rosenthal & Pittinksy, 2006). Writers in the field focused on the relationship between narcissism and leadership where narcissism was described as a ‘personality construct’ and ‘trait’ of leaders (Higgs, 2009). In this chapter, we draw upon the work of Rosenthal and Pittinksy (2006, p. 629) who based their understandings of narcissistic leadership on narcissistic personality disorder from the American Psychiatric Association Manual (2000). Rosenthal and Pittinksy (2006) define narcissistic leaders as leaders who are ‘principally motivated by their egomaniacal needs and beliefs, superseding the needs and interests of constituents and institutions they lead’ (p. 269). They have ‘grandiose

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belief systems and leadership styles and are generally motivated by their needs for power and admiration rather than empathetic concern’ (Rosenthal & Pittinksy, 2006, p. 616) for others. Moreover, narcissistic leaders can also be described as ‘amoral’ since they use their power to dominate others through abuse or acts of violence and cruelty. There are many examples in history (e.g. Stalin, Hitler) of such leaders who aptly fit this description.

NARCISSISM AND NARCISSISTIC LEADERSHIP In order to understand narcissistic leadership, it is essential to return to the Roman poet, Ovid (2008), and his narrative poem, ‘Metamorphoses’ written in 8 AD since it is from the story of Narcissus that our understandings of narcissism come today. Narcissus was a beautiful vain youth who was pursued by many. Echo, a nymph, was of his ardent devotees whom he cruelly ignored. The story goes that Narcissus was walking by the river and notices a beautiful youth looking at him. At first he does not realize it is a reflection of himself. He endeavours to talk with, make contact and embrace the image but he is unable to. He becomes stricken with grief yet unable to move away from the pool of water where his beloved reflection resides. He later takes his own life. It was Freud who drew upon Ovid’s story, and developed his theories on narcissism. He introduced the term, ‘normal narcissism’ to refer to the stage in childhood where young children saw themselves as the centre of the universe (Freud, 1914). Jorstad (1995) claims that one’s childhood experiences determine whether one endures any ‘narcissistic injuries’ that may lead to pathological narcissism, although other experiences and environmental factors can impact also on a person’s behaviour (Kets de Vries & Miller, 1985). According to a number of writers (Jorstad, 1995; Kets de Vries, 1994; Maccoby, 2000) narcissism can be understood in terms of degree. For example, Jorstad refers to healthy narcissism, which is seen as necessary for self-esteem and identity development, while pathological narcissism is more destructive and is said to include traits such as egocentricity, vulnerability, pronounced projective tendencies, lack of empathy and fantasies of grandiosity. The terminology used by Kets de Vries (1994) for narcissism is ‘reactive’ and ‘constructive’ narcissism where the former is akin to pathological

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narcissism, while the latter refers to more healthy versions of narcissism. Kets de Vries and Miller (1985) describe reactive narcissistic leaders as showing traits such as self-grandiosement, preoccupation with fantasies, exhibitionism, indifference to others and lack of empathy, while constructive narcissists are described as ambitious, manipulative, very sensitive to criticism, tend to get along with others and ‘stress real achievements’ (p. 595). Constructive narcissistic leaders are said to ‘radiate a sense of positive vitality’ (Kets de Vries, 1994, p. 86) and ‘pose few organizational problems’ (Kets de Vries & Miller, 1985, p. 599). Maccoby (2000) concurs and claims that ‘productive narcissists’ or constructive narcissists are necessary in organizations for their risk-taking, creativity and strong visions. Yet is constructive narcissism an acceptable form of leadership? Rosenthal and Pittinksy (2006) claim it is debatable whether ‘confidence, charisma and optimism’ three traits associated with productive and constructive narcissists, should be labelled ‘narcissistic’ traits; such traits could also be construed as ‘positive leadership traits’. For this reason, Rosenthal and Pittinsky suggest that the lack of consensus in the literature regarding what constitutes narcissistic leadership has created some contradictory and competing claims about its definition. In this chapter, we concur with Rosenthal and Pittinsky whose view of narcissism is one that is reactive or pathological rather than constructive or productive narcissism. Thus, it is this conception of narcissistic leadership that is understood as self-serving and self-aggrandizing.

THE NARCISSISTIC LEADER IN FILM AND TELEVISION The narcissistic leader is well established in popular culture and fictional characters depicting narcissistic leaders are richly portrayed in the film and television genres. In the 1980s the character of Gordon Gekko played by Michael Douglas in the film Wall Street (1987) was a seminal and somewhat prophetic example (e.g. the film seemed to predict the coming of the Global Financial Crisis (GFC), see Visser, 2010). Gordon Gekko is the quintessential narcissist and his sense of entitlement, egomania and ruthlessness has become something of a film legend with his mantra of ‘greed is good’. However, his excesses and criminal behaviour eventually prove his downfall and he is imprisoned at the end of the film. Other more recent

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incarnations of Gecko-style characters can be found in the recent films about Wall Street Margin Call (2011) and The Wolf of Wall Street (2013). In Margin Call (2011) Jeremy Irons plays the character of John Tuld a CEO of a Wall Street investment bank. The story is set just before the markets plunge at the start of the GFC. Irons’ elegant portrayal of Tuld, a suave yet callous and narcissistic CEO resonates deeply in the mind, long after the film is over. His contemptuous attitude towards his employees allows him to happily sacrifice them to save himself and his bank. Similar to the character of Tuld, but with more volatility is Leonardo DiCaprio’s portrayal of real-life trader Jordan Belfort in The Wolf of Wall Street (2013). Belfort uses his natural charisma, ruthlessness and narcissism to acquire great wealth and success through financial subterfuge. Eventually his excessive and lavish lifestyle prove his undoing and like Gordon Gekko he is eventually held accountable for his criminal behaviour and imprisoned. In many ways, Tuld and Belfort can be seen as extensions of the Gordon Gekko character in Wall Street (1987). All are united in their vanity, narcissism, egomania, sense of entitlement, ruthlessness and general lack of empathy for others around them. These qualities are seen as desirable character attributes in the toxic corporate environments of high stakes trading and banking. However, narcissistic leaders in film have not been limited to investment bankers and traders. For example, two very different types of films have given excellent portrayals of narcissistic leadership in recent years one a survival drama (The Grey, 2011) the other a film about social media (The Social Network, 2010). In The Grey (2011) Liam Neeson plays the character of John Ottway, a depressed hunter who works with a group of roughneck oil drillers in Alaska. After a particularly horrific plane crash, Ottway and fellow survivors find themselves alone in the wilderness fending off a large pack of wolves. At this point two different leaders contest for control over the group. John Ottway demonstrates democratic and transformational leadership and is supportive and encouraging. He acts with a sense of ethics and morality. By contrast, the character of Diaz as played by Frank Grillo, demonstrates dark and narcissistic leadership. Diaz is an ex-convict and he is abusive, violent and autocratic in his dealings with Ottway and the group. Eventually, Ottway’s transformational leadership style wins out after a long and bloody power struggle. In The Social Network (2010) Jesse Eisenberg plays real-life Facebook billionaire Mark Zuckerberg. This film brings the narcissistic leader into the age of social networking and mass media. The plot involves a nerdish (but arrogant and narcissistic) young Harvard student (Zuckerberg) who

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originates social media (Facebook) with a group of friends. Even though Zuckerberg reaps enormous financial rewards he ends up becoming alienated and disconnected from his friends and colleagues because of his egomaniacal, callous and narcissistic behaviour. Political leaders are well known for their narcissistic traits and Machiavellian behaviour, therefore it is not surprising that political films provide a natural genre for the portrayal of narcissistic leaders. Two recent and excellent examples are The Ides of March (2011) and Downfall (2004). In the film The Ides of March (2011), Ryan Gosling plays the role of Stephen Meyers, a junior campaigner for presidential candidate Mike Morris (played by George Clooney). Within the intrigues of the high stakes world of political wheeling and dealing Myers is somewhat of an innocent. As he learns the ropes from his narcissistic mentor Morris, Myers finds that honour and ethical behaviour can be detrimental to one’s career. It is only when Meyers takes on the Machiavellian and narcissistic traits and behaviour of his mentor that he becomes a successful campaigner. The film is an interesting study in the dark side of mentoring and how toxic organizational cultures nurture narcissistic and unscrupulous behaviour. In the historical film Downfall (2004) Bruno Ganz plays possibly the most notorious (and evil) narcissistic leader in history Adolph Hitler. The film is set at the end of the war just before the Red Army takes Berlin. Deep in his bunker Ganz’s Hitler is delusional and blinded by egomania and narcissism. His immense egomania and narcissism is so extreme that it prevents him from taking advice from others, which ultimately leads to his downfall. As with film, television has provided a rich medium for many types of narcissistic leaders, ranging from egomaniacal and narcissistic doctors such as Dr Gregory House in House (2004) and Dr Perry Cox in Scrubs (2001) to vain and unpleasant monarchs like King Geoffry in Game of Thrones (2014) to ‘loveable’ gangsters such as Tony Soprano in The Sopranos (1999) and Nucky Thompson in Broadwalk Empire (2010). Furthermore, reality TV shows such as Survivor (1997), Hells Kitchen (2008) and The Apprentice (2004) consistently depict the promotion of Machiavellianism and narcissism as desirable personality attributes which fast track success. Narcissistic personality disorder itself has even been the focus of a television documentary (e.g. Egomania, 2007). Overall, narcissistic leaders are commonly and richly portrayed in both popular film and television shows and as a result, have become part of our psyche.

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GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS In order to understand the psychology of a narcissistic leader we have chosen a character from the film Glengarry Glen Ross (1992) which was based on the play by David Mamet. While there is a rich variety of fictional characters portraying narcissistic leaders in film and television we chose Glengarry Glen Ross because of its realistic subject matter. In fact, the play was loosely based on Mamet’s experiences as a real estate salesman in the 1960s. The play won a Pulitzer Prize in 1984 and is considered an important work of fiction. The film was also highly praised when it was released and several of the actors were nominated for awards such as Al Pacino (Academy Awards) and Jack Lemmon (Venice Film Festival). The film concerns four real estate salesmen in Chicago who work within the highly competitive and cut-throat world of corporate land sales. The salesmen are Ricky Roma (played by Al Pacino), the most successful sales rep of the group, George Aronow (played by Alan Arkin), Dave Moss (played by Ed Harris) and Shelly Levene (played by Jack Lemmon). Kevin Spacey plays the role of Williamson, the unsympathetic manager of the real estate office (see Table 1 for a summary of these characters). The film begins with a ‘motivational’ speech by Alec Baldwin who plays the role of Blake, a highly successful real estate salesman. It should be noted that Mamet wrote Blake’s role specifically for the film after he had written the play. Blake has been sent by head office (Mitch and Murray) to provide some ‘leadership’ to the salesmen in order to boost their flagging sales figures. We interpret the character of Blake as a leader in the classic sense (see Zaleznik, 2000) in that he is considered inspirational and aspirational by his employers (Mitch and Murray) and has the specific role of affecting change within the organizational culture of the real estate office (i.e. improve flagging sales performance). In his speech, Blake verbally abuses the salesmen and tells them that they must compete for their jobs, and that, those with the lowest sales figures at the end of the month will be fired. Already demoralized, and in dire financial positions, the salesmen’s desperation intensifies as the film progresses. Finally, in order to gain a competitive edge over the others, Shelley Levene, with the aid of fellow salesman Dave Moss, breaks into the office to steal information to give him an edge over his competitors (the coveted Glengarry sales leads). It is revealed that Levene has a seriously ill daughter and is acting in an altruistic, if not somewhat misguided, fashion. Levene is eventually caught and the film concludes with his being sacked by Williamson and having to face the police.

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Table 1. The Main Players and Their Roles in the Film Glengarry Glen Ross (1992). Characters

Actors

Mitch and Murray The Glengarry Leads

Blake Alec Baldwin

Kevin Spacey Ricky Roma Al Pacino George Aronow

Name of the corporate real estate company which controls the small real estate office where the salesmen work. These are the names and contact details of potential buyers of real estate. These have been paid for by Mitch and Murray and are only to be given to the top performing salesmen in the office. They are kept in a locked safe in the office. A top real estate salesman sent by Mitch and Murray to provide inspirational leadership and motivation to the small group of salesmen. He gives a shocking ‘motivational’ speech which has devastating consequences for several of the salesmen. The unsympathetic and unlikeable manager of the real estate office. He feels no empathy or compassion for the salesmen in his office. The most successful of the group of salesmen. His sales techniques involve the psychological manipulation of potential buyers where he plays on their emotions and fears. He is not present for Blake’s speech. An unsuccessful salesmen. He is quiet and reserved.

Alan Arkin Shelly Levene Jack Lemmon

Dave Moss Ed Harris

A once successful salesmen (aka Shelley the ‘Machine’ Levene) who has hit a sales slump in recent years. He has a sick daughter and is financially in a difficult situation. Fearing the loss of his job he breaks into the real estate office and steals the Glengarry leads. However, he is caught and fired. He is taken away by the police at the end of the film. An unsuccessful salesman. Unlike the other salesmen, Moss attempts to stand up for himself and challenge Blake’s attacks. Fearing for his job he convinces Shelley Levene to break into the real estate office and steal the Glengarry leads. His fate is uncertain at the end of the film but it is inferred he will go to jail with Levene for his part in the crime.

JOHN F. EHRICH AND LISA C. EHRICH

Williamson

Roles

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The synopsis of the film demonstrates the overarching destructive consequences that a narcissistic leadership style can have on its employees. The idea of having employees compete against each other to retain their jobs is a ruthless and inhumane way to increase productivity. This constitutes the final breaking point for some of the salesmen. However, this is just one toxic episode within an organizational culture that is corrupt and unpleasant. Within this organizational culture, ethics, compassion and human decency are sadly lacking and the only thing that matters is making a sale at any cost. In the film, it is clear that the salesmen have been immersed in this corrupt and toxic environment to the point where they consider dishonesty and unethical behaviour as normal. For them, it is part of their job and goes hand in hand with the day-to-day activity of selling real estate. For example, the boss played by Williamson is not adverse to giving the character of Levene an unfair advantage over the other salesmen, not through a sense of compassion for his unfortunate circumstances, but by allowing himself to bribed in cash and upfront. Furthermore, the sales ‘techniques’ of Ricky Roma, the most successful salesman of the group, largely consists of tricking decent and hardworking people into buying real estate they neither need nor can afford. The film interpretation of the character of Blake portrayed by Alec Baldwin is a quintessential narcissist in many regards. It is no coincidence that the character of Blake is not only a product of this ruthless and highly competitive world but someone who has thrived and become highly successful within such circumstances. In a world where dishonesty, a lack of empathy and unethical behaviour are the norm, it makes sense that an amoral narcissist should be the spokesman and the one to deliver ‘leadership’ and ‘motivation’ for those working within such a toxic organizational culture. Thus, Blake is a role model and a spokesman for a toxic organizational culture where his narcissistic traits appear to have facilitated his rise to the top, not inhibited his chances of success. This becomes clear as his monologue to the salesmen unfolds. The monologue that he delivers1 is extraordinary in its vitriolic intensity. Moreover, the destructive and demoralizing effects of Blake’s relentless verbal abuse can be observed onscreen through the salesmen’s increasing sense of worthlessness and failure. Their futility and sense of failure resonates in intensity and becomes more and more evident as Blake progresses through his monologue. While this fictitious depiction of a narcissistic leader within a toxic organizational culture is somewhat extreme, we believe it succinctly depicts the persona and psyche of an archetypical narcissist.

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We will now examine Blake’s behaviour through his speech, demeanour and attitude to the salesmen as it relates to the nine narcissistic traits from the DSM-IV (1994). According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th edition, 1994 (DSM-IV) (American Psychiatric Association, 2000), narcissism is a personality disorder. For a person to be diagnosed as having this disorder, they are required to demonstrate at least five of the nine behaviours that are said to constitute it. Notwithstanding the criticisms that have been levelled against the DSM series (see McCrae, Lockenhoff, & Costa, 2005), we argue that narcissistic leaders are people who demonstrate narcissistic personality traits (for a description of these narcissistic traits and an interpretative summary as manifest in Blake’s attitude and behaviour see Table 2). The first trait is ‘an exaggerated sense of self-importance (e.g. exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)’. This is evident throughout Blake’s speech. Blake repeatedly boasts of his success through showing off his personal wealth and juxtaposing this wealth with the salesmen’s poverty. Through drawing attention to the salesmen’s lack of wealth, Blake highlights their lack of success as salesmen. For example, Blake mocks Dave Moss by stating ‘… you drove a Hyundai to get here tonight, I drove an eighty thousand dollar BMW’. He also flaunts his expensive watch in Moss’s face and states, you Moss. … You see this watch? You see this watch? … That watch cost more than your car. I made $970,000 last year. How much you make? You see, pal, that’s who I am. And you’re nothing.

Here Blake is proclaiming his superiority over Moss. Blake is wealthy and successful and hence, he is a ‘somebody’. In stark contrast, Moss is unsuccessful and poor, an inferior being. In financial terms, Blake’s superiority is evident in his expensive watch, prestige car and even his clothes, he wears an immaculate tailored suit, whereas Moss’s wears a plain, drab and seemingly inexpensive one. Blake also boasts that he could ‘… go out there tonight with the materials you got, make myself fifteen thousand dollars. Tonight. In two hours. Can you? Can you?’. This seems somewhat of an exaggeration, even when one considers Blake’s prior success as a salesman. If four salesmen have been working continuously to no avail with these leads it seems unlikely that someone, even an accomplished salesman like Blake, would be able to make such a large profit in so short a space of time. Here, Blake is no doubt exaggerating his abilities as a salesman, though it is quite possible that he himself believes this to be true. This certainly falls under trait number two from the DSM-IV (1994) ‘Preoccupation with fantasies of

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Table 2. The Traits of Narcissistic Personality Disorder (DSM-IV, American Psychiatric Association, 2000) as a Manifestation of Blake’s Attitudes and Behaviour. Narcissistic Personality Disorder as Described in the DSM-IV 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g. exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements) Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love Believes that he or she is ‘special’ and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions) Requires excessive admiration

Has a sense of entitlement, i.e. unreasonable expectations of especially favourable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations Is interpersonally exploitative, i.e. takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others

8

Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her

9

Shows arrogant, haughty behaviours or attitudes

Blake’s Attitudes and Behaviour He makes repeated references to his personal wealth, sales success and sales ability. Refers to himself as a ‘somebody’ and the salesmen (Dave Moss) as a ‘nobody’. He believes he can accomplish in two hours what the salesmen have been trying to do over several months. He sees the other salesmen as losers who are beneath him and that he is wasting his time in their presence. He repeatedly tries to impress and inspire awe through pointing out his expensive possessions and large salary. He believes he is entitled to other people’s money through making sales regardless of any personal hardships caused by his high pressure selling. He believes in making the sale regardless of what it takes. He would like to fire the salesmen and does not care about their personal circumstances. He constantly abuses, humiliates and bullies them. He believes the other salesmen want to be like him (a top salesmen) but lack the talent and skills to achieve it. He swaggers around the room proclaiming his superior sales ability while simultaneously assaulting the salesmen with verbal abuse, derision and condescending remarks.

unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love’. Blake believes that he can do easily what four others have failed to do, that is, turn their leads into cash sales. Blake not only believes he can succeed where the other salesmen have failed but can do so in just two hours. This is clearly a fantasy

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of unlimited success. To Blake, as a superior being, he can succeed easily where inferior beings fail. Blake believes himself to be ‘special’ and unlike the other salesmen. This ‘specialness’, as described as trait three from the DSM-IV, manifests not only through Blake’s overt proclamations of his superiority as a generator of wealth and successful salesman but is also apparent through his reluctance to want to be there with the group of underperforming salesmen. That is, he believes that he should only associate with other special people like himself. The idea of spending time with inferior beings is something quite distasteful for him. He makes it clear a number of times in his monologue that he is wasting his time with them and does not want to be there. First, he starts his speech before all four salesmen have even arrived and states to Williamson ‘Are they all here? … Well, I’m going anyway’. Next, Blake reiterates that he is there speaking to the salesmen only under sufferance (as a favour requested by head office). why am I here? I came here because Mitch and Murray asked me to, they asked me for a favor. I said, the real favor, follow my advice and fire your f***ing ass because a loser is a loser.2

Blake believes he is too important to be associating with such a group of underachievers and that they are not worth his time. His advice to head office was to simply fire all of them as they are ‘losers’. Traits four and five from the DSM-IV are ‘Requires excessive admiration’ and ‘has a sense of entitlement’, respectively. In his monologue, Blake consistently draws attention to his personal wealth through references to his high salary, his expensive watch, his expensive prestige car. This is meant to do more than just emphasize the salesmen’s lack of success through drawing attention to their lack of wealth and valuables, but also to invoke awe and to impress the salesmen. These references are attempts by Blake to engender feelings of envy and admiration. Even though it is apparent that the salesmen despise Blake for his abusive manner, they cannot help but look impressed when he flaunts his wealth before them. This feeds Blake’s sense of self-worth and fulfilment. This is, in a sense, an affirmation of his self-belief, and a justification of his narcissism and arrogant demeanour. It affirms his superiority in the company of lesser individuals. This belief that others are envious of your success is the eighth trait in the DSM-IV (1994). Blake has this trait in abundance and his continual references to his wealth and success are strategies to evoke envy and affirm his status as ‘superior being’ over the ‘inferiors’.

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In terms of ‘sense of entitlement’, Blake believes himself (and others like him) to be entitled to other people’s money through making sales, and hence getting commission to add to his personal wealth. Blake states, You got the prospects comin’ in; you think they came in to get out of the rain? Guy doesn’t walk on the lot unless he wants to buy. Sitting out there waiting to give you their money! Are you gonna take it? Are you man enough to take it?

Blake sees the buyers of the real estate he sells with contempt. To him, they are stupid individuals with money who can be fleeced through cunning and clever sales techniques. Blake believes the money he makes from such sales are owed to him, because he has what it takes to procure it, he states The money’s out there, you pick it up, it’s yours. He sees the selling of real estate and all it entails as ‘a man’s game’ of which he is a player while the other salesmen are not. Hence, he is worthy of taking his clients’ money and making sales. He is entitled to their money because he has the skills and qualities to play the game. At one point in the monologue, Blake states ‘You know what it takes to sell real estate? It takes brass balls to sell real estate’ whereby he then pulls out a prop two brass balls on a string and obscenely holds them against his trousers. In his mind, Blake has ‘brass balls’, he has what it takes to be a successful salesman and is hence entitled to take his client’s money. Traits five and six ‘Selfishly takes advantage of others to achieve his own ends’ and ‘lacks empathy’, respectively, are related and Blake expresses these qualities most consistently through his monologue. Blake has no scruples or ethics when it comes to procuring a sale. Indeed, he could not have thrived within such a corrupt and cut-throat corporate culture if he had a sense of ethics and morality. As he states, ‘Because only one thing counts in this life. Get them to sign on the line which is dotted’. The priority here is making the sale, regardless of what it entails. Furthermore, Blake has no empathy for the struggling salesmen. He even states that it if were his decision, he would fire all the salesman who had been underperforming. At one point, he makes his position very clear to Moss ‘Nice guy? I don’t give a shit. Good father? F*** you, go home and play with your kids. You wanna work here? Close’. Blake has no interest in the salesmen in terms of who they are as people or their life circumstances. To him, all that is important is that they ‘close’ or sell real estate. Blake completely dehumanizes the salesmen in his speech. He fails to consider even the possibility that there may be other factors which have hindered the salesmen’s success. When Levene points out to Blake that the leads were weak Blake retorts ‘F***ing leads are weak? You’re weak’. Blake relates

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the salesmen’s failure to their personal inadequacy. He not only lacks empathy but also has intense contempt for the salesmen. Finally, the last trait in the DSM-IV (1994) is ‘Shows arrogant, haughty, patronizing, or contemptuous behaviours or attitudes’. Perhaps this trait is most eloquently given life in Blake’s monologue. He treats the salesmen with contempt, disdain and verbally abuses them throughout his speech. He refers to them with insults and profanity using terms such as ‘c***suckers’ ‘f***ing f***ots’ ‘losers’ ‘son of a bitch’. Throughout the monologue, Blake carries himself in a haughty and arrogant way. He moves round the room in a cocky and swaggering fashion, as though he were a drill sergeant during an army inspection. He targets Levene who is pouring himself a cup of coffee ‘Put that coffee down. Coffee’s for closers only. Do you think I’m f***ing with you? I am not f***ing with you’. Blake has such contempt and disrespect for these men that he believes they are even unworthy of drinking the company coffee. To him they are ineffectual in their jobs and hence have no place in his world. They are unworthy to be in his presence and do not deserve even to have a cup of coffee.

DISCUSSION As shown in the above example of Blake, narcissistic leaders are selfserving and self-absorbed. They are driven by a need to serve only their own needs. ‘Narcissists live under the illusion that they are entitled to be served, that their own wishes take precedence over those of others’ (Kets de Vries & Miller, 1985, p. 588). Narcissists lack any sense of empathy, meaning the ability to understand another person’s perspective or needs (DSMIV, 1994) because they are guided by their own ‘idiosyncratic self-centred view of the world’ (Rosenthal & Pittinksy, 2006, p. 621). Rosenthal and Pittinksy (2006) note, ‘amorality’ is a component of a narcissist’s behaviour (p. 621). Here they refer to narcissistic leaders who may not hesitate to behave in cruel or violent ways. Citing Glad (2002, pp. 1 2), Rosenthal and Pittinsky state, as the leader moves toward absolute power, he [sic] is also apt to cross moral and geographical boundaries in ways that place him in a vulnerable position. Thus he may engage in cruelties that serve no political purpose, challenge the conventional morality in ways that undermine his base … . (p. 621)

Power is a key component of leadership and ‘leadership is the exercise of power’ (Kets de Vries, 1993, p. 22). Narcissistic leaders’ priority is the

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preservation of their own power base and ego (Kets de Vries, 1993). They use their legitimate position of power to further their personal agendas and exercise control over others. Blake exercises his power over the struggling salesmen by making them suffer and verbally insulting them. Powerless, and an inability to adequately defend themselves (all were in fear of losing their jobs), the salesmen had no option but to endure the abuse. This context of fear, threat and instability is one that enables destructive leadership to flourish (Padilla et al., 2007). According to Kets de Vries and Miller (1985), narcissists expect others including their followers to see them as exceptionally important people and to hold them in high esteem. Moreover, for narcissists, followers are both dependent and exploited (Humphries et al., 2010). Kets de Vries (1993) claims that narcissistic leaders tend to ignore their followers’ needs and take advantage of their loyalty. Power is misused and abused and ethical and moral standards are neglected. Followers in turn are unlikely to remain unaware of their manipulation. A likely response of followers is to ‘play politics to survive’ (Kets de Vries & Miller, 1985, p. 596) and to remain compliant and obedient sycophants. In such cases, loyalty is an unlikely commodity while cynicism and lack of commitment may increase with time. This situation is precisely how the synopsis of Glengarry Glen Ross plays out. Fearful of challenging the abusive Blake and his unethical behaviour, the salesmen accept his speech and ‘leadership’, yet they are cynical and resentful of the company they work for. This is the same company that gives Blake free reign to exploit and humiliate the workers since there are no ethical ‘checks and balances’ (Padilla et al., 2007) within the company’s ethos or practices. Eventually, one of the salesmen, Shelley Levene, betrays the company by breaking into the real estate office to steal information for his own personal benefit. Even Williamson, the manager, has no real commitment to the company and is happy to sell valuable information (in the form of leads) to any who will give him cash. The toxic culture of the organization shows itself to be a powerful force in enabling the abuse and corruption that take places.

THE IMPLICATIONS OF NARCISSISTIC LEADERSHIP ON ORGANIZATIONS AND WORKERS The implications of having a narcissistic personality such as Blake leading an organization are somewhat complex and largely depend on one’s place

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within the organizational hierarchy, one’s sense of ethics and one’s corporate allegiance. In terms of co-workers on a hierarchical position lower than Blake, such as Levene, Aronow and Moss, Blake’s leadership is disastrous. Blake treats them with disrespect, verbal abuse and contempt. He devalues them as workers and reduces them to an almost subhuman status, to the point that they are not even worthy of drinking the company’s coffee. This is all predicated on their poor sales statistics. Moreover, a narcissistic leader like Blake not only undermines their ability and self-confidence, but also threatens their livelihoods and job security. Blake’s idea of firing the salesmen and getting them to compete for their jobs forces the salesmen into a desperate situation with highly destructive consequences. In a general sense, the implications for those unfortunate enough to work under a narcissistic leader like Blake have inevitable consequences for employees. One consequence is to leave the company and to seek work elsewhere (either voluntarily or involuntarily, i.e. by being fired). Overall, very few strategies can be used to defend oneself against a narcissistic superior at work (cf. Samier & Atkins, 2010) and when confronted by bad leadership from a boss the usual response from workers is to put their heads in the sand (Kellerman, 2005). The other alternative of course is to assimilate into the toxic organizational culture and adopt the modus operandi of a Blake and his ilk. In such a situation, bad leadership becomes something of a ‘social disease’ with followers participating in the unethical code of conduct (Kellerman, 2005, p. 41). However, as Blake says in his monologue the salesmen may not be able to emulate his sales tactics and ruthlessness when securing deals. So this choice may be an unrealistic option for some of them, while for others, such as up and coming salesmen Ricky Roma, this seems a foregone conclusion. However, overall, for disempowered workers and the general rank and file, the consequences of narcissistic leadership are devastating. By contrast, for those in the organization who are in more powerful positions, the impact of a Blake in their ranks is less unpleasant and, in some contexts, highly desirable. Regardless of how poorly Blake treats subordinates he treats equals, and those perceived of having power within the organization, with respect. Consider how Blake interacts with Williamson the office manager. He is courteous and polite. Furthermore, to the powerbrokers at Mitch and Murray he is even willing to do them ‘favours’ even though he does not agree with what they want him to do. Importantly however, Blake is a highly effective salesman and makes a lot of money for himself and the company. On a purely financial level he is the ideal employee because he sells a lot of real estate. The bottom line

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for Blake and companies like Mitch and Murray is making money. Here, ethics, compassion and fairness are immaterial and redundant. Within such a corporate and psychopathic organization, a narcissistic leader like Blake is a role model. Under Blake’s stewardship those who become like him will succeed and prosper. However, those who fail to follow his lead will be fired from the company. In this way, the company will perpetuate itself with workers, and ultimately leaders, whom are narcissistic and unethical resulting in a vicious circle which rewards toxic behaviour. Perhaps the most significant implication of a leader like Blake in an organization is the reinforcement of the notion that success outweighs accountability or effectiveness outweighs ethics. The idea of a narcissistic leader whose unethical and abusive behaviour are tolerated because of his/ her superior abilities is a common theme in popular culture, one only has to turn on the television for many examples. Consider the television series ‘House’. The protagonist of the series (Dr House) is a narcissistic leader of a team of diagnostic physicians. He consistently abuses co-workers and is frequently caught engaging in dangerous and illegal activity. However, all is overlooked by the hospital powerbrokers because of House’s uncanny success at diagnosing complex medical disorders. Dr House’s narcissism and criminality are immaterial, only his medical success is important, hence all is forgiven. In a similar fashion, Blake’s unpleasant and narcissistic disposition is not an issue for Mitch and Murray because he is a successful salesman. So long as one is successful one need not be accountable. In summary, the implications on workers and organizations of having a narcissistic leader like Blake depend on who you are and how important you are to the organization as a whole. For the rank and file, narcissistic leadership is a force of great devastation, resulting in ruined careers, wrecked livelihoods and the devaluing of workers as human beings. However, for those in positions of power narcissistic leaders who are successful are considered desirable employees and even role models. Finally, the take home message is that success outweighs accountability. Extreme narcissism and unethical behaviour is acceptable so long as one is successful.

CONCLUSION In this chapter we explored narcissistic leadership because we believe that in order to understand leadership more fully, it is necessary to consider its dysfunctional side. While we acknowledged that there are different types of

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narcissistic behaviour (i.e. reactive and constructive), we concentrated on reactive or pathological narcissism because of the confusion that exists between constructive narcissistic traits and more positive leadership traits (Rosenthal & Pittinksy, 2006). Using a larger than life character from a film we explored the psychology of the narcissistic leader within a toxic organizational culture, and the destructive consequences of such dark leadership style on employees. As Samier and Atkins (2010) point out, ‘the damage can be extensive, affecting interpersonal relations by creating a toxic culture or debilitating micropolitics … disrupting careers and the overall welfare of the educational unit, particularly if the narcissist is in an authority position to wield approval power’ (p. 591). As was described in the case study, the damage caused by the narcissistic leader was debilitating for the workers concerned. As we indicated earlier in the chapter, the current competitive and individualistic context in which leaders are now working is predisposing leaders towards self-serving and self-promoting performance. We would also argue that it is predisposing them to demonstrate narcissistic traits. The character of Blake in Glengarry Glen Ross may be fictionalized but considering current trends in organizations, leaders with such narcissistic dispositions may become more prevalent. Given that there is a dearth of empirical studies in the area of narcissistic leadership, we believe that further research that explores the psychology and behaviour of narcissistic leaders is required and would provide a strong contribution to the field of leadership studies.

NOTES 1. Online link to Blake’s monologue http://www.filmsite.org/bestspeeches48. html 2. Profane words and expressions have been censored from quotations so as not to offend readers.

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INTO DARKNESS: A STUDY OF DEVIANCE IN STAR TREK Jonathan Furneaux and Craig Furneaux ABSTRACT Purpose The purpose of this chapter is to analyse the deviant behaviour of individuals in organisations. Deviants are those who depart from organisational norms. A typology of perceived deviant behaviour is developed from the deviance literature, and subsequently tested. Methodology/approach Star Trek: Into Darkness text is qualitatively analysed as a data source. Three different character arcs are analysed in relation to organisational deviance. Starfleet is the specific, fictional, organisational context. Findings We found that the typology of deviance is conceptually robust, and facilitates categorisation of different types of deviant behaviour, over time. Research limitations/implications Deviance is socially ascribed; so better categorisation of such behaviour improves our understanding of how specific behaviour might deviate from organisational norms, and how different behaviours can mean individuals can be viewed positively or negatively over time.

The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 103 129 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011005

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Further research might determine management responses to the different forms of deviance, and unpack the processes where individuals eschew ‘averageness’ and become deviants. Practical implications The typology advanced has descriptive validity to describe deviant behaviour. Social implications Social institutions such as organisations ascribe individual deviants, both negatively and positively. Originality/value This chapter extends our understanding of positive and negative deviance in organisations by developing a new typology of deviant behaviour. This typology has descriptive validity in understanding deviant behaviour. Our understanding of both positive and negative deviance in organisational contexts is enhanced, as well as the utility of science fiction literature in ethical analysis. Keywords: Deviance; typology; science fiction; Star Trek; qualitative analysis

INTRODUCTION Science Fiction (SF) is a popular form of literature that is often used to critique and explore society and modern organisational forms. There has been long-term popular support for science fiction series such as Dr Who, Star Wars and Star Trek, which, while fiction, continually explore ethical topics. This chapter explores ethical deviance in the recent movie Star Trek: Into Darkness (ST:ID). A new typology is developed and used to interrogate the phenomenon of perceived deviant behaviour of three different characters in ST:ID (Abrams et al., 2013). This typology is shown to have intellectual purchase for the analysis of organisational deviance, as well as tracking such behaviour over time.

SCIENCE FICTION AS LITERATURE Science fiction is unique in its function as entertainment, as it not only intrigues and delights the imagination, but also forces the conscience to examine amongst other things self, the human condition, organisational theory and ethics (Barad & Robertson, 2000; Link, 2013; McHugh, 2001). One of the prime obstacles when referring to ‘science fiction’ is

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that the narrative form itself is difficult to define (Broderick, 1995). In order to avoid confusion, this chapter defines SF sometimes referred to as ‘speculative fiction’ as works of narrative imagination that contain tropes: caricatures of personalities, societies or abstract ideas; in addition to ‘thought-experiments’: a set of ‘literary experiments’ that act as uncanny scenarios for role-playing future organisational situations, achievements and relationships (Dische cited in Broderick, 1995; Kerslake, 2007, p. 2). These are only two of many features that can be attributed to SF, and are by no means the full possible extent of such utility. However, the utilisation of these literary features is what enables SF to address concepts such as organisational deviance. As a narrative form, SF has been compared to medieval romance, and has been referred to in the pejorative as ‘space opera’: as many Westerns were repackaged as SF (Moberly & Moberly, 2008). An example of this literary makeover is Star Wars, where Han Solo (the laconic cowboy) and Luke Skywalker (the knight in training), combine their forces to rescue the princess in distress (Moberly & Moberly, 2008). Despite the narrative shortcomings that SF bares compared to classic literature, SF writers have much to say that is philosophically sound, particularly about organisations (Case, 1999). Practically, the link between SF thought-experiments and innovation is already well-established (Smith, Higgins, Parker, & Lightfoot, 2001). Philosophically, SF has been responsible for creating a range of cultural discourses, and contributes to a fundamental understanding of oneself (Kerslake, 2007). ‘Those images and metaphors used by a serious writer are images and metaphors of our lives, legitimately novelistic, symbolic ways of saying what cannot otherwise be said about us, our being and our choices, here and now. What science fiction does is enlarge the here and now’ (Le Guin, 1994, cited in De Cock, 2001, p. 160). The ‘saying what cannot otherwise be said’ (De Cock, 2001, p. 160) provides an opportunity to think, to consider possibilities, and explore options and ideas that would not be conscionable in, say, a laboratory experiment. SF provides an opportunity to critique organisations and thus provides ‘a redoubt for our deviant ideas’ (McHugh, 2001, p. 27, italics in original).

SCIENCE FICTION AS ETHICAL LITERATURE Through the lens of SF, the reader is enabled to consider ethically complex situations and scenarios. SF ‘resets current issues and moral dilemmas … years into the future after we have presumably gained the knowledge and understanding to resolve our most divisive social conflicts’

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(Boje, 2001, p. 109). ST:ID is set in 2259 AD, a future where interstellar space travel and exploration is commonplace. However, while the Federation is a prospering society, the universe Gene Roddenbury envisioned is not immune to disease, war or acts of terrorism. Whereas some might believe that a supposed utopian society like Star Trek (Kavanagh, Keohane, & Kuhling, 2001) should be free of difficult ethical decisions or unnecessary death, ST:ID delivers a world in which the ethical stakes have been raised. This is evident in the opening sequence where Kirk must choose between: allowing a volcano to explode thus killing the local population; saving Spock; or remaining undetected by the planet’s population, to avoid interfering with their development. Thus, the opening scene reflects ethical dilemmas in organisations, which involve considerations of conflicts not between right and wrong, but between a range of ethical commitments (Arnold, Audi, & Zwolinski, 2010), all of which have consequences. ‘We know that there is no “one best way”, but in SF at least there is the possibility that through confrontation by skill, intellect and belief then at least something might work out, and that we can confront the evils of the worlds and maybe come out on top’ (McHugh, 2001, p. 28). ST:ID paints ethical dilemmas for the audience to consider, disguised as narrative plot. The emotional impact and education from these situations would be lessened if these decisions’ answers were straightforward. Instead, the characters in ST:ID are forced to choose from a range of ethically unclear choices, and live with the consequences. SF allows us to see ‘all the good that we are now, or could produce, or the evil that we may consciously or unconsciously tolerate, humanity yearns for revelations of itself’ (Kerslake, 2007, pp. 1 2). Through critical reflection, the observant audience evaluates the actions of the actors, either approving or disapproving the behaviours of each in turn. While it is pleasant to revel in the luxurious dream of interstellar space travel, ST:ID does not fail to highlight the evil in its own universe, as corruption, terrorism and injustice are all equally explored. ST:ID is a narrative where the same technology that empowers the advance of the human race, can equally empower evil. Its actors, can either approve of these actions, or disapprove.

SCIENCE FICTION AS ETHICAL ORGANISATIONAL LITERATURE Arnold et al. (2010) note that an overarching theoretical framework for ethical theory and practice in organisations is lacking.1 Similarly, there is a

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lack of consideration for how SF might inform ethical theory and practice, although some authors have proposed a number of options. One option is that SF could be viewed as a set of morality plays (Higgins, 2001), whereby the tales are warnings about the consequences of particular actions which should be avoided, and thus as critiques of modern society. A second approach is to view SF as a data source: ‘science fiction can be seen as a diagnosis of the present and a vision of possible futures. As such it provides a contemporary resource, with which to interrogate both contemporary organizing practices, and organizations as institutions’ (Higgins, 2001, pp. 3 4). A third approach is to see SF as scenario planning. ‘SF is very much like science itself. Following the classic prescriptions of the hypotheticodeductive method, scientists perform precisely these kind of “what if” experiments too … From Archimedes onwards, we have stories of scientists inspired by wild thought experiments … So perhaps, in methodological terms we could think about SF as a kind of theoretical science which routinely requires skills of advanced imagination’ (Parker, 2001, p. 195). As March (1995, p. 427) notes: ‘Imaginations of the future, like imaginations of the past, are devices for living in the present’. A final approach is outlined by Parker (2001) who provides a useful discussion of the distinction between SF as a weather vane and a weapon: where the first is a data resource that can be used to discuss, deliberate, envisage and analyse changes in organisations and society; while in the second SF is a vehicle for sponsoring critical thinking about organisations and society, which lead to concrete changes in how we manage and organise. Parker (2001) concludes that the analysis of SF whether as a data source has been somewhat neglected in organisational research. For this chapter, ST:ID is treated as a data source as it provides a quite unique exploration of deviance in organisational contexts.

STAR TREK AND ORGANISATIONAL ETHICS Kavanagh et al. (2001, p. 125) have already explicitly argued that Star Trek lore ‘can be treated as a research resource; data, if you like, that if read and interpreted, can provide organizational scientists with important insights into contemporary problems and phenomena’, although they focus on organisational structures, rather than ethical issues in their analysis. Indeed, Kavanagh et al. (2001) mapped the increasingly complex and

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diverse nature of Star Trek organisations and management strategies against the evolution in organisational discourse in the last 30 years, finding very strong parallels. They note: Fiction (from ‘ficto’) means ‘to make’, ‘to create’ and the same impulse to creatively and imaginatively reinvent our environment(s) and ourselves underpins both professional ‘real-world’ management practice, and imaginary, fantasy-world management scenarios. Rather than thinking of a hard distinction between management science in practice and management science fiction, we suggest that these realities from ‘other dimensions’ are not entirely alien from each other. Rather, we suggest that there are not alternate but intersecting universes, realms of fact and fiction that interpenetrate one another: ‘our “fictional” management scenarios mirror “real” management problems, and vice versa’. (Kavanagh et al., 2001, p. 140)

Deviant behaviour is indeed a real problem for managers. The specifics of behaviour examined here (e.g. commanding the launch of torpedoes at another species’ homeworld) are a little outside the range of ethical decisions typically confronting most managers. However, the fact that individuals can pursue strange, different and abnormal behaviour is not outside the ken of contemporary management practice. As will be discussed in detail below, deviance from the norm is not necessarily evil. It can also be seen to be a significant good for an organisation. Without reference to a typology such as is developed here, managers could be tempted to make deviants conform to organisational norms, which may not always be in the best interest of the organisation. In terms of extant approaches to specific ethical analysis of Star Trek, Barad and Robertson (2000) provide an extended analysis of dominant ethical decision-making processes of a number of the main actors (e.g. virtue ethics, utilitarianism and consequentialism), across a large volume of the Star Trek canon of literature, thus demonstrating that classic philosophical approaches to ethical analysis hold in SF contexts. Thompkins (2005) provides a far more nuanced approach to ethics in Star Trek by focussing on integrity. It would be possible to follow the lead of these authors in examining ethical decision making in Star Trek in that it relies on the traditional philosophical frameworks for ethical decision making (Barad & Robertson, 2000), based on internal ideological frameworks (cf. Henle, Giacalone, & Jurkiewicz, 2005). There are, however, alternative approaches which acknowledge the social context of the characters more explicitly. Since being ‘deviant’ is socially determined, this second part of the ethics literature has more salience for our intent here. Consequently, it is important to situate this chapter in the broader ethics literature.

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Situating This Chapter in the Ethics Literature Over time, two clear paths have emerged in the business ethics literature (Freeman, 2000). This division in the field has been described as being between ‘normative ethics which resides largely in the realm of moral philosophy and theology and guides individuals as to how they should behave, and descriptive (or empirical) ethics, which resides largely in the realm of management and business and is concerned with explaining and predicting individuals actual behaviour’ (O’Fallon & Butterfield, 2005, p. 375). While the focus on normative or empirical assumptions is not problematic in and of itself, the misunderstandings which can arise because of a lack of understanding of different approaches to business ethics, is problematic (Trevino & Weaver, 1994). Even the term ‘ethical behaviour’ has different meanings, depending on the approach. Social scientists, analysing ‘ethical behaviour’ do not make any prior assumptions about the morality of this behaviour, as any behaviour can be either ethical or unethical; while for a philosopher, the term ‘ethical behaviour’ can only ever mean behaviour which is right, just and ethical (Trevino & Weaver, 1994, p. 118). It is beyond the scope of this chapter to review the entire differences between the two main approaches to ethics, and also unnecessary as others have already performed this task admirably. Table 1 summarises numerous author’s views. Table 1. Comparison of Philosophical Ethics as Opposed to Empirical Ethicsa. Normative Paradigm Approach Practice Evaluation Focus Contribution to ethics Example topics Behavioural choices a

Philosophy, theology, social theory Prescriptive Developing standards to evaluate practice Based on rational critique ‘What ought to be’ Help determine criteria

Empirical (Descriptive) Social science, Management Explanatory, descriptive, predictive Identifying measurable constructs which affect behaviour Basis of its ability to describe behaviour ‘What is’ Provides data used in evaluation

Deontology Corporate social responsibility Essentially a matter of individual Influence on behaviour is both internal choice and external

Data for the table has been drawn from Rosenthal and Buchholz (2000), Singer (1998), Freeman (2000) and Trevino and Weaver (1994).

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The divide in the ethics field is nontrivial as social scientists can deride the work of philosophers as it cannot be examined empirically, whereas philosophers deride the work of social scientists as they do not address fundamental aspects of right and wrong (Rosenthal & Buchholz, 2000). Rosenthal and Buchholz (2000) argue though, that the divide between these two approaches to business ethics, may be narrower than some would admit. This is because philosophical ethics requires empirical assessment and social science requires some normative elaboration of theoretical and philosophical values. What is needed is research that can advance a normative understanding of ethics within an empirical context (Singer, 1998). Waterman (1988) noted that one fruitful approach to achieve this outcome is the development of taxonomies. While a taxonomy is in and of itself essentially descriptive, it is possible to make some normative claims in relation to the taxonomy (Waterman, 1988). Similarly Arnold et al. (2010) stating that while there are still considerable ways of approaching ethical studies, there is an agreement on the importance of theorising. As will be elaborated in the typology section below, typologies are an important intermediate theorising stage (Doty & Glick, 1994). If social research is to be well founded, it needs to contribute to explanation and prediction, and therefore be committed to theory building (Trevino & Weaver, 1994, p. 123).

Position and Purpose of This Chapter There are definite strengths in both normative and descriptive approaches to organisational ethics. This chapter seeks to develop a typology of deviance, which explicitly draws on sociological understandings of deviance (Heckert & Heckert, 2002) and approaches ethics from a social constructivist position. Thus, the chapter would properly belong to the empirical stream of the business ethics literature. While it would contribute to theory building concerning organisational ethics advocated by Arnold et al. (2010), it will not follow a normative approach to ethical research. One of the key reasons for this is that, in our view, the normative approach has been the dominant approach used to analyse SF in general and Star Trek in particular (e.g. Barad & Robertson, 2000), while the descriptive approach is under researched. In such a project, developing a typology of deviance, and testing its utility to describe behaviour from that data, is an important step in theorising (Weick, 1995), about business ethics. By providing a typology of deviance this chapter provides an analytical tool which

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managers can use to determine what form of deviance is being manifest by individuals in their organisation. Further by differentiating between positive and negative deviance, which is discussed in detail below, the chapter does allow for normative evaluation of behaviour(s). By testing the typology in SF writings like ST:ID, data is used in a way which goes beyond mere description, as the typology provides a way to think critically about organisations (Parker, 2001). Different sorts of deviance would logically require different managerial responses, although the analysis of what these responses might and their efficacy will need to wait for a future paper. The intent of the typology is to provide an important first step in the management of deviance is to differentiate between positive and negative forms of deviance.

ORGANISATIONAL DEVIANCE As distinct from unethical behaviour, which involves breaking social rules, deviance is seen to involve breaking significant organisational rules or norms (Sims, 2010). According to Spreitzer and Sonenshein (2003, p. 208), deviant comes from the Latin meaning ‘off the beaten path’. Essentially, just as statistical deviance is measured in terms of deviation from the average, ethical deviance involves departure from socially understood norms of behaviour in an organisation (Spreitzer & Sonenshein, 2004; Warren, 2003). As noted above, rather than examining ethics from the internal view of the individual making decisions, the deviance perspective seeks to analyse how an individual’s behaviour is evaluated by organisational members (Warren, 2003). Research on deviance in organisations has tended to focus on the dark side of deviance, by examining behaviours which are ‘illegal and/or violate moral standards’ (Brown & Mitchell, 2010, p. 588). However, this approach is somewhat deficient as merely deviating from a socially ascribed set of norms does not in and of itself determine whether such deviation was meritorious. Some deviant behaviour is beneficial to organisations, such as whistle blowing (Warren, 2003). Therefore it is important to differentiate between constructive or destructive deviance (Warren, 2003), or as other authors put it, positive and negative deviance (Appelbaum, Iaconi, & Matousek, 2007; Heckert & Heckert, 2002). Destructive, or negative deviance, hurts an organisation financially, reputationally or operationally; and can also be typified as ranging in

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scale both from minor to major, and from interpersonal to organisational (Robinson & Bennett, 1995). Examples include stealing, bullying and inappropriate use of power or position. Causes of deviant behaviour are debated, but can include a toxic or unhealthy organisation, or where a leader is immoral or mentally unsound (Sims, 2002). In such cases, the negatively deviant leader can encourage others to behave in a deviant manner (Appelbaum et al., 2007). In contrast, constructive, or positive, deviance has a positive effect on an organisation. Examples of positive or constructive deviance include actions such as: whistle blowing; performing above and beyond the call of duty; corporate social responsibility where CSR is not expected (Spreitzer & Sonenshein, 2004); innovation (Nemeth & Goncalo, 2010); or refusal to support an unethical use of power (Sims, 2010). Consequently positive deviance is an honourable and voluntary departure from organisational norms (Spreitzer & Sonenshein, 2004). Positive deviance can likewise be typified across a range from minor to major departure from norms (Spreitzer & Sonenshein, 2004). Various authors have started to empirically test the relationships between organisational deviance, and variously: organisational justice and personality (Henle et al., 2005); negative reciprocity and ethical values (Biron, 2010); and ethical ideology (Henle et al., 2005). In doing so, they have started to examine the correlation between perceived deviant behaviour by organisations, and the internal worlds of individuals. Our contribution here is more modest: the advancement and testing of a typology of deviance.

Typology of Deviant Behaviour Two existing typologies of deviance are worth particular attention. Warren (2003) discussed conformity and deviation from organisational norms in terms of constructive or destructive deviance. Heckert and Heckert (2002) go beyond conformance/under-conformance to organisational norms by differentiating between under- and over-conformity, and whether organisational members view this positively or negatively. Thus they allow both for heroes and blind followers. While the typologies advanced in both Warren (2003) and Heckert and Heckert (2002) have their strengths, and both allow for the social construction of deviance, both also have their weaknesses, and are partly incommensurate. Warren (2003) differentiates between conforming and deviance, however Heckert and Heckert (2002) only focus on deviance.

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Warren’s (2003) typology uses labels that make sense under their headings, whereas Heckert and Heckert (2002) sometimes label quadrants in their typology which are apparently unrelated to the headings (e.g. rate busting). Additionally, Warren’s (2003) typology requires comparison of hypernorms (societal norms) which may either align with or oppose organisational norms. In our view, this would be difficult to operationalise in practice. Heckert and Heckert (2002), note that non-conformity (deviance) can be understood as both under-conformity (falling short of expectations) and over-conformity (exceeding expectations). Over-conformity is deviant in that it goes above the organisational norm, as the core meaning of deviance is to deviate from the average. In contrast, Warren (2003) only considers deviance and conformance. Moreover, Heckert and Heckert (2002) note that deviance is actually socially constructed, and that deviance can be viewed either positively or negatively. However, notions such as groupthink, which involve compliance that is negative, does not fit well into notions of under- or over-compliance in their model. Thus two extant typologies of deviance both have strengths and weaknesses. What is needed is a typology that allows for organisational determination of underconformity, conformity and over-conformity, as well as positive and negative views on each. In short, something more than a 2 × 2 grid is needed to capture the nuances of the construct. We have drawn on a wider array of deviance literature to advance a new typology of deviant behaviour in organisations. On the horizontal axis there is conformity, under-conformity and over-conformity, while the vertical dimension focus on the organisational view of deviance: whether positive or negative. This is outlined in Fig. 1, with the explanation following. Viewed from this perspective, positive under-conformity has to do with deviance which is admired by organisational members such as resistance to oppressive authority, or refusing to obey an unlawful directive (Sims, 2002). Negative under-conformity is of course, the form of behaviour typically understood as deviance: failure to meet the societal norms and expectations of an organisation (Dionne & Mentz, 2004; Hansen, 2004), what Warren (2003) refers to as destructive deviance. Positive conformity would be, for example, innovation. An innovation, by definition, involves a change in organisational product or processes, and thus causes deviation from the historic norm. However this is generally not a negative deviation. Nemeth and Goncalo (2010) discuss this form of deviance in the context of not accepting normative processes and behaviours. Innovation involves experimentation, which is often in contrast to ‘standard operation procedure’ and therefore implicit and explicit

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Positive evaluation of deviant behaviour

Negative evaluation of deviant behaviour

Under-conformity

Conformity

Over-conformity

Positive Underconformity

Positive conformity

Positive Overconformity

(resistance to oppressive authority e.g. Robin Hood)

(innovation, questioning group think)

(e.g. heroes, Mother Theresa)

Negative Underconformity

Negative conformity

(e.g. theft, abuse, abuse of position and power)

(passive aggressive, pursuit of own agendas)

Negative Over conformity

(e.g. group think, obsequiousness, compliance with evil)

Fig. 1. Typology of Deviant Behaviour. Note: Typology draws on, but is different to, the works of Heckert and Heckert (2002) and Warren (2003); with individual cells informed by Nemeth and Goncalo (2010), Spreitzer and Sonenshein (2004) and Sims (2002).

organisational rules. Another example would be a board member who speaks against a motion or decision, which the majority of other board members endorse. Again this is deviating from the majority, but challenging groupthink is a positive organisational behaviour (Appelbaum et al., 2007; Baron, 2005). Negative conformity, while involving obedience to organisational rules, involves some negative aspects, such as passive aggressive behaviour or pursuing organisational activities solely in order to achieve a personal subversive goal, which is viewed negatively by an organisation’s members. This form of deviance, while noted in the deviance literature (e.g. Mitchell & Ambrose, 2007), is not currently represented in the extant typologies. Positive over-conformity involves a positive evaluation of overconformity, an altruistic example of this would be Mother Theresa (Heckert & Heckert, 2002), or any number of folk, literary or historical heroes functioning well above and beyond the call of duty. Organisationally, we formalise and endorse such over-conformity though awards, prizes and other endorsements such as medals and admission to special orders and fraternities. In such recognition of course, we acknowledge that such behaviour rises above and beyond the ‘average’, and the

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scarcity of such awards underscores its deviant nature. Finally, negative over-conformity is over-conformity to organisational rules or leaders (such as being overly obsequious). Participating in groupthink would also of course be seen as negative over-conformity. As Baron (2005) notes, groupthink is often so ‘right’ in organisational contexts that it is, in fact, wrong. The silent compliance with organisational evil is a final example. Here, conformity or at least silence is absolute, but nevertheless wrong. It is worth noting that as deviance is socially determined a person who works long hours and neglects home life, may in some organisational contexts be considered a hero, and in others as an over-conformist, or possibly even both in the same organisation. Thus, while the categories of deviant behaviour have face value, they are somewhat ideal types, and some blurring is likely to occur at the boundaries. Deploying this typology as an analytical tool, such a shift in perception involves a re-categorisation of them as deviants from negative underconformity to positive over-conformity. Another example would be the board member who speaks against a motion that others wholeheartedly endorse. This may be considered initially as negative conformity, as they are following board procedure, but may be doing so in pursuit of their own agendas. However, if subsequent events proved the board member correct, then organisational perception of their classification may be changed to positive conformity. As it turns out, they were not ‘being difficult’, or pursuing their own agenda, but were simply challenging the groupthink in the room. While such behaviour is deviating from the norm, it is still positive in terms of its organisational impact. Thus, the typology allows that an individual’s deviant behaviour may be reclassified from time to time. As should be clear from the preceding paragraphs, deviance has to do with behaviour. However, such behaviour is evaluated in a social context like organisations, and viewed as either positive or negative. Additionally, this behaviour can also be viewed as in-line with (conformity), or under/ over-achievement against, the organisational norms (deviance). The typology above has been advanced to cope with the array of perceptions of organisational deviance, and is deployed as an analytical lens in examining three characters central to the plot of ST:ID.

RESEARCH METHODS AND STRATEGY When examining organisational behaviour in a context, it is useful to articulate conceptual categories against which to classify behaviour.

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Typologies fall short of being considered formal theory (Bacharach, 1989; George & Bennett, 2005), as their role is primarily to describe (Sutton & Staw, 1955). Nevertheless, they are an important step in developing theory (Reynolds, 1971). ‘Typologies are based on a unique form of theorybuilding that is intuitively appealing and holds considerable promise for helping management researchers to understand complex, holistic phenomena’ (Doty & Glick, 1994, p. 248). As heuristic devices (McKinney, 1954), they enable researchers to compare specific phenomenon (Bacharach, 1989). Thus, a typology of deviance enables the comparison of different types of deviant behaviour, such as the behaviour of three central characters from ST:ID. The testing of the typology against data is important both for descriptive and interpretive validity. Maxwell (1992, pp. 285 289) argued that descriptive validity involves the accuracy of reporting actors’ statements and actions, whereas interpretive validity involves assessment of what those actions mean in a particular context. Specifically, ‘the meanings and constructions of actors are part of the reality that an account must be tested against, in order to be interpretively, as well as descriptively, valid. Social theorists generally agree that any valid account or explanation of a social situation must respect the perspective of the actors in that situation’ (Maxwell, 1992, p. 290). As deviance is socially determined (Warren, 2003), the validation of a typology of deviance requires analysis of organisational deviants in a specific context, or case. As a research strategy (Hartley, 2004) a case study is a ‘detailed investigation, often with data collected over a period of time, of phenomena, within their context … The case study is particularly suited to research questions which require detailed understanding of social or organizational processes because of the rich data in context’ (p. 323). In this chapter, the phenomenon under examination is organisational deviance, and the case is ST:ID. Case studies are appropriate as they explicitly allow for the contextualised nature of deviance. Moreover the testing of the descriptive and interpretive validity of the typology depends on such a contextualised analysis. While possible to compare phenomenon across multiple organisational cases (Eisenhardt, 1989), it is also possible to compare multiple instances of a phenomenon within a single case (Flyvbjerg, 2006; Gibb Dyer & Wilkins, 1991). In this chapter the strategy is to examine Starfleet, depicted in ST: ID, as the specific organisational context in which to examine the phenomenon of organisational deviance. The multiple instances examined within this case revolve around three central characters in ST:ID: Kirk, Marcus and Khan.

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The research method for analysing the text of ST:ID is qualitative analysis of the movie text. Analysing text is a technique for gathering and analysing the content of text (Neuman, 2000, p. 292), and is an objective data analysis method (Marshall & Rossman, 1999, p. 117). As noted earlier, ST: ID, as a piece of SF is being viewed as a data source (Higgins, 2001; Kavanagh et al., 2001; Parker, 2001), and the deviant behaviour of Kirk, Marcus and Khan is examined qualitatively across their character arcs.

FINDINGS The organisational view on deviance is complex. As noted in the sections above, each organisation has its own set of rules and values. In a given organisational context, a deviant individual is one who departs from these organisational norms, whether positively or negatively. As it transpires both positive and negative deviance can be ascribed to characters in ST:ID. Moreover, the typology can be used over a longitudinal time line, as the characters portray different types of deviant behaviour. Kirk as a Deviant This example of difference in ethical approach is embodied in the opening sequence of ST:ID, with the USS Enterprise failing a survey mission of primitive culture on the planet Nibiru. A volcanic eruption threatens to tear the landscape apart, killing the local inhabitants (0:01:50). Spock is stealthily lowered into the volcano to detonate a cold-fusion device in order to prevent the volcano’s reaction. Complications arise, Spock’s safety cable breaks (0:03:37), and thus he is left to die in the volcano. Kirk decides to lift the Enterprise from its underwater concealment, in order to transport Spock out of the volcano; Spock is adamantly against this plan, as it would compromise the ‘Prime Directive’: an organisational law that prohibits ‘… interference with the internal development of alien civilisations’ (0:02:10). Kirk faces an ethically unclear situation, as he is torn between: permitting a member of his crew die through inaction (thus sacrificing his personal virtues and commitments as a captain); altering a civilisation by revealing the existence of a spaceship in order to save Spock (thus breaking a key organisational rule); or allowing the volcano to explode thus killing the inhabitants sheltering nearby (violating consequentialist ethics). In the end, Kirk disobeys the Prime Directive, and rescues Spock, but not before

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the native population witness the Enterprise, and begin to worship its profile as a new deity (0:07:40; 0:09:20). Evidently, Kirk views this as the path of least possible harm. If we were to follow a normative assessment of organisational ethics, these internal dilemmas would become the focus. Instead, we are interested in how others in the organisation perceive such behaviour, as we are following a descriptive approach. In terms of the organisational perspectives on his behaviour, Kirk receives a dressing-down by his mentor Admiral Pike for his behaviour, and he is demoted (0:13:00), which is clearly a negative evaluation of his deviance, rather than positive. Spock makes it clear that he though Kirk should have let him die, according to Starfleet regulations (0:06:45; 0:08:50). From the reaction of both Kirk’s superiors and First Officer it is evident that they see his actions as negative under-conformative deviance. However, his peers supported his decision. Bones says, ‘shut up Spock, we’re trying to save you, damn it’ (0:06:47), and Uhura states, ‘good thing you don’t care about dying … at that volcano you didn’t give a thought to us. What it would do to me if you died Spock’ (0:08:55; 0:44:20). Both Bones and Uhura believe Kirk’s decision to rescue Spock was ethically sound, however, this was a view not shared by Starfleet hierarchy. So here, Kirk is viewed as a positive under-conformist by his crew, and negative under-conformist by Starfleet. This goes to the core benefit of following a descriptive as opposed to normative understanding of ethics, as different people in the same organisation may have different views on the rightness or wrongness of the same actions. After Kirk witnesses his mentor Admiral Pike murdered by Khan, he seeks out Admiral Marcus and is recommissioned as Captain of the Enterprise (0:31:30). Admiral Marcus gives Kirk 72 highly classified torpedoes to fire at Khan, who is hiding on the Klingon home planet of Kronos. Initially, Kirk obeys these orders, as they enable him to seek out revenge against Khan (0:32:40). However, his decision to follow the orders of his superior is met with negative evaluations from his crew. Scotty, the chief engineer, resigns instead of permitting unknown heavy-grade torpedoes on his explorative flagship (0:34:50). Spock, supported by Bones, explains that killing Khan without a trial goes against the Federation’s code of conduct, and that firing missiles at a hostile planet will lead to a full-scale war: ‘Regulations aside, this action is morally wrong … There is no Starfleet regulation that condemns a man to die without a trial. Something you [Kirk] and [Admiral Marcus] are forgetting’ (0:32:45). Here, Kirk is faced with a decision as to whether obey or disobey commands, which are ethically wrong. Once in Klingon space, Kirk chooses to disregard his orders

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and decides to detain and question Khan. Spock agrees that this is the correct decision, even though it defies military orders from a commanding officer: ‘Captain I believe you have made the right decision’ (0:39:15). In both Kirk and Spock’s opinion, the societal ethics of a fair trial outweigh Kirk’s personal vendetta, and the orders from Admiral Marcus. Here Kirk can be classified as a positive under-conformist, at least in the eyes of his crew. As will be shown below, Admiral Marcus has a very different view of this behaviour, as it countermands his direct orders. During the climax of ST:ID, Kirk’s unorthodox style of leadership is tested in capturing Khan. Kirk performs two selfless, and indeed reckless, deeds of leadership. Firstly, Kirk offers his own life to Admiral Marcus, in exchange for the safety of his crew (1:15:55). Secondly, Kirk climbs into a nuclear reactor in order to save his vessel, ignoring operating procedures for the reactor, and as a result dies (1:41:50). As examples of servant leadership and altruism (Barbuto & Wheeler, 2006) these can best be seen in the typology as positive over-conformity. After being resuscitated, the film concludes with Kirk delivering a speech of remembrance for the lives that were lost during Khan’s terrorist attacks. His command is permanently reinstated, and the Enterprise is selected for a prestigious five-year mission into uncharted territory (1:56:00). In this new position of honour, the audience can gather that Kirk and his crew received positive evaluation for their unorthodox methods. Kirk becomes an admired, positive over-conformative deviant.

Admiral Marcus as a Deviant The surprise antagonist of the film: Admiral Marcus is a soldier who seeks a war on his terms, and the sooner the better: ‘all-out war with the Klingons is inevitable Mr Kirk. If you ask me it’s already begun’ (0:30:05). His ethical motivation appears to be very instrumental: the end justifies the means (Quinn & Jones, 1995). In order to protect the Federation, Marcus is willing to start bloodshed by ordering the Enterprise to launch an attack on the Klingon homeworld, and at the same time to cripple the engines of the Enterprise. This is planned so that the Federation can openly go to war and utilise the new Dreadnaught that Marcus has designed. Marcus inhabits an ethical space that fluctuates between negative under-conformity and negative conformity. Marcus often uses passiveaggressive tactics when possible, such as questioning Kirk’s ability to lead ‘… war is coming, and who’s going to lead us? You? If I’m not in charge,

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our entire way of life is decimated. So if you want me off this ship, you’d better kill me’ (1:30:15); however, Marcus is also capable of abusing his power, and is willing to sacrifice the Enterprise, her crew and Khan, in order to ensure his goal of starting a war remains secret (1:11:40; 1:14:00; 1:15:05). Marcus is also willing to falsify his official report and smear Kirk’s name in order to preserve his own: ‘… you went rogue in enemy territory, leaving me no choice but to hunt you down and destroy you’ (1:15:45). A rogue is, of course, an archetypical deviant (Dionne & Mentz, 2004). Kirk begs Marcus not to destroy his crew, ‘… all that I ask is that you spare them … please sir’ (1:16:15). However, Marcus refuses to spare innocent lives, ‘… that’s a hell of an apology, but if it’s any consolation, I was never going to spare your crew’ (1:16:30). As this was broadcast to the entire crew of the Enterprise, they were unlikely to take a positive view of the individual who would destroy their ship, and their lives, just to provide an excuse to initiate war. Marcus’ war would involve two species that span hundreds, if not thousands of planets. The resulting death toll would easily reach millions, possibly billions, of lives. Marcus daughter Carol gives Marcus the negative evaluation, ‘I heard what you said: you made a mistake and now you’re doing everything you can to fix it. But dad, I don’t believe the man who raised me is capable of destroying a ship full of innocent people …’ (1:15:00). Therefore, Marcus moves back-and-forth between negative under-conformity and negative conformity. While this underscores that the typology is a set of ideal types, the fact remains that as an analytical device, the typology retains power, even in the face of ambiguous actions.

Khan as a Deviant Khan is an interesting character, particularly compared to the other two deviants, as his actions are harder to ascribe. He saves a girl’s life, blows up a Starfleet facility, rescues Kirk and his crew, helps them to defeat Admiral Marcus and purposefully crashes a spaceship into a highly populated area. A majority of his decisions, while clearly unethical, do follow a certain internal logic. As the film progresses, we find out that Khan has been historically viewed as a positive over-conformer: part of a superhuman race that is designed to outperform all other species. As Khan states, ‘[I am] … genetically engineered to be superior … I am better … at everything … [Admiral Marcus] wanted to exploit my savagery’ (1:06:20).

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However, when he is recommissioned by Admiral Marcus to create the Dreadnaught vessel amongst other weapons, he is now seen as negative over-conformist. As Admiral Marcus explains, ‘I believed his superior intelligence could protect us from whatever came at us next. I made a mistake, and now the blood of everyone he’s killed is on my hands’ (1:11:25). Khan is still over-performing, but his actions are now viewed negatively, as the organisational view of him changed. While he is still operating in the parameters of his original purpose, and using his abilities for organisational outcomes, he is no longer seen as an unqualified asset to an uncontrollable organisational liability. It is important to note though, that this shift in behaviour is in some ways precipitated by the threat Admiral Marcus makes towards Khan’s crew (1:08:25; 1:11:40). At another point in the film, viewers instinctively sense Khan is antagonistic. Ostensibly, Khan is seen to be pursuing the same objectives as Kirk: submitting to authority so that the torpedoes won’t be launched at the Klingon homeworld, preventing Admiral Marcus from starting a war, and helping to defeat the admiral’s Dreadnaught. However, it becomes clear that Khan chooses to support Kirk for his own personal agenda: recovering his crew so that they can continue on their personal quest to eliminate species that they deem to be lesser than themselves (1:32:50), which equates to the mass genocide of most species they encounter. Thus, while compliant, Khan could also be seen as a negative conformist due to the passive aggressive response. Kirk is aware of this, as he tells Scotty to stun Khan once they have completed their mission. Scotty inquires, ‘… I thought he helping us?’ To which Kirk replies, ‘I’m pretty sure we’re helping him’ (1:30:15). The film ends with Khan, presuming his crew is dead, attempting to cause as much collateral damage to Starfleet as possible, before he is finally captured.

DISCUSSION Previous approaches to analysing ethics in Star Trek have tended to follow a philosophical approach to ethics, with a focus on the internal ethics of the characters (e.g. Barad & Robertson, 2000). While there is some normative assessment of whether the discussed actions are positive or negative, this chapter focuses on the perceptions of this behaviour by other characters, thereby explicitly acknowledging the organisational context of ethics decision making. As Phillips (1992) argued: ‘Morality is embedded in a social context: it is within this context that it is formed, applied,

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understood, and in which it has its affects’ (p. 241). Singer (1998, p. 484) likewise noted that: ‘What is right and wrong is determined by continuous social interactions’. The heuristic device deployed for making such a determination was a typology of deviance developed from the literature. In order to ensure the descriptive and interpretive validity (Maxwell, 1992) of the typology, assessment is needed in a specific context. The case of ST:ID has proved to be a valuable context to examine organisational deviance. The perceptions of Starfleet personnel, on the deviant behaviour of three individuals, have been analysed against a typology of deviance developed from the literature earlier. The new typology advanced here has proved useful in classifying both positive and negative deviance, as well as the scope of such deviance (under-conformity, conformity, overconformity). This is discussed in some detail below. As deviance is socially determined, different behaviours and different people might result in different perceptions of deviance. This is shown and discussed, in Figs. 2 4. These shifts are depicted chronologically on the figures using numerical identifiers ([1], [2], [3], etc.). At first, Kirk is viewed negatively by Starfleet Command, as he disobeyed his organisation’s Prime Directive, and received negative evaluation on his behaviour. Using the typology, Kirk is considered a negative underconformist [1]. After being demoted, Kirk refuses to contribute his insights to the Starfleet emergency session. Kirk’s brief refusal to contribute, having just been rebuked and demoted, can be seen as negative over-conformity [2]. Marcus is not impressed with Kirk’s refusal, and presses him: ‘You got something to say Kirk say it, tomorrow is too late … spit it out son, don’t be shy’ (0:24:00). From here, Kirk’s actions become positive conformity [3]. Kirk discovers why Khan attacked the Starfleet archive, and then uses ingenuity to destroy Khan’s fighter craft (0:24:15). Once arriving at Kronos, by contradicting the unethical orders of Admiral Marcus, Kirk receives praise from his peers, thus his actions can be determined as positive under-conformity [4] (0:39:10). Finally, Starfleet give Kirk the privilege of embarking on a five-year mission, and delivering the speech at a commemorative ceremony. Thus, Kirk’s heroism of willingly sacrificing himself to save his crew, coupled with the positive evaluation of his superiors, demonstrates that his actions are perceived as positive over-conformity [5]. This shift in perception of deviance is outlined in Fig. 2. Secondly, Admiral Marcus, as aforementioned, iterates between negative under-conformity [1] and negative conformity [1]. His passive-aggressive questioning of Kirk’s ability to lead could be considered as conformity, as this incredulity of Kirk’s leadership is the same assessment that caused

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Kirk to lose command of the Enterprise; however, the entire crew of the Enterprise, including Marcus’ daughter, demonstrate negative evaluation of Admiral Marcus’ behaviour by attempting to stop him. Thus, Marcus’ passive aggressive actions are evaluated as negative conformity. Additionally,

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Marcus abuses his position as commander of the Dreadnaught and Admiral of Starfleet, by attempting to kill the crew of the Enterprise. This destructive behaviour, coupled with the Admiral’s lack of compassion to spare innocent lives, can be evaluated as negative under-conformity. Therefore, throughout ST:ID, Marcus’ ethical actions occupy a position on the typology which iterates between negative under-conformity and negative conformity. This shift in perception is noted in Fig. 3. Finally, Khan was originally considered a leader, a hero from 300 years ago. Khan explains that he was ‘genetically engineered to be superior so as to lead others to peace in a world at war’ (1:06:20). His ability to outperform others, in addition to the 72 other superhumans like himself, encourages an ethical reading of Khan’s actions as positive over-conformity [1]. Khan is woken from cryonic preservation in order to innovate new super-weapons for Starfleet. His success in developing both the highly advanced torpedoes, as well as the Dreadnaught war vessel, demonstrate that Khan is considered by Starfleet as a positive conformist [2], which is reinforced by giving his own blood to rescue a sick child. Khan then uses his superhuman ability in order to demolish ‘… a top secret branch of Starfleet dedicated to … developing defence technology …’ (0:18:00; 0:30:25), in addition to attacking Starfleet headquarters (0:24:00). Both of these actions are obviously considered negative by Starfleet, and are negative under-conformative acts of terrorism [3]. Khan eventually surrenders to Kirk on Kronos, and even helps Kirk steal aboard the Dreadnaught (0:52:45; 1:20:35). Even though Khan conforms to Kirk’s instructions, it is evident to Kirk that Khan is operating on his own agendas, (i.e. rescuing the 72 superhumans). Thus, Khan’s actions can be viewed as negative conformity [4]. While obeying rules, Khan chooses to do so for his own purposes. Finally, Khan uses the Dreadnaught to attack the Enterprise during the climax of the film (1:35:00). Khan’s abuse of superhuman power, and use of the technology at his disposal having appropriated command of the Dreadnaught, can be described as negative under-conformity [5]. These shifts in perception are noted in Fig. 4. While ethics can often be viewed from a normative and internal matter, this chapter has followed a descriptive approach to analysis of ethical behaviour. Specifically, the use of the typology outlined in Table 1, provided a conceptual tool, or heuristic, with which the deviant behaviour of individuals in a specific context could be examined. This goes to the descriptive and interpretive validity of the types of deviance within the typology. Moreover, the typology provided the means to track the shifting

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organisational perceptions of one type of deviant behaviour to another, over time. Such an approach rests in the understanding that deviance is socially constructed, and requires not just norms, but an evaluation of behaviour against such norms by other organisational actors (Warren, 2003). Approaching ethical behaviour from this perspective has a number of benefits. Firstly the social context of deviance means that different people can view the same behaviour in different ways. In terms of the opening scene, Starfleet command, and Spock himself, sees Kirk’s decision to save Spock as wrong. However, the crew of the Enterprise see Kirk’s decision as ethically correct. Thus, different people can perceive the same action differently in the same organisation. Secondly, the typology advanced here has considerable conceptual purchase for the analysis of behaviour. It is true that, based on the typological classification system, some individuals iterate between different quadrants (such as Admiral Marcus). However, the important thing is that the quadrants enable, rather than obfuscate, such analysis. Thus, as a heuristic device (McKinney, 1954), the typology has intellectual coherence and validity to examine the specific context of Starfleet, using data from ST:ID. Thirdly, qualitative analysis of the ST:ID text shows that organisational perceptions of and individual’s deviance shift over time. Khan’s primary motivation throughout the film (saving his crew) remains unchanged, and all of his actions are consistent and driven from this core internal motivation. However, his specific actions are perceived in different ways as circumstances change around him, and clarity as to his intent becomes clear. Admiral Marcus is also driven by a consistent motive to pursue war at all costs with the Klingons, but the organisational perception of him was consistently negative. Similarly, Kirk’s unorthodox style of command, and habitual rule breaking (0:14:20; 1:18:00) is initially condemned. Kirk describes his decision-making process as, ‘… not logical … a gut feeling’ (1:18:45). However, at the conclusion of the movie his actions are rewarded, and endorsed. Spock says to Kirk, ‘… as a mission of this duration has never been attempted, I defer to your good judgement, Captain’ (1:57:50). Again, the typology has purchase in tracking changes in perceptions of behaviour, and thereby serves as a useful heuristic device for classifying deviant organisational behaviour. As noted earlier, correct analysis of behaviour is a necessary precursor to managerial actions in response to such behaviour. Practically, having a way of understanding and classifying behaviour is an important step in being able to manage such behaviour. While accepting that there are organisational norms, this chapter also allows that any

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behaviour can be viewed in a positive or negative light. Moreover, the classification of under-conformity, conformity and over-conformity provides a way for managers to consider perceived deviance that goes beyond a good/ bad dichotomy, without being overly complex.

CONCLUSION Drawing on the deviance literature, a framework of how deviant behaviour has been advanced that firstly differentiates between positive and negative deviance against organisational norms (Warren, 2003). Secondly, deviance needs to be assessed against conformity to organisational norms (Warren, 2003) as well as under-conformity and over-conformity (Heckert & Heckert, 2002). ST:ID as a work of SF provides a very useful data source for analysing a typology of deviant behaviour. Specifically, the behaviour of three characters are tracked through qualitative analysis of ST:ID text, with Starfleet as the specific organisational context. The typology is shown to have analytical rigour in classifying different types of deviant behaviour, such that behaviour can be shown to change from positive to negative, as well as under-conforming, conforming and over-conforming. Thus the typology is useful as a heuristic device (McKinney, 1954). By using ST:ID as a data source, the chapter has developed an underutilised approach to SF literature (Parker, 2001). By extending our understanding of positive and negative deviance in specific organisational contexts, this chapter has improved our understanding of both positive and negative deviance in organisational contexts (Appelbaum et al., 2007; Heckert & Heckert, 2002). Given the utility of typology for theory building (Doty & Glick, 1994) the chapter makes a contribution to the theorising about ethical behaviour in organisational contexts (Trevino & Weaver, 1994). Future research might identify how managers should respond to perceived organisational deviance, as well as the efficacy of such responses. Additionally, research into the internal and external forces which influence an individual’s disposition to enact specific types of deviant behaviour could also be examined.

NOTE 1. See the discussion further below on the positioning of this chapter in relation to the main bifurcation in the ethics literature.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENT Star Trek is a trademark owned by CBS Studios Inc. (2013). Citations from this film have been made under the ‘fair use dealing’ clauses for research purposes of the Copyright Act. The QUT University Human Research Ethics Committee assessed this research as meeting the conditions for exemption from HREC review and approval in accordance with section 5.1.22 of the National Statement on Ethical Conduct in Human Research (2007).

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WHY MORAL PHILOSOPHY CANNOT EXPLAIN OSKAR SCHINDLER BUT KENEALLY’S NOVEL CAN Michael Schwartz and Debra R. Comer ABSTRACT Neither moral philosophy nor history provides a satisfactory explanation for Oskar Schindler’s extraordinary rescue of more than 1,200 Jews during the Holocaust. Thomas Keneally’s Schindler’s Ark does. Although Schindler’s Ark is technically a work of fiction, that generic label obscures its contribution as a fictionalised account of true events. By using a novelist’s tools to tell an historical story, Keneally allows us to make inferences as to the motives of his protagonist and thereby helps us to understand what propelled the moral behaviour of Oskar Schindler. Keywords: Fiction; Keneally; moral philosophy; Schindler

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INTRODUCTION Why did Oskar Schindler take such enormous personal risks to save his Jewish employees from perishing in the Holocaust? Moral philosophers have tried to answer this question but have not succeeded. Indeed, we present the argument that moral philosophy has not even come to terms with the Holocaust itself, let alone the actions of an individual like Schindler caught up in it. Admittedly, it might be argued that contemplating why the Holocaust happened is not within the realm of moral philosophy. Yet, not being able to consider such evil seemingly does little to advance the status of moral philosophy. We also argue that although history, unlike moral philosophy, has explored the Holocaust, it cannot fully explain the actions of Schindler during those terrible years because much of the necessary historical evidence no longer exists. We then turn to literature. We acknowledge the arguments that the enormity of the horror of the Holocaust diminishes most of the literature about the Holocaust. Nonetheless, we find that Keneally’s historical novel, Schindler’s Ark, unlike moral philosophy and history, does provide insights into why Schindler acted as he did during that period. It is far more nuanced regarding Schindler’s motives and brings out the moral complexities better than moral theory or history does. We conclude with a suggestion as to the value of such fiction to those in organisations challenged by ethical dilemmas.

SCHINDLER AND MORAL THEORY Bryan Magee explains that ‘philosophy is a quest for rational understanding’ (1998, p. 7). Yet, regarding the morality of Oskar Schindler, those in pursuit of that quest continue to be puzzled. Indeed, Schindler’s morality has been discussed at length by moral philosophers (see, e.g. Blum, 1988; Ebertz, 2008; Jackson, 1988; Schmidt, 2006). Schindler, we are told, neglected his wife, was ‘a shameless alcoholic playboy’ (Schmidt, 2006, p. 261) and bribed and corrupted whenever and wherever he could profit. He does not seem to have spent his personal or professional life attempting in any Aristotelian sense to acquire good habits to mould himself into a morally good person. Yet, he saved more than 1,200 Jews from the worst horrors of the Holocaust. Although Schindler was not a churchgoer, he is buried in the Catholic churchyard on Mount Zion in Jerusalem. He requested this location, explaining that his children were there (Schmidt, 2006). His ‘coffin was carried through the streets of Jerusalem’ and he was

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interred ‘in the presence of hundreds of weeping Schindler Jews’ (Schmidt, 2006, p. 260). As Jackson (1988) observes, Oskar Schindler exists as a moral exemplar whilst defying moral theory. Schindler is widely known because of a novel (Keneally, 1982/2007) and the Hollywood movie (directed by Spielberg, 1993) based on that novel. But, both the novel and the movie exist because of what Schindler did, and what Schindler did was a moral act. Jackson (1988) asserts that although Schindler acted contrary to the dictates of both utilitarianism and deontology, he can still be seen as a moral exemplar in terms of virtue ethics. Ebertz (2008), however, questions Schindler’s virtue. Given that Schindler’s ‘modus operandi is deceit and bribery’ he wonders, ‘Can a man such as this still be good?’ (p. 112). After exploring Schindler’s behaviour from both a Kantian and virtue ethics perspective, Ebertz (2008) concludes that ‘Schindler is not a good man’ (p. 112). Nonetheless, he does concede that Schindler ‘is morally exemplary in a particular way, for a particular period’ (Ebertz, 2008, p. 126) and that were others to follow the example of how he acted in those circumstances it ‘would promote human flourishing’ (Ebertz, 2008, p. 126). Those circumstances are of course most relevant to Schindler’s debated character. Like Ebertz (2008), Schmidt (2006) states that Schindler acted as a moral exemplar for a certain time in a certain way (see also, Blum, 1988). Schmidt (2006) distinguishes between a self-interested ‘pseudo freedom and the real freedom of community’ (p. 272). Schmidt (2006) argues that it was ‘the community of Jews he comes to love’ (p. 258) who moved Schindler from the former state to the latter. Lifton (1994) likewise notes that Schindler’s contact with his Jewish workers drew out his empathic side. Schmidt (2006) sums up Schindler’s character: ‘Rake and Saviour! This was Os[k]ar Schindler!’ (p. 272). Yet, as Schmidt (2006) explains, it was Schindler’s Nazi connections from ‘his days of pseudo freedom’ (p. 272) that enabled him to assist those Jews at that time. In short, ‘a “better” man couldn’t have pulled it off!’ (Schmidt, 2006, p. 272). Wundheiler (1985 1986) and Jones (1998) too posit that Schindler achieved what he did by being ostensibly a war profiteer exploiting Jews. Indeed, Schindler succeeded in saving the Jews he did because he ‘did not fall into conventional ways of thinking’ (Jones, 1998, p. 19). Such an observation is not unrelated to research into that small minority of Europeans who resisted the Nazis. Burleigh (2010) claims that the common characteristics that linked these resisters were ‘an insistent individualism and a capacity to hold on to essential moral truths’ (p. 269), both of which Schindler possessed, in spite of some of his morally questionable activities.

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Jackson’s (1988) arguments as to Schindler’s failing to act rationally and subsequently not acting ‘morally according to the criteria of contemporary moral theory’ (p. 177) need to be considered against those specific realities Schindler experienced at that time. Schindler has been quoted as being revolted by ‘the insanity of Nazism’ (Schmidt, 2006, p. 270, footnote no. 29). Ironically, Schindler’s response was to behave in a way that seems irrational. Jackson (1988) tacitly acknowledges that had Schindler acted rationally, ‘he would not have been able to save many Jews’ (p. 177). Indeed, more Jews might well have been saved had fewer Europeans been ‘paralysed by the test of universality’ (p. 179). Because these Gentiles concluded that ‘[t]hey could not help nor save all under threat’, they saw ‘no point in helping even one’ Jew (p. 179).1 Jackson (1988) explains that because Schindler’s behaviour was not a considered response based on rules, principles and rights, he ‘did not act morally according to the criteria of contemporary moral theory’ (p. 177). Jackson (1988) therefore sees Schindler ‘as a limiting case for the dominant version of contemporary moral theory’ (p. 176). Others, too, have argued that the fault might well be entirely with a dominant theory. Most traditions in moral philosophy involve an element of rational deliberation but a historian of the Holocaust period argues that such deliberation ‘would have meant delay and death’ (Burleigh, 2010, p. 467). Instead, rescuers of those about to be murdered required ‘the propensity to act spontaneously for the good of a human being in distress’ (Burleigh, 2010, p. 467). As such, philosophical deliberation conferred no advantages. Burleigh has commented about the very diverse backgrounds and motivations of those who rescued Jews. He reports that ‘businessmen, peasants, monks, nuns and priests did a great deal more rescuing than academic philosophers, of whom history has recorded not a single example’ (Burleigh, 2010, p. 467). Burleigh is, like others, perplexed by Schindler. He describes him as ‘this human enigma’, and reflects that ‘good is a lot harder to fathom than evil’ (Burleigh, 2010, p. 467). Indeed, as Schwartz and Comer (2013) conclude, ‘When so many others either actively or mindlessly followed the path of evil, Oskar Schindler took the path of good. He was not perfect, but he is a moral exemplar’ (p. 166).

THE HOLOCAUST AND MORAL PHILOSOPHY Moral philosophers endeavour to explain Schindler’s behaviour. As Schindler’s wife once remarked, both before the Holocaust and after

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the Holocaust, Oskar Schindler made no remarkable contribution (Keneally, 2007). Yet, in a time of death, he displayed moral greatness. He saved many lives. German philosophers saved no Jews. Philosophy prides itself on exposing the truth in the face of the prevailing dogma. Philosophy’s role in Nazi Germany could not, however, have been further from that tradition. That has major implications regarding its ability to explain the Holocaust because if that philosophy embraced those who caused the Holocaust it becomes a part of the prevailing dogma. As it was, Heidegger readily praised ‘the inner truth and greatness of National Socialism’ (Heidegger as quoted by Sluga, 1989, p. 815). Sadly, he was not alone. In Nazi Germany ‘a number of German philosophers tried to establish that their own work could serve … the new system’ (Sluga, 1989, p. 816). Such individuals did nothing later to assist anyone. Nonetheless, after the war ended, most enjoyed good careers within German universities. Heidegger, ‘a Nazi … (who) … never condemned the genocide of the Jews’ (Freeman, 1991, p. 7), certainly did. Schindler, in contrast, ended up penniless (Crowe, 2004, p. 626). Sommers (2004) has attributed the failure of moral philosophy to stop the Holocaust to ‘the German tradition that grounds morality in reason’ (p. 150). He refers to the Kantian tradition whereby ‘nonrational beings cannot be wronged’ (Sommers, 2004, p. 152). They cannot be wronged, according to this tradition, because they are not worthy of moral consideration. Sommers (2004) explains that when the Nazis relegated the Jews ‘to the status of nonpersons’ (p. 153) they could not be wronged, and subsequently anything could be done to them (see also Bandura, 1999; Bandura, Underwood, & Fromson, 1975). Once the Jews were excluded as nonpersons they became ‘pariahs, beyond the protections of morality’ (Sommers, 2004, p. 153). But beyond the moral philosophers’ ineffectuality at resisting the atrocities of the Holocaust as they transpired, moral philosophers have been unable to make sense of the Holocaust itself. Freeman argues that ‘philosophers have largely ignored it’ (1991, p. 3). The Holocaust of European Jewry is ‘a crisis of Western civilization’ (Freeman, 1991, p. 15). Yet, the influential philosophies in the West during the Nazi years were ‘inadequate or useless in coming to terms morally with [it]’ (Freeman, 1995, p. 126). Furthermore, since then most believe that any ‘serious philosophical reflection on the Holocaust is rare’ (Freeman, 1995, p. 125). Freeman (1991) acknowledges that the Holocaust lies ‘beyond all meaning’ (p. 14), that it ‘was unique and the unique is unintelligible’ (p. 14). Indeed, he notes that it overpowers both ‘our cognitive and moral

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capacities’ (1991, p. 14) and because much of it ‘defies all rational explanation … there can be no explanation of the Final Solution’ (1991, p. 14). He argues, nonetheless, that because what happened during the Holocaust challenges how we understand ourselves and our world, we cannot afford to ignore it and must instead grapple with it. As Freeman laments, it is because of normative philosophy’s ‘timorous distaste’ (1991, p. 16) for dealing with the reality of the Holocaust, that ‘evil continues largely unhindered’ (1991, p. 16). According to Freeman, the failure of philosophy to respond to the Holocaust has led to an alternate approach. Some philosophers use ‘moral realism’ (Freeman, 1991, p. 10), based on the reality of moral facts, which exist and need to be recognised. Given their existence, arguments are unnecessary. All that is required is the exposure of that reality. The result is that ‘narration is privileged over rational argument’ (Freeman, 1991, p. 10). Freeman offers as an illustration of moral realism Gilbert’s (1987) Holocaust writings, which depict the horrors of an extermination camp. He tells us that because such writings are documented and true, they ‘break through … ethical inhibitions created by modern philosophical discourse’ (Freeman, 1991, p. 11). It is important to recognise, however, that Gilbert is not a philosopher but a historian.

THE HOLOCAUST AND HISTORY Indeed, Freeman contrasts the limited impact of the Holocaust on philosophy with its ‘considerable impact on such disciplines as history’ (1995, p. 125). Historians, unlike philosophers, can provide concrete historical evidence, with which they can respond to the Holocaust. It should be noted, however, that in too many cases pertaining to the Holocaust historians cannot provide the necessary evidence. In the widespread death and destruction that occurred during the Holocaust and in its aftermath much of the evidence of those events was erased. History is in many ways inadequate when faced with the Holocaust, as there is very often a lack of valid historical evidence. This is especially so with regard to the personal histories of those times, especially when both the person involved and that person’s witnesses have perished. Freeman also recognises that ‘to write about the Holocaust is a morally questionable activity’ (1995, p. 126) because it uses the suffering of others to promote one’s own academic agenda. There is yet another reason why for some it is morally questionable: those engaged in

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Holocaust denial claim to use accepted historical research methods, yet obfuscate the truth (Lipstadt, 1994). Their goal is to mislead readers with their distorted accounts of history. And they do mislead. Postmodernism presents another challenge. Although it does not deny the past, it does deny that we can access the past. According to Richard Rorty and other postmodernists, there are no ‘moral facts’ (Freeman, 1991, p. 8). If such facts do not exist, then there can be no agreement as to the facts and achieving moral realism such as Freeman’s example of Gilbert’s historical writings is impossible. However, Rorty would not deny that there are situations we need to understand, even if we disagree as to the moral facts. Rorty believes that in such situations, the prevailing cultural norms guide our expectations as to how we should behave towards others (Freeman, 1991). Rorty asserts that various expressions of our culture and ‘especially, the novel’ (Rorty as quoted by Clendinnen, 1999, p. 163) enable us to extend our compassion to those remote from us. Clendinnen complains that Rorty’s claim about literature ‘rather pointedly, excludes’ history (1999, p. 163). But Clendinnen should not be surprised that Rorty does not mention history. Indeed, Rorty’s denial of moral facts makes the exclusion of history inevitable. Once there is no agreement on the moral facts, history cannot be depicted as a helpful tool to understand moral issues. Nonetheless, fiction can exist. Rorty praised its abilities in extending our compassion to those we do not know. From such a perspective it is fortunate that Keneally did describe Schindler’s Ark as ‘a novel’ (2007, p. 13). Clendinnen does, however, note that ‘despite Rorty’s confidence … there are innate difficulties in the successful literary representation of the process of the Holocaust’ (1999, p. 167).

THE HOLOCAUST IN LITERATURE According to Clendinnen, the Holocaust ‘has been notoriously difficult to represent’ (1999, p. 163) in any form of literature. Clendinnen (1999) provides examples of novelists who have used the Holocaust in their work: D. M. Thomas (The White Hotel), Martin Amis (Time’s Arrow) and Aharon Appelfeld (To the Land of the Reeds). She argues that whereas the poetry of World War I transformed the following generation’s perceptions of warfare, even after so many years ‘no comparable distillation of meanings has come out of the Holocaust’ (Clendinnen, 1999, p. 164). Although she praises Appelfeld for his imaginative technique, she complains that his novel ‘does

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not challenge and expand imagination’ (1999, p. 165) as it essentially does not expand our knowledge of historic events. Clendinnen (1999) argues that despite the best efforts of Appelfeld and other Holocaust novelists, another process is working against them. Whereas art can normally ‘intensify, transfigure and elevate actuality’ (Clenndinnen, 1999, p. 164), when it comes to the Holocaust the very opposite happens and the art ‘is rendered vacuous and drained of authority’ (Clenndinnen, 1999, p. 165). Clendinnen illustrates the overwhelming power of the Holocaust by having us consider four words that would usually be seen as completely ordinary: oven, chimney, smoke and hair. She argues that when such words are used within the context of the Holocaust ‘they are instantly charged with explosive, undifferentiated emotional force’ (1999, p. 166). Following Clendinnen, the ‘Holocaust material is … so freighted with significance’ (1999, p. 166) that the attempt of any novelist to create something more from it is bound to be seen as trivial. In contrast to all the Holocaust represents, she considers the usual expectations of readers of fiction. These readers, she argues, are manipulated by the author into having concern for the novel’s characters who throughout the novel experience different circumstances, and eventually, provide some believable and satisfactory ending. None of that is possible in the literature of the Holocaust, where we know how very badly it is going to end. And that end, whilst completely ‘predictable’, is also ‘utterly bereft of meaning and comfort’ (1999, p. 168). Furthermore, what happens en route to that ending is ‘unendurable’ (1999, p. 167). Clendinnen does concede that there are Holocaust writers she appreciates Tadeusz Borowski, Isaac Babel, Primo Levi and Charlotte Delbo. But they are not genuine exceptions to her misgivings because, as she clarifies, they do not write novels about the Holocaust. Instead, they provide ‘survivor testimony’ (1999, p. 169); the reports of their own experiences in the Holocaust serve to provide ‘an undertext of intimate moral implication never present in “pure” fiction’ (1999, p. 169). Clendinnen tells us that her relationships with fictional characters are completely different to those relationships she experiences with individuals in a true story. She explains that she will ‘listen differently to stories which are “real”’ (1999, p. 172) compared with those she recognises as fiction, where what impresses her is the imagination of the author. A real story, Clendinnen argues, forces us to consider what we would have done if we had faced the situation the author-protagonist faced. She nonetheless confides, ‘fiction has taught me most of what I know’ (1999, p. 170). That an historian arguing for the primacy of history over fiction, as she vigorously

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does, acknowledges the superior educative power of fiction, is important. It alerts us to the fact that if she is correct, and literature does fail to represent the Holocaust, we find ourselves with a most unfortunate gap in our understanding. A rabbi, Albert H. Friedlander, explains just how unfortunate such a gap is. Unlike Clendinnen, Rabbi Friedlander does not argue for the primacy of history over fiction. On the contrary, he insists that in attempting to seek understanding after the Holocaust we cannot look to the historians or to the theologians, but must seek out ‘other sources of inspiration’ (Friedlander, 1994, p. 254). Arguing that ‘in the Bible, we hear more in Job and the Psalmists than in the structured ordinances of the law-givers’ (Friedlander, 1994, p. 255), he advises us to learn more about the Holocaust by seeking as guides those who write fiction about it. According to Friedlander, these writers can ‘talk to us about darkness … [un]bound by the evidence of historians or by the logic of theologians’ (1994, p. 255). Yet, he acknowledges that the explanatory contribution of literature is minimal, that writers of literature can do little to help us to make sense of ‘Auschwitz [,] the absolute evil for which there is no explanation’ (1994, p. 98). Indeed, Friedlander concludes that those who have explored the darkness of the Holocaust in their writing have invariably failed to escape it. As Friedlander notes, ‘we can think again of our Holocaust writers: Piotr Rawicz; Jean Amery; Paul Celan; Terence Des Pres; Uriel Tal; and Primo Levi all of them suicides’ (1994, p. 297). Ultimately, contemplating the horrors of the Holocaust destroyed them. And ultimately, just as Clendinnen asserts that Holocaust literature fails to explain the Holocaust to us, Friedlander would not disagree. So, arguably, just as moral philosophy cannot explain the Holocaust, neither can literature. But does it follow that just because moral philosophy cannot explain Schindler, neither can literature? That is, can Keneally’s novel explain why Schindler acted as he did? This question is divorced from that novel. Indeed as Keneally reminds us in his novel ‘at some point in any discussion about Schindler’ the survivors ‘will blink and shake their heads and begin the almost mathematical business of finding the sum of his motives’ (2007, p. 305).

KENEALLY’S NOVEL AND HISTORY It is important to remember that although Schindler’s Ark is based on historical events, it is a novel whose author purposely wrote it as a novel.

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Keneally interviewed many survivors associated with Schindler. He also consulted existing testimonies regarding Schindler. He travelled with a Schindler survivor, Leopold Pfefferberg, to the places mentioned in his book. Indeed, the book is dedicated to both Leopold Pfefferberg and Oskar Schindler. But he acknowledges that ‘the craft of the novelist is the only craft’ (Keneally, 2007, p. 13) he knows and he wrote a novel. Nevertheless, Keneally did not want his novel to be seen as complete fiction. Instead, he wanted it to portray Schindler’s reality as accurately as it could. Because he wrote the book as he did, it has had far greater appeal. It serves as an accepted account of someone who was recognised by historians as ‘one of the most remarkable Righteous Gentiles in the Holocaust’ (Crowe, 2004, p. 624). If Keneally had written the book differently, it could be classified as just another fictional account of those times, which it is not. Schindler was not a fictional character. He is not a product of Keneally’s imagination. He existed and he achieved what Keneally describes. But given the lack of historical records and the abundance of Keneally’s skills, Schindler’s genuine achievements are depicted in the form of a novel. Keneally gave us a novel, but, as he notes, using ‘a novel to tell a true story’ (2007, p. 13) is not uncommon. For the reasons discussed in the previous paragraph, Keneally explained that he ‘attempted to avoid all fiction … since fiction would debase the record’ (2007, p. 14). Yet, attempting to avoid something is not the same as completely avoiding it. Keneally, despite his protestations, had no choice but to engage in fiction and write a novel. He did so as much of his story is concerned with Oskar Schindler, whom he never met, and Oskar Schindler’s conversations with dead Nazis who, even if alive, would not readily recount such conversations to Keneally, or in fact anyone at all as doing so would expose them as war criminals. Biographers sometimes reconstruct the past and conversations that occurred in that past. But they use archived material to do so. No such material existed regarding the conversations between Schindler and Goeth (the commandant of the Plaszow concentration camp), or any of the other dead Nazis Schindler dealt with. Much of Keneally’s novel consists of conversations between Schindler and Goeth. No witnesses exist to those conversations. Nor do any records of those conversations exist. A biography of Schindler could not report these conversations. But Keneally, as a novelist, could and did imagine what in those circumstances in those times, given their conflicting agendas, these individuals said to each another. As a novelist, Keneally uses fiction, but only to tell the true story of ‘Oskar Schindler’s heroism’ (Crowe, 2004, p. 627).

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Schindler’s Ark has received criticism because it is a novel. Crowe complained that Schindler was a much more complex character than the individual depicted ‘in the pages of Keneally’s historical novel’ (2004, p. 623). Furthermore, another historian objected that ‘just about everything (Keneally) wrote that can be checked is wrong’ (Jenik, 2010, p. 1). It is useful to our arguments regarding history that this latter criticism is made by an historian on historical grounds. Earlier we explained how Freeman (1991) highlighted that the failure of moral philosophy to examine the Holocaust made moral realism a better approach. In doing so, he presented for consideration the Holocaust writings of historian Martin Gilbert. We, nonetheless, along with both Rorty (Clendinnen, 1999) and Friedlander (1994), identified some shortcomings regarding history and chose fiction instead. Evidence of those shortcomings also appears in Jenik’s objections on historical grounds to ‘Keneally’s glorification of Oskar Schindler’ (2010, p. 1). We do not dispute Jenik’s major objection, which is that Keneally employed fiction. Indeed, he did. We think that is an advantage. Nor do we object, as Jenik does, to Keneally’s portrayal of Schindler as a nobler, or perhaps larger, figure than he no doubt was. That augmentation may be an inevitable process for the major character in any work of fiction. As Clendinnen (1999) explains, readers have to feel concern for that major character in order to engage with the novel. Keneally acknowledges using ‘the texture and devices of a novel’ (2007, p. 13). His book shows Schindler in the most favourable light possible, accentuating his good qualities by contrasting him with his sadistic antagonist Goeth. But Jenik critiques Keneally on historical grounds. He claims that Keneally in writing his historical novel has gotten the facts wrong. However, it is Jenik who is historically erroneous in what he claims. Jenik argues as to the extreme unlikelihood of Keneally’s description of what Jenik terms ‘an alleged German atrocity in 1939, at Tursk, in Poland’ (2010, p. 2). Jenik explains that according to Keneally SS men ‘drove some Jews into a synagogue and shot them’ (2010, p. 2). According to Jenik none of this is at all likely as there were no SS army units in Poland in 1939 and furthermore ‘German army units were not known for massacring Jews’ (2010, p. 2). But Gilbert, citing the diary of General Halder of the German General Staff, describes how on 10 September 1939, 50 Jews were thrown by ‘SS men … into a synagogue and shot’ (Gilbert, 1987, p. 87). Furthermore, in September and October 1939, German killings in Poland had ‘left five thousand Jewish dead’ (Gilbert, 1987, p. 99) and ‘hundreds of synagogues were destroyed during the first months of the occupation’

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(Gilbert, 1987, p. 101). Gilbert is internationally recognised as a leading historian of this period; Jenik’s historical knowledge of these matters seems deficient. Indeed, he provides no accessible sources to verify most of his claims. Jenik is not merely making an error about one incident in Poland. He is providing a completely different unsubstantiated version of the German Army’s behaviour towards Polish Jewry. His version is at variance with other historical accounts. Although Keneally’s Schindler’s Ark is a novel, a work of fiction, Jenik’s critique arguably contains more fiction. His critique of Keneally thus helps to remind us that with a topic as emotionally fraught and disturbing as the Holocaust there are those others who, unlike Jenik, using supposedly historical methods ‘can twist the truth to fit their ideological agenda’ (Lipstadt, 1994, p. 230). Furthermore, sometimes history is not necessary to ascertain what could have happened in the past; and that is all Keneally is telling us regarding the story of Oskar Schindler and his rescue of Jews from the Holocaust. No less an authority than R. G. Collingwood, when explaining ‘the criterion of historical truth’ (1994, p. 238), differentiates between an explanation of what did happen and ‘what could happen’ (1994, p. 239). Collingwood explains that the latter ‘would no doubt be satisfied by the statements of an historian, but it would be satisfied no less adequately by those of an historical novelist’ (1994, p. 239). Whilst history is a very old subject it did not become a recognised academic discipline until the late nineteenth century. Before that time, ‘there were strongly interactive relations between novelistic and historical narratives’ (LaCapra, 1989, p. 8). Even today, the misguided perception of history and fiction as ‘two discrete “realms” […] blinds one to the more subtle displacements and carry-over effects between the two’ (LaCapra, 1989, p. 206). Keneally is not trying to provide a critical history of Schindler’s acts during the Holocaust. He cannot because those acts are tied to the underlying motivation for the acts. Schindler is dead. His motivation for what he did has been debated by moral philosophers, by those survivors he saved who still ‘don’t know why he did it’ (Keneally, 2007, p. 305) and by historians who describe him as an ‘enigma’ (Burleigh, 2010, p. 466). Keneally writes that regarding Schindler ‘the novel’s techniques seem suited for a character of such ambiguity’ (2007, p. 13) and that it might be best ‘to begin with a tentative instance of Herr Schindler’s strange virtue and of the places and associates to which it brought him’ (2007, p. 16). That is what he does in his novel and in doing so, he allows us some insight into what led Schindler to do what he did. If making ‘sense of history is one of

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the fundamental impulses behind historical fiction’ (Scanlan, 1990, p. 87) then Keneally’s fiction certainly accomplishes that. Keneally provides us with an account of what conceivably could have happened and in doing so has presented to us the essence of Schindler. By contemplating his novel, we glean insights into Schindler’s character that we could not gain from the limited historical evidence.

KENEALLY’S NOVEL AND SCHINDLER’S MOTIVES Keneally writes that Schindler was ‘never good … at explaining his motives’ (2007, p. 64). If he had been, there would be less debate as to why he acted as he did. Keneally tells how Schindler, whilst out horseback riding with his German mistress, witnessed the action in the ghetto of the SS Sonderkommando and then resolved ‘to do everything in (his) power to defeat the system’ (2007, p. 147). But we still do not know Schindler’s reasons for taking the enormous personal risks he took, doing things that were ostensibly well beyond his powers, and expending all his acquired wealth to save his workers from the Holocaust. It is not clear, for instance, why he puts himself ‘at some risk’ (Keneally, 2007, p. 63) to warn Stern, his accountant in his factory, about a planned SS and Einsatzgruppen raid on the Jewish quarter of Kazimierz. He passes on this information at his second meeting with Stern, when he still barely knows him. Keneally also writes of Edith Liebgold’s experience in Schindler’s factory. When she and her fellow new workers arrived, Schindler assured them that as workers in his factory they would be safe and would survive the war, and ‘in the second Herr Schindler uttered the promise it left no option but belief’ (Keneally, 2007, p. 101). Clearly, Schindler wanted to make them happy. Many other instances appear throughout Keneally’s book. Although we cannot be sure as to Schindler’s motives, we do learn from Keneally that Schindler is someone who was always wanting to help others and make others happy, who, in fact, received pleasure from doing so. Schindler received pleasure from helping non-Jews as well as Jews. Whilst imprisoned by the SS for kissing a female Jewish employee on his birthday, he manages to obtain a bottle of vodka for himself illegally. But he also purchases a bottle for his cellmate, the Waffen SS Standartenfuhrer (Keneally, 2007, p. 123), and three bottles for their guards. Wherever Schindler goes, he takes delight in doing what he can for others. As a result, Keneally can write that undoubtedly the Nazi ‘police chiefs and

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the commandant liked Oskar’ (Keneally, 2007, p. 20). Indeed, the commandant, Amon Goeth, ‘would never understand that Oskar despised him’ (2007, p. 342) and was instead convinced that they were close friends. Those seeking further historical evidence of this should note that Burleigh too recounts that Schindler ‘remained on genuinely cordial terms’ (2010, p. 466) with the officers of the SS. The operative word here is ‘genuinely’. Schindler’s Waffen SS Standartenfuhrer cellmate could do nothing to help him; he, like Schindler, was being punished by the authorities. Nonetheless, Schindler had no hesitation in purchasing for him a bottle of liquor. That gift to an individual who could in no way at all benefit Schindler tells us that Schindler is driven by a need to give of himself to improve others’ lives. As Keneally reports, friends of Schindler said ‘that generosity was a disease in Oskar, a frantic thing, one of his passions. He would tip taxi drivers twice the fare on the meter’ (2007, p. 57). Some might consider Schindler’s behaviour towards the Jews he saved as that of ‘a principled altruist’ (Wundheiler, 1985, p. 342). Altruists demand that we ‘sacrifice our own interests for the interests of others’ (Palmer, 2006, p. 72). Ultimately, Schindler did sacrifice all he had for the Jews he saved. But after reading Keneally’s book there seems another, more plausible explanation for his behaviour. Wundheiler writes that ‘from early on, Schindler seemed eager to please Stern’ (1985, p. 344) and that many of ‘Schindler’s actions were motivated by his wish to please Stern’ (1985, p. 345). Indeed, throughout Keneally’s book we read examples of Schindler’s helping others, and receiving pleasure from helping those others. The book gives us several instances in which we witness Oskar Schindler as a man who, despite the terrible and threatening circumstances in which he existed, was happiest when he was able to do for and give to others. The opposite of altruism is selfishness. Both are commonly used English words although ethicists describe those who find happiness by making others happy as ethical egoists. Such ethical egoists are selfish. They make others happy only to make themselves happy. Indeed, most ethicists argue that ethical egoism is ethically incoherent as individuals cannot insist that their own happiness is the only happiness that counts (Nowell-Smith, 1954). Regardless of its status, ethical egoism explains Schindler’s behaviour towards the Jews he saved. Schindler became increasingly involved with those Jews. He was in a better position to help them than anyone else. In fact, they were totally dependent on his help. For them no other help existed. And the nature of the help he provided was critical. Without it, they would have ceased to exist. Wundheiler (1985) reports a Schindler

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survivor’s stating exactly that: ‘[When] nobody [else] helped us, Schindler was our father, our mother, and he never let us down’ (p. 344). Schindler as an ethical egoist was in a unique position. Keneally’s book shows us the progressively precarious situation of Schindler’s Jewish workers. What seemed as if it could get no worse became far worse. The Jews who first depend on Schindler to have enough food that they will not starve eventually depend on him not to be murdered. Both Schmidt (2006, p. 261) and Ebertz (2008, p. 122) describe Schindler’s increasing pre-occupation with the fate of ‘his Jews’. Furrow (1998) likewise notes, ‘It was those Jews who were utterly dependent on Schindler, and the fact that only he could save them, along with the fact that they were threatened by particularly loathsome people’ (p. 226 italics in original) that spurred his behaviour. As they become more and more dependant on him to save their lives, he simultaneously becomes reliant on their escape and survival to maintain his happiness. Subsequently, he is forced to take larger and larger risks involving mounting personal costs, to preserve their lives and thus his own happiness. This is our understanding of his motivation from reading Keneally’s novel. There might be little that is new in our observations. Geras (1995) in disputing Rorty’s arguments as to the parochial motivations of the rescuers of Jews in Nazi Europe provides many reasons why they might have been motivated to act as they did. He quotes one rescuer who stated, ‘I got such satisfaction … from keeping people safe’ (Bochove as quoted by Geras, 1995, p. 163). Burke also (2007) argues that the motivation of rescuers during the Holocaust varied. For those who were rescued, their rescuers’ motivation mattered little. As one survivor highlighted ‘there is ultimately only one power, and that is the power to rescue!’ (Frankl as quoted by Friedlander, 1994, p. 89). Schindler was able to rescue ‘his Jews’ (Schmidt, 2006, p. 261). And if his motivations were purely egoistic, so what? There is, however, another aspect to Schindler that should not be overlooked and that arguably would not exclude the actions of an ethical egoist. Keneally, in an interview about his book, commented that ‘there are wonderful texts in the Scriptures that explain Schindler’ (Keneally as quoted by Voysey, 2012, p. 1) and furthermore that ‘the Spirit doesn’t always work through perfect channels’ (Voysey, 2012, p. 1). Keneally in that explanation connects Schindler ‘with his Christian upbringing’ (Voysey, 2012, p. 1). Yet, there is an analogous connection with which Keneally might have been unfamiliar. As Wundheiler (1985 1986) explains, although Christian, ‘Schindler identified with Judaism as a whole’ (p. 355). Wundheiler’s comment is instructive because Schindler’s morality

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is best explained by the traditions of those European Jews whom he saved and with whom he identified. Landis (1974), describing the morality of Yiddish Literature, writes that above all ‘Ashkenazic Jews valued in human beings qualities of mentshlekhkayt that form a distinct constellation of premises and values’ (p. 2). The morality of mentshlekhkayt saw man as responding to good or to evil with any ‘victory of evil as temporary’ (Landis, 1974, p. 2). Mensch has been defined as ‘An upright, honourable, decent person[; s]omeone of consequence; someone to admire and emulate; someone of noble character’ (Rosten, 2001). Schindler was a mensch. According to Wundheiler (1985 1986), Schindler ‘was extraordinarily helpful, actively helpful. Despite his human failings, he extended himself to the fullest of his vigour and imagination, and put even his human failings into the service of his highest humane goal’ (p. 334). She continues, ‘The majority of those I interviewed had higher regard for Schindler than for a saint. Many laughed outright at the mere mention of saintliness and said, “One cannot fight evil/with saintliness. In order to fight the Nazis, one had to outwit them, one had to be inventive, and not fall in with conventional ways of thinking”’ (pp. 350 351; see also Furrow, 1998).

KENEALLY’S NOVEL, SCHINDLER AND THE HOLOCAUST Earlier we discussed Clendinnen’s argument that the ‘Holocaust material is … so freighted with significance’ (1999, p. 166) that it defies the attempts of a novelist to create something more from it. That this is not the case with Keneally’s Schindler’s Ark is largely due to the fact that Schindler’s Ark is not strictly a Holocaust novel. The Holocaust represents the destruction of European Jewry. Most of Europe’s Jews were murdered. But Schindler’s Jews escaped. Thanks to Schindler whatever his motivation might have been their survival represents one slight ray of light amongst an epoch of total darkness. Their situation, whilst admittedly ghastly, was infinitely better than that of those millions of Jews who experienced the full horrors of the Holocaust. They lived.2 One critique of Spielberg’s Schindler’s List (1993), the film adaptation of Keneally’s novel, complained that it remained ‘in the final analysis, a Hollywood romance’ (Leventhal, 1995, p. 1) in which ‘we only get glimpses of the real fate of the European Jews’ (Leventhal, 1995, p. 2). Spielberg

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himself agrees with this assessment: ‘Schindler’s List is only a shadow of the actual events’ (Spielberg as quoted by Weinraub, 1994, p. 1). Keneally’s novel exists against the background of the Holocaust. To escape the specific horrors of the Holocaust Keneally employs an intermediary: Oskar Schindler. The novel focuses on Schindler, who enjoys a hedonistic lifestyle and is threatened by the Holocaust only because he chooses to become involved with these Jews. In Keneally’s novel, we read about the exploits of Oscar Schindler. The Holocaust is there but at a distinct distance. Just as Schindler the man shields his Jews from the total horror of the Holocaust, Keneally uses Schindler the protagonist in the novel to shield his readers from that horror. Jenik (2010) bemoans that in comparison to Keneally’s portrayal of Schindler, ‘James Bond was a dilettante’ (p. 6). Notwithstanding the hyperbole, Keneally’s novel is akin to a spy thriller. Such a claim is not difficult to make, given the great ‘variety of spy fiction’ (Atkins, 1984, p. 16) in which the actual use of the word ‘spy’ ‘is strained’ (Atkins, 1984, p. 17). Schindler’s Ark presents the reader with two distinct categories: those who are good and those who are evil. The latter dominate. In order to pursue the good, Schindler has to conspire with the evil enemy. He must pose as something he is not so that he can inveigle himself amongst the evil and combat it. The subterfuge and the struggle of good against evil that are essential ingredients of any work of spy fiction exist in Schindler’s Ark. Keneally describes how initially Schindler entered Poland as a secret agent in ‘Admiral Canaris’s Abwehr intelligence’ (2007, p. 44) service, but whatever conspiracy he enacted for Canaris was nothing compared to what he undertook and achieved for his Jewish workers. There is something more. The greatest postwar espionage mystery is that of Kim Philby. Philby, the ‘head of the Soviet section’ (Scanlan, 1990, p. 87) of the British Secret Intelligence Service, was secretly a Soviet KGB spy of ‘thirty year standing’ (Scanlan, 1990, p. 89). He fled to Moscow shortly before his Soviet allegiance was exposed. No one understands what motivated him to do it, or indeed, ‘what made Philby tick’ (Atkins, 1984, p. 131). Academics argue inconclusively as to whether he was a Marxist or mercenary or whether any other reason explains his behaviour (Williams, 1975). But novelists such as Le Carre (1979) seem far more successful in their fiction of describing the motivations of Kim Philby. Likewise, whilst academics might remain puzzled about the actions of Schindler, Keneally’s (2007) fiction provides us with considerable insight into why Schindler did what he did. This has much to do with the way in which fiction augments history, as we discussed earlier.

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The indisputable fact remains that there is a Schindler’s List. The descendants of those on that list survive. Much has been debated about many different rescuers of Jews in Nazi Europe. For example, Geras (1995) asserts that the Pole Zofia Kossak-Szczucka, despite being an anti-Semite, protested ‘against the murder of the Jews of Poland and helped to found Zegota, the organisation for helping them’ and was ‘active in the rescue of Jewish children’ (p. 162). Friedman (1978), too, asserts that in October of 1942, three years after the German invasion of Poland, when little remained of Polish Jewry, Zofia Kossak-Szczucka was amongst those who aided the Jews. In contrast, rescued Polish Jewish survivors after the war bitterly dispute that Zegota benefited Jews. They argue, instead, that Zegota was really a ‘front for collaborators who denounced Jews’ (Verstandig, 1997, p. 236). There are no such arguments by those Jews Schindler saved. Their names are on a ‘list of the rescued’ (Keneally, 2007, p. 429), housed in the Truman Research Centre at the Hebrew University. That this truth is so widely known is due to a work of fiction by Thomas Keneally: And even if Keneally’s fiction did not directly confront the absolute horrors of the Holocaust it had enough of the Holocaust in it to concern many who so avidly deny the very existence of the Holocaust. Spielberg’s movie of Keneally’s novel was banned in most Islamic nations (Weinraub, 1994).

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS We have argued that moral philosophers cannot explain Schindler’s behaviour during the Holocaust. Likewise, we have explained that Keneally’s historical novel provides greater insight into Schindler’s behaviour than we could glean from history, which does not tell us what transpired between Schindler and those individuals, such as Goeth, with whom he had to contend to save his Jewish employees. According to Collingwood, we can understand history only ‘from the perspective of the present’ (Evans, 1997, p. 31). In other words, history is the study of the past in the present. Because the past no longer exists, all so-called historical truths are a function of the prevailing current perspective. We exist in the present and thus cannot explain the past without any consideration of this present. All that we can attempt is to explain the past relative to the present. Therefore, all historical understanding is and only can be relative to the present. Insofar as all historical understanding is relative, it follows that all history must be revisionary as the present continues to change.

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Therefore, one must differentiate between ‘historical revisionists’ and ‘historical deniers’. The latter misuse historical sources and ‘falsely attribute conclusions to reliable sources’ (Lipstadt, 1994, p. 111). But all genuine historians are ‘on some level’ (Lipstadt, 1994, p. 21) engaged in revisionism as they in the present reconsider the past. Lipstadt concedes that although she too does so such an activity ‘cannot be purely objective’ (1994, p. 21). Such an understanding of history bolsters the use of an historical novel such as Keneally’s. Keneally, as we have discussed, tries to illustrate what Schindler could have done. Given the dearth of historical evidence, an historian could not have done more. Keneally’s explanation of how Schindler could have acted during that period is not only valid, but it is also most readable. Its very accessibility is of benefit to those concerned with ethical issues in organisations. Global organisations currently employ individuals who work in many different regimes. Fortunately, none of them is as evil as Nazi Germany. Nonetheless, many must present numerous ethical dilemmas to their employees. The morally complex situation of Australian employees in China (Schwartz, 2013) has been explored extensively and represents just such a situation. However, that is only one example amongst many such cases. Such organisations employ corporate codes of conduct and various other means of governance to try to ensure that their ethical standards are upheld. However, they might also consider something else. They could actively encourage their employees especially those operating in harsh regimes to read Keneally’s Schindler’s Ark. The example of the acts of a single businessman, particularly one who was far removed from being a moral saint, in incurring enormous personal risks and financial burdens to challenge evil for the sake of his workers, can only inspire them. Admittedly, many no longer read much fiction. But organisations would be well advised to arrange screenings of Spielberg’s 1993 movie of Keneally’s book and afterwards to distribute copies of Keneally’s book to their staff. It would cost them little and even in the end if it saved only one life it would, as in the inscribed ring given to Schindler, be as if they had saved the world. Police troops in Cambodia recently killed striking garment workers. Much of the Cambodian garment industry produces clothing and footwear for leading international brands. The executives of many of these companies protested, urging the Cambodian prime minister to investigate the use of deadly force against these striking workers and calling for better treatment of garment workers (O’Keeffe & Narin, 2014). But sustained pressure

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on the Cambodian government may be needed. If a multinational manager in one of those firms in Cambodia follows the example of Oskar Schindler, a world could be saved. Will these executives increase their efforts to safeguard lives? And to what degree can they? We are told that the world has changed, that market power has passed from the producer to the consumer. These striking Cambodian garment workers produce some of our leading branded clothing and shoes. Western consumers wear these brands to make a fashion statement. Perhaps, however, considering Oskar Schindler could lead them to make another, far more important statement. Consumers could refuse to have innocent blood on their hands, by boycotting these products until the situation is peacefully resolved to the satisfaction of all. In our global marketplace, such an act by consumers might be far more effective than any act by producers. The Cambodian garment workers’ strike might have been brutally suppressed. Some were killed on the picket line. Others have returned to those brutal work conditions they protested against. They will never escape them if we ignore what we should learn from a long dead manufacturer named Oskar Schindler who reputedly was a well-dressed consumer who had a taste for the finer things in life.

NOTES 1. Ironically, the Talmud instructs us, ‘Whoever saves one life is considered as if he had saved the entire world’ (Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5). This quote was inscribed in the ring given to Schindler by those whose lives he saved. 2. Whereas Keneally’s book is a fictionalised version of an actual person and true events, the book Defiance is sociologist Tec’s (1993) fantastic but entirely nonfiction account of the activities and achievements of a resistance group, the Bielski partisans. Led by Tuvia Bielski, the Bielskis rescued Jews by hiding and protecting them in a forest community during the Holocaust. Tuvia Bielski, very much like Oskar Schindler, was no angel. Yet, he was devoted to saving as many Jews as he could, even the very old and those with disabilities who could therefore not contribute. Ultimately, he saved more than 1,200 Jewish lives. (Zwick’s 2008 eponymous film is a fictionalised and less compelling version of Tec’s chronicle.)

REFERENCES Atkins, J. (1984). The British spy novel: Styles in treachery. London: John Calder. Bandura, A. (1999). Moral disengagement in the perpetration of inhumanities. Personality and Social Psychology Review, 3(3), 193 209.

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Bandura, A., Underwood, B., & Fromson, M. E. (1975). Disinhibition of aggression through diffusion of responsibility and dehumanization of victims. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 9(4), 253 269. Blum, L. A. (1988). Moral exemplars: Reflections on Schindler, the Trocmes, and others. Journal of Social Philosophy, 13, 196 221. Burke, D. (2007). Religion and atrocity: The influence of religion on perpetrators, bystanders and victims during the Holocaust. Journal of Beliefs and Values, 28(2), 151 161. Burleigh, M. (2010). Moral combat: A history of World War II. London: Harper Press. Clendinnen, I. (1999). Reading the Holocaust. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collingwood, R. G. (1994). The idea of history. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Crowe, D. M. (2004). Oskar Schindler: The untold account of his life, wartime activities, and the true story behind the List. Cambridge, MA: Westview Press. Ebertz, R. P. (2008). Is Oskar Schindler a good man. In D. A. Kowalski (Ed.), Steven Spielberg and philosophy (pp. 112 128). Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky. Evans, R. J. (1997). In defence of history. London: Granta Books. Freeman, M. (1991). Speaking about the unspeakable: Genocide and philosophy. Journal of Applied Philosophy, 8, 3 17. Freeman, M. (1995). The Holocaust and philosophy. Journal of Applied Philosophy, 12, 125 128. Friedlander, A. H. (1994). Riders towards the dawn: From Holocaust to hope. New York, NY: Continuum. Friedman, P. (1978). Their brothers’ keepers. New York, NY: Holocaust Library. Furrow, D. (1998). Schindler’s compulsion: An essay on practical necessity. American Philosophical Quarterly, 35(3), 209 229. Geras, N. (1995). Richard Rorty and the righteous among the nations. Journal of Applied Philosophy, 12(2), 151 173. Gilbert, M. (1987). The Holocaust: The Jewish tragedy. Great Britain: Fontana. Jackson, M. W. (1988). Oskar Schindler and moral theory. Journal of Applied Philosophy, 5(2), 175 182. Jenik, B. (2010). Myth, reality and Oscar Schindler (pp. 1 10). Retrieved from http://www. quadrant.org.au/magazine/issue/2010/6/myth-reality-and-oskar-schindler. Accessed on 12 December 2013. Jones, R. (1998). The economic puzzle of Oskar Schindler: Amenity potential and rational choice. American Journal of Economics and Sociology, 57(1), 3 26. Keneally, T. (1982/2007). Schindler’s ark. London: Hodder and Stoughton. LaCapra, D. (1989). History, politics, and the novel. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Landis, J. C. (1974). The great Jewish plays. New York, NY: Avon. Le Carre, J. (1979). Smiley’s people. London: Hodder & Stoughton. Leventhal, R. S. (1995). Romancing the Holocaust, or Hollywood and horror: Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List (pp. 1 8). Retrieved from http://www2.iath.virginia.edu/holocaust/ schinlist.html. Accessed on 8 January 2014. Lifton, R. J. (1994). Schindler’s puzzle: The good deeds of a flawed man raise deep questions about what constitutes a self. American Health, 13(5), 28 49. Lipstadt, D. E. (1994). Denying the Holocaust: The growing assault on truth and memory. London: Penguin. Magee, B. (1998). The story of philosophy. London: Dorling Kindersley. Nowell-Smith, P. H. (1954). Ethics. London: Penguin Books.

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O’Keeffe, K., & Narin, S. (2014). Brands confront Cambodia over force. The Australian, 21 January, p. 18. Palmer, D. (2006). Why it’s hard to be good. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill. Rosten, L. (2001). The new joys of Yiddish: Completely updated (revisions by L. Bush). New York, NY: Three Rivers Press. Scanlan, M. (1990). Traces of another time: History and politics in postwar British fiction. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Schindler’s List. (1993). Directed by Steven Spielberg. Amblin Entertainment. Schmidt, G. (2006). Spirituality and justice in Schindler’s List: A case study informed by Karl Barth and Gustav Gutierrez. Pastoral Psychology, 54(3), 257 273. Schwartz, M. (2013). Australian business leadership and the promotion of civil society in China. In M. Schwartz & H. Harris (Ed.), Ethics, values and civil society (Vol. 9, pp. 31 55). Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations. Bingley, UK: Emerald Group Publishing Limited. Schwartz, M., & Comer, D. R. (2013). The difficulty of being a moral exemplar when a moral exemplar is needed most: The case of Oskar Schindler. In M. Schwartz & H. Harris (Ed.), Moral saints and moral exemplars (Vol. 10, pp. 153 168). Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations. Bingley, UK: Emerald Group Publishing Limited. Sluga, H. (1989). Metadiscourse: German philosophy and national socialism. Social Research, 56(4), 795 818. Sommers, F. (2004). The Holocaust and moral philosophy. In C. Sommers & F. Sommers (Eds.), Vice and virtue in everyday life (pp. 150 155). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Tec, N. (1993). Defiance. New York, NY: Oxford. Verstandig, M. (1997). I rest my case (translated from the Yiddish by F. Verstandig). Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Voysey, S. (2012). Thomas Keneally: Meaning is everything (pp. 1 6). Retrieved from http:// www.signsofthetimes.org.au/items/thomas-keneally-meaning-is-everything. Accessed on 21 September 2012. Weinraub, B. (1994). Islamic nations move to keep out ‘Schindler’s List’ (pp. 1 2). Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/1994/04/07/movies/islamic-nations-move-to-keep-outschindler-s-list.html. Accessed on 8 January 2014. Williams, A. (1975). Gentleman traitor. New York, NY: Harcourt Brace. Wundheiler, L. N. (1985 1986). Oskar Schindler’s moral development during the Holocaust. Humboldt Journal of Social Relations, 13(1 2), 333 356.

A CRITIQUE OF BUSINESS SCHOOL NARRATIVES AND PROTAGONISTS With Help from Henri Bergson and Friedrich Nietzsche Rosa Slegers ABSTRACT This chapter offers a critical evaluation of the narrative of the entrepreneur-adventurer common in business schools today. It suggests that this narrative stands in the way of meaningful ethics integration in business education in part because it fails to encourage or even acknowledge insights that are “felt” rather than merely intellectually registered. Philosopher-writers like Henri Bergson, William James, and Friedrich Nietzsche agree that a large part of experience escapes purely theoretical frameworks. We need nontheoretical, evocative narratives to make visible those parts of reality that are easily overlooked when we are focused on the practical and utilitarian side of existence. These philosophical theories, combined with the concept of “felt knowledge,” help determine where the current business narrative falls short and serve as a foundation

The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 153 168 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011008

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for a few suggestions about how this narrative might be changed from within. Keywords: Business ethics; entrepreneurship; aesthetics; responsibilism

INTRODUCTION This chapter engages several philosophical writers to critically evaluate the narrative of the entrepreneur-adventurer common in US business schools today. False idols are exposed by lightly tapping them with a hammer, as Nietzsche explains in Twilight of the Idols, and carefully listening whether they ring hollow. I suggest that the narrative of the risk-seeking, opportunity-creating, disruptive innovator (the “entrepreneur-adventurer”) is an unhelpful fiction because it stands in the way of ethics integration in business education. It “rings hollow” because it fails to do justice to the generation of students who want to be not just intellectually but also emotionally engaged in their business education and the jobs they will go on to occupy after they graduate. Of course there are other common narratives besides the one I discuss here, and not all MBA programs in the United States focus on the kind of protagonist at the heart of my argument. However, given the increasing interest in entrepreneurship in US business schools, this narrative needs to be critically evaluated and this chapter aims to do just that. The philosopher-writers featured here all value fiction and narrative as an important source of insight. Henri Bergson, William James, and Friedrich Nietzsche (all literary writers in their own right) agree that there is a large part of experience that escapes purely theoretical frameworks and that we need nontheoretical, evocative narratives to make visible for us those parts of reality that are easily overlooked when one is focused on the practical and utilitarian side of existence. I will engage their theories to pinpoint where the current business narrative falls short, and offer some suggestions about how this narrative might be changed from within. The observation that insights (whether or a personal or professional nature) that are “felt” rather than merely intellectually registered are experienced as more urgent and carry greater weight will serve as a starting point for a discussion of common business case narratives. The scope of this discussion is then broadened to include the “narrative” of the classroom, featuring the business school professor (often an entrepreneur-adventurer

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himself) as its “protagonist.” A few insights from the brand of epistemology known as “responsibilism” will set the stage for a consideration of this larger narrative through the lens of Bergson’s theory of (literary) art. Bearing in mind Nietzsche’s call to “philosophize with a hammer,” I will close with a discussion of some of the values at the heart of the entrepreneur-adventurer narrative (focusing on the themes of risk, opportunity, and innovation).

A PRELIMINARY NOTE FROM NIETZSCHE In The Gay Science, Nietzsche remarks that we have every reason to doubt our values especially when we pride ourselves on our “moral strength.” Nietzsche wants us to recognize that when we say “this is right,” this claim has a prehistory in our instincts, likes, dislikes, experiences, lack of experiences, etc. When pressed to justify why we think “this is right,” we may refer to our conscience and say: this is right “because this is what my conscience tells me: and the voice of conscience is never immoral, for it alone determines what is to be moral.” But, Nietzsche exclaims, why listen to this voice? And why accept it as proclaiming true and infallible judgments? Nietzsche suspects that we listen to this voice only because “we have not been thinking much at all about [ourselves]” because “blind acceptance has simply been advantageous.” As a result, our “moral strength” is very likely not something praiseworthy on the contrary. What we call our “moral strength” may well be a “mere inability to envisage new ideas.” There is an irony in the fact that the business school narrative discussed here touts ideals like “innovation” and “disruption” when it is in need of innovation and disruption itself. Nietzsche’s demand that we “philosophize with a hammer” means that we need to look critically at the values we are least likely to question because they are the most familiar. To avoid this critical attitude and call “moral strength” what in fact is an unwillingness to scrutinize the very foundation of the narrative that we rely on is not strength but weakness. Nietzsche asks us to accept that many (perhaps all) of our truths, values, and certainties are inspired not by some higher (Platonic) Truth but by habit, temperament, upbringing, digestive disposition, etc. These truths and values should therefore be subject to scrutiny and the more absolutely true they appear, the greater the need for hammers. One way in which I will engage this Nietzschean insight is to look at how many business case narratives present a “tidied up” version of

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experience, allowing the students to focus on “facts” but excluding an important kind of knowledge (what I will call “felt knowledge”) required for moral engagement. Epistemologist Loraine Code will offer a framework to discuss this issue and her notion of the “responsible cognitive agent” will make clear the need for what she calls “thick narratives” in business education.

BUSINESS CASE NARRATIVES AND “FELT” KNOWLEDGE Cases read by students enrolled in business programs vary widely in literary quality. They range from thin story lines serving as mere vehicles for data to complex narratives involving multidimensional characters responding to fictitious or real-world events. Assuming that these case studies are meant to inform students about situations much like the ones they may themselves encounter in their jobs, the best business cases are both realistic and accessible. Since reality is a messy affair, the challenge to the case writer is to present a situation in a way that furthers a student’s understanding while avoiding oversimplification. A case writer may aspire to not only inform her readers of a set of data or a situation but truly engage students even invite them to vicariously experience the problems facing the case protagonist. When a case writer successfully follows through on this intention then the narrative (instead of serving as a mere package or sandwich formula) is what makes the case great. Whether or not a case writer sees herself as a (literary) artist, the goal in writing a great case (as opposed to an average, forgettable case) is to engage students, draw them in, make them think critically and, I will argue, evoke the emotions appropriate to the situation at the heart of the case. A case like this does not merely convey factual information but allows students to enter into a situation and experience it “from within.” Though this may sound like a lofty aspiration, the call for more responsible business education requires that students both recognize and experience the moral complexity of the workplace. Though a traditional classroom setting imposes severe limitations, at least some of these limitations can be overcome through narrative, much in the same way that great literature has made us look at the world from different perspectives for ages. When we grasp an experience “from within” (the way we do when we identify or sympathize with protagonist in a novel), we obtain an

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understanding of a peculiar quality. When, for example, we read a summary of a novel in which the protagonist suffers much because of his bad luck, we understand the reason for his suffering and perhaps learn a few of the details about his bad luck. But if we read the novel itself (assuming it is a good novel) then this same understanding takes on a different quality not merely because we have more information, but because we understand the protagonist’s situation “from within,” as someone emotionally engaged by the narrative. One and the same situation, therefore, can be experienced “from the outside” and “from the inside.” To return to the business school context, one might accept as true the statement that society needs more morally responsible business people. But it is one thing to assent to the statement and judge it as true in what could be described as a rather distant, detached way and another to “feel” it to be true, to assent to it as not merely a fact but as something one cares about. We do not have to draw a clear distinction between these two experiences to recognize that some insights are not merely intellectually registered or factually known but also, in some way, felt. When a truth (using the word “truth” in the most common sense way) is experienced in this second way, it feels more urgent because it is accompanied by emotion. For the sake of simplicity I will use a shorthand and distinguish between “factual knowledge” and “felt knowledge” to refer to the difference in experience between the understanding we get “from without” and “from within.” A good business case, I will argue, conveys not merely factual knowledge but also encourages and evokes felt knowledge and the second kind of knowledge is conveyed through (artful, literary) narrative. Felt knowledge encourages an attitude of openness on the side of the student reading the case. The case narrative appeals to the student’s ability to empathize, however limited, and uses this ability as an opening to introduce a new perspective. The attitude encouraged here may be best understood in the context of the kind of virtue ethics promoted by Rosalind Hursthouse in On Virtue Ethics. Hursthouse argues that other moral philosophies like utilitarianism and deontology cannot adequately address themes related to moral character, personal relationships, and the “role of the emotions in our moral life, and the questions of what sort of person I should be, and how we should live” (Hursthouse, 2002, p. 3). Virtue ethicists are primarily concerned with questions regarding character and moral disposition: how do individuals obtain the kind of ingrained character traits that allow them to not only do the right thing, but do it for the right reasons and, if possible, from the right emotional disposition? An evocative business case of the sort discussed here presents a narrative that does justice

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to the moral complexity of decision making in organizational and business contexts and helps students recognize that morally sound decisions rely on more than theoretical and conceptual knowledge. Though indispensable, factual knowledge points to only a part of lived experience. If factual knowledge is the sole focus of business education, students can neither be prepared for, nor expected to deal with, the messiness of the real world nor will they experience the urgency of certain insights to the degree that will make them better moral decision makers.

ENTREPRENEUR-ADVENTURERS IN FRONT OF THE CLASSROOM Business cases read by business students are of course themselves a part of the larger narrative of business education. Business faculty (the instructors assigning and teaching the cases just described) are an important part of the larger narrative which includes things like off-the-cuff remarks, classroom atmosphere, body language, dress codes, in addition to more clearly defined items like course content and assignments. Even though not all instructors put together their own syllabi for the courses they teach (and hence do not necessarily decide what business cases they want to include), instructors often bear a significant resemblance to the protagonists in their cases.1 Some of the resemblance is demographic: most business professors are white males, as are most protagonists of the business cases they assign. Other resemblances are less clearly defined but just as significant, and I will focus on a few of them to emphasize the importance of narrative, and the need for cases that convey both kinds of knowledge discussed above. Though no one individual faculty member may display all of the following characteristics (let alone all of them to the same extent), the important point is that a student who progresses through an MBA curriculum in the United States will likely encounter these traits, distributed throughout the program, and (depending on the student’s own sensibilities) be left with a business narrative featuring a protagonist resembling the amalgam described here. If (as I suggest) this narrative is enforced by the business cases read by students to prepare for class, the examples used in class discussions, and the tone and style of that discussion, then this encourages an uncritical acceptance of a particular way of doing business a way that, I suggest, lacks the sort of openness required for felt knowledge to be part of the discourse.

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A few verbatim in-class comments drawn from my own experience: “Remember the testosterone rush of entrepreneurship”; “Bring home a fat Christmas bonus to the wife”; “When making a big business decision, keep in mind the WAF the Wife Acceptance Factor.” With US colleges and universities stepping up enforcement of Title IX, most business school faculty know not to say things like that. But comments like the ones quoted here are still not uncommon and affect the conversation. Awkward attempts to justify the comment (“I’m just an old-fashioned guy, can’t help it”) only make things worse because they suggest that if the instructor was not using a “filter” many more comments such as these would come out. This suggestion, in a classroom context where the instructor is at the top of the hierarchy and decides on the students’ grades, has a powerful effect. Especially because a seemingly off-the-cuff comment rarely exists in isolation but is part of a context that already promotes a distinctive narrative. This narrative is furthered by the instructor’s confidence, usually based on past business successes. Confidence is a useful and in many cases admirable trait, and the use of success stories in class can be both illuminating and inspiring. Of course there is a fair bit of bragging and perhaps not all the accounts of past victories are equally truthful, but the problem at stake here has less to do with the inevitable embellishments and more with the self-certainty some might call it swagger displayed by the instructors in front of the classroom. Confidence on the part of the instructor can inspire and encourage students to pay attention and engage, but when it is too pronounced it discourages open and critical debate. One can speculate about the psychological factors at play here perhaps the instructor is a former C-suite executive who maintains in the classroom the persona that was effective in the workplace. Maybe the outward expression of confidence hides an uncertainty about how to position oneself in an academic context. Whatever the inner mechanisms may be, the practitioner-academic faces the challenge of sharing past (and present) business experiences in a way that invites the kind of discussion appropriate to graduate education and that means openness to different ways of engaging issues. The main issue here is not primarily that this is a narrative largely featuring white male protagonists (both in front of the classroom and in the business cases read by the students). The fact that most subjects of business case studies are white males is problematic for a variety of reasons, but I am more interested in the way in which the narrative in and around these cases promotes an image of what a “business person” looks and acts like an image often linked to masculinity but by no means exclusive to men. I suggest that the adoption of this image stands in the way of meaningful

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engagement with issues that cannot be fully understood within the context of this narrative. In other words, replacing the male protagonists of a business case with female ones would not solve the problem if the attitude promoted remained the same. What, then, marks this attitude and why is it problematic from the perspective of someone arguing for more morally responsible attitudes business education? A few philosophical instruments will help better understand what might be gained from a greater attention to narratives encouraging “felt knowledge.” A brief description of the epistemological theory known as “responsibilism” will help set the stage for the aesthetic philosophy of Henri Bergson, whose views on the role of the artist in society are (perhaps unexpectedly) relevant to the case writer interested in engaging today’s students.

RESPONSIBILISM AND THE NEED FOR “THICK” NARRATIVES To clarify the importance of what I have called felt knowledge and its role in business ethics education, I will draw on a form of virtue epistemology called “responsibilism.” This theory helps frame the problematic aspects of the attitude encouraged by the current dominant business narrative and offers an alternative suited to the concept of “felt knowledge” in the form of so-called “thick” narratives. Responsibilism (as defined by Lorraine Code), places responsibility on the cognitive agent (in this case the student) to make an effort to maintain openness in the face of the (moral) complexity of lived experience. Code speaks of “thick” narratives to describe the texts that do justice to this complexity. Though these texts are not necessarily literary in nature, Code’s intention is reflected in the words of Martha Nussbaum who writes: “storytelling and literary imagining are not opposed to rational argument, but can provide essential ingredients in a rational argument.” Nussbaum clarifies the role of literature in rational argument as follows: “an ethics of impartial respect for human dignity will fail to engage real human beings unless they are made capable of entering imaginatively into the lives of distant others and to have emotions related to that participation” (1995, pp. xiii xvi). A business case with a sufficiently “thick” narrative, then, allows the student to imaginatively enter into “the lives of distant others” and gain an understanding that goes beyond the “facts of the case” to include the felt knowledge that is the necessary complement to factual, “rational” understanding.

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Code states that her “purpose in developing this responsibilist approach to human knowledge is to examine conditions for knowing well, not to provide a formula for acquiring indubitable knowledge” (1987, p. 222). Presenting students with a purely facts-based case (and no narrative encouraging felt knowledge) creates the suggestion that indubitable knowledge is possible a suggestion that in most cases amounts to an illusion. Though cases like this are very useful to teach, say, introductory accounting, they do not promote what Code calls the “conditions for knowing well” when “knowing well” means allowing for the realty that most facts are not indubitable (even or perhaps especially in accounting) and that one needs to take into account not just quantitative data but also stakeholders with interests potentially at odds with the interests of the case protagonist. Even more important to the argument made in this chapter is the problem presented by cases that do include more complex narratives but further the overly confident attitude described in the previous section. The narrative of these cases may be thicker but remains one-sided and does not invite critical thinking. Any business case, no matter how complex, presents a simplification of reality, but cases with what Code calls “thick” narratives get around this limitation by creating in the reader an engaged and complex response to the facts of the case one that does not merely accept the status quo but places the responsibility to accept or reject certain perspectives on the reader. In “Responsibility and Rhetoric,” a rereading of her work on epistemic responsibility, Code explains that the idea behind what she calls responsibilism is that things known unequivocally form only a small part of our total knowledge. Once one starts paying attention to the more complex epistemic circumstances of real life, it becomes apparent that cognitive agents constantly make choices about how they know the world. This leads to questions about epistemic responsibility (Code, 1994, p. 3). A knower can be praised or blamed for holding certain beliefs and this praise or blame, according to Code, should be directed at the cognitive agent since virtues accrue to the possessor of cognitive faculties and not to the faculties themselves (1994, p. 57). Thick narratives help students become epistemically responsible because they avoid facile, black and white representations of reality and encourage students not to accept values and beliefs unquestioningly. Complex, layered, and ambiguous accounts of business issues show the student that knowledge often comes in degrees, a fact usually neglected in both business narratives and in traditional epistemology which tends to discuss only the more straightforward knowledge claims like “this factory

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produces X number of widgets” or “the CFO was fired three years ago.” For claims like these, knowledge does not admit of degrees: the claim is either true or false. There are, however, situations in which one can have knowledge even if the knowledge is imperfect. Code claims that selfknowledge, for instance, can be gained through introspection, a process that will most likely never lead to perfectly clear knowledge but that can lead to a degree of knowledge nonetheless. Similarly, the knowledge that a student reading a case acquires about herself, her actions, and the moral complexity of the issue at stake may be incomplete but should still be classified as knowledge. As Code puts it, “the emerging picture will be better for this inexactness. My aim is to understand epistemic life as it is, not in a tidied up, abstracted version” (1987, p. 11). This conviction, I argue, should be shared by business school instructors and case writers alike. My concept of “felt knowledge” is meant to do justice to “epistemic life as it is” and corresponds to Code’s “‘thickly’ descriptive accounts” (ibid., p. 27). The narratives presented to business students should show and allow for the ambiguity of lived experience. The attitude appropriate to this insight, as Code puts it, “involves a willingness to let things speak for themselves, a kind of humility toward the experienced world” (ibid., p. 20).

THE CASE WRITER AS (LITERARY) ARTIST In The Varieties of Religious Experience, William James says the following about the philosopher’s need for nonphilosophical narratives: His books upon ethics … so far as they truly touch the moral life, must more and more ally themselves with a literature which is confessedly tentative and suggestive rather than dogmatic, I mean with novels and dramas of the deeper sort, with sermons, with books on statecraft and philanthropy and social and economical reform. Treated in this way ethical treatises may be voluminous and luminous as well; but they never can be final, except in their abstractest and vaguest features; and they must more and more abandon the old-fashioned, clear-cut, and would-be “scientific” form. (1956, p. 626)

Theoretical ethicists may present very fine frameworks but risk losing touch with lived experience if they do not allow for the ambiguity and untidiness of the world captured in what James calls the more “tentative and suggestive” literature. Other philosophers share James’ views on the need for philosophy to be complemented by less clear-cut narratives. As Gabriel Marcel puts it in The Mystery of Being: “The novelist communicates

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directly to us something which ordinary conditions of life condemn us merely to glance at” (1995, p. 54). Iris Murdoch, another philosopher who defends the value of literature for philosophy, remarks in conversation with Bryan Magee: “Though they are so different, philosophy and literature are both truth-seeking and truth-revealing activities.” Literature, Murdoch explains, “shows us the world, and much pleasure in art is a pleasure of recognition of what we vaguely knew was there but never saw before” (Murdoch, 1997, pp. 11 15). The kind of “thick” narrative described by Loraine Code can do just that: it invites the reader to notice and be struck by parts of experience which before never caught our attention. The philosopher Henri Bergson helps us tie these insights back to the discussion of felt knowledge. In An Introduction to Metaphysics, Bergson argues that most of our knowledge is acquired by “moving around” a thing but that some things are known “by entering into them” (Bergson, 1955, p. 21). The spatial language used by Bergson is enlightening it shows that our familiarity with many parts of our knowledge is that of an outsider but that we grasp some things from within. What I have called “felt knowledge” falls into the second category. Factual knowledge is the domain of the more analytical approach and is obtained, as Bergson puts it, but moving around a thing and looking at it from different angles. Valuable and necessary though this latter approach to things may be, Bergson points out that it leads us to consider things from a primarily utilitarian perspective and ignore those aspects of the thing that are of no direct practical concern to us. As Gilles Deleuze observes, most “perception is not the object plus something, but the object minus something, minus everything that does not interest us” (2000, p. 25). We easily get into the habit of selective perception, picking out those characteristics useful to us and reducing a thing to a limited set of properties. In “Bergson’s Theory of Art,” T. E. Hulme emphasizes the force of habit in limiting our perception (1924, pp. 146, 160, 167). Habit, he explains, prevents us from seeing things in their individuality. Because a person’s life is primarily centered around action, the human mind is in the habit of thinking in terms of degrees, concepts, and types, thereby ignoring uniqueness. The knowledge that I suggest is not only understood from the outside but also “felt from the inside,” is not as easily defined or quantified and can fall by the wayside in a context where action and use are seen as most important. But it is exactly felt knowledge, I argue, that motivates students on a deeper level because they are engaged emotionally as well as intellectually and emotional engagement is triggered by unique narratives

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that do justice to individual situations. If complex moral consideration is to become an integral part of business education, the business school narrative will have to shift in order to make room for this kind of knowledge. A closer look at the role of language in (business) narratives will help me formulate a few suggestions about the ways in which the overall narrative might be changed from within.

THE LANGUAGE OF ACTION: INNOVATION, RISK, AND OPPORTUNITY Bergson claims that in our everyday lives, we pay most attention to the classification of things, not to their individuality (unless this individuality serves some practical purpose). Another way to put this is to say that we focus on sameness, not difference when I see a group of students I perceive just that: a set of individuals all sharing the same category. In addition to all their individual traits that set these people apart, they all bear the label “student” and it is this label that I discern first and foremost and, assuming I have no further interest in the individuals within this group, I look no further than this label (Bergson, 1924, p. 152). I am first of all focused on classification and only secondarily (if at all) on individuality. Bergson suggests that this is a helpful time saving mechanism that allows us to structure our experience. Language (in its communicative, nonpoetic role) reinforces this utilitarian tendency because it offers us words that are helpful as general labels even if they’re not very precise. The word “student” is very broad and might be used in an infinite number of circumstances and applied to an immensely diverse group of people. It singles out one trait that could of course never define an individual but merely points to one of her characteristics. Helpful and necessary as this function of language may be in our day to day existence, we should be aware of its limitations. Especially where it comes to felt knowledge, language in its purely communicative and utilitarian mode can fall short and frustrate us because it fails to express individuality. As Hulme puts it: You start off with some actual and vividly felt experience. It may be something seen or something felt. You find that when you have expressed this in straightforward language that you have not expressed it at all. You have only expressed it approximately. All the individuality of the emotion as you experienced it has been left out. (pp. 161 162)

These Bergsonian observations (some of them formulated by Hulme) provide a perspective on the language used in business schools today.

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Business-speak has been widely mocked and criticized but it is not my goal to add to that (often entertaining) conversation. Instead, I will highlight three ubiquitous words risk, innovation, and opportunity and argue that the stereotype to which they belong (the entrepreneur-adventurer, protagonist of business cases and business schools alike) can become a locus for change. In the stereotypical business narrative, the entrepreneuradventurer is risk-seeking (or at the very least not risk-averse), and detects (or better yet, creates) opportunities to innovate, preferably in disruptive ways (i.e., in ways radically different from, perhaps even subverting, the status quo). This is the business person who boldly goes where others did not even know one could go and shrugs off failure because the next opportunity for disruptive innovation is just around the corner. This narrative or some version of it plays on the vanity of students in MBA programs because of the implicit or explicit suggestion that they are the men and women for the job: unwilling to merely follow, they will lead, give direction, see novel solutions where others cling to the status quo. The message to the students is: you are special, you are the one who will make a difference using the tools and insights provided to you as part of this education. It follows that the people teaching in programs like this must convey the same message through words, in their tone, as part of their personal style, etc. The hybrid nature of MBA programs (offering a professional degree in a graduate school context) should invite closer scrutiny of these themes risk, opportunity, (disruptive) innovation at the heart of the MBA narrative. What does it mean to be a risk taker, an opportunity seeker (opportunist?), and disruptive innovator? The popular business narrative dictates entrepreneur-adventurer, held up as the model incorporating these three traits, is to be admired and emulated. But, as Nietzsche puts it in On the Genealogy of Morals, perhaps it’s time to call into question “the value of these values themselves.” Nietzsche is speaking of moral values, but his claim applies equally well to the narrative described here since “one has taken the value of these ‘values’ as given, as factual, as beyond all question” (Nietzsche, 1967, p. 20). I suggest that the values of the entrepreneuradventurer can and should be revalued, offering fresh perspectives and ways to change and recreate the narrative that currently obstructs meaningful ethics integration. But why is the current narrative so attractive? Nietzsche offers some suggestions. Nietzsche observes in The Gay Science that from an evolutionary perspective, it has never paid to suspend judgment. Too much reflection is dangerous because it often means inaction and inaction often means an

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untimely demise. For ages, people have been surviving because they jumped to conclusions (run from the pursuing animal even though it only looks like a predator, confusing similarity with equality), acted on incomplete evidence, made up explanations without sound justifications, etc. (Nietzsche, 1974, p. 171) The strength of the “knowledge” resulting from this cluster of survival tactics “does not depend on its degree of truth but on its age, on the degree to which it has been incorporated” (ibid., p. 172). Looking at our evolutionary past, it should come as no surprise that we value action over reflection, confidence over hesitation, and unquestioned “facts” over feelings. But we must recognize that many of our action-promoting values appear incontrovertible mostly because we are in the habit of seeing them as such and are little inclined to call them into question. Nietzsche’s call to revaluate our values is a challenge because it is an appeal to look critically at what is most familiar (ibid., p. 301). What I have called felt knowledge is something we have all experienced in both personal and professional situations. We know the difference between intellectually registering the importance of something and feeling the importance not necessarily because we know more but because we know differently, in a way that engages other, nonintellectual aspects or our cognitive ability. The fact that these other aspects are nonintellectual does not make them irrational; it merely adds an important subjective layer to what otherwise would be a mere “objective” fact to us. We are spurred to action when this subjective, emotional layer or ability is appealed to, much more so than when the appeal is only to our intellect. Most business students enrolled in MBA programs today will agree that of course it is important to be socially responsible, to be a good corporate citizen, to create social and environmental value, and to engage in sustainable business practices. But unless the narrative with which they are presented and of which they are a part creates space for and encourages a felt knowledge of the related problems facing society, the urgency of these problems will be experienced only by those who are moved by other narratives, likely external to their business school environment.

CONCLUSION Bergson remarks that it is easy to stick with accepted concepts because they “demand no effort on our part” they direct our attention to only those parts of experience that are already recognized as relevant, legitimate,

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or “rational” (Bergson, 1955, p. 28). Concepts draw circles around things, Bergson explains, and are never an exact fit for the thing they encircle (ibid., p. 29). So when we speak of innovation, risk, and opportunity, why not draw new circles and create room in the narrative for the subjective aspects of these themes as well? Every attempt at innovation, every risk, and every opportunity is experienced by an individual as part of a unique situation, and this situation includes a host of emotions and subjective considerations. What Bergson calls “true empiricism” recognizes that the “ready-made conceptions of daily operations” are useless (ibid., p. 37). A fresh effort is required for every new object or feeling in order to do justice to its uniqueness, and this is true for the real-life experience of risk, innovation, and opportunity as well. Within the context of the entrepreneuradventurer narrative, these themes have become part of a stereotype and are largely deprived of the subjective meaning that triggers felt knowledge. Writing about Bergson, Hulme observes: “In each art, the artist picks out of reality something which we, owing to a certain hardening of our perceptions, have been unable to see ourselves” (Hulme, p. 156). Case writing is not generally considered an art, but it may be desirable to think of both case writers and business professors as individuals with a responsibility to break through (rather than reinforce) the “hardening of our perceptions” and invite students to take on perspectives different from their own. To encourage true innovation, business schools should take the risk of changing their narratives to allow for as many different facets of lived experience as possible. There is an opportunity here, but not an easy one because it calls for different protagonists both in and outside of the classroom. It means recommending, as does Bergson, “a certain manner of thinking which courts difficulty” and a commitment to “value effort above everything” (Bergson, 1946, p. 103).

NOTE 1. The Center for Women’s Entrepreneurial Leadership at Babson College is currently conducting an analysis of case study protagonists used in the core MBA program at the school. Babson College has consistently been listed near or at the top of US business school rankings in entrepreneurship (see US News & World Report, Bloomberg) and can therefore be regarded as a model for entrepreneurship education (even if, of course, there are other models available). The Center’s research shows that of the cases used in the Babson MBA core program are consistent with the body of case literature in general. Only 12% of all cases feature women protagonists. The Center is now also investigating ethnic diversity and, though the study is

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forthcoming, preliminary data show that the percentage of non-white protagonists is similarly low. Similar findings were the topic of the 2013 New York Times article “Harvard Business School Case Study: Gender Equity.”

REFERENCES Bergson, H. (1924). Laughter. An essay on the meaning of the comic (C. Brereton & F. Rothwell, Trans.). New York, NY: Macmillan. Bergson, H. (1946). The creative mind (L. A. Mabelle, Trans.). New York, NY: The Philosophical Library. Bergson, H. (1955). An introduction to metaphysics (T. E. Hulme, Trans.). Indianapolis, IN: The Library of Liberal Arts. Code, L. (1987). Epistemic responsibility. London: University Press of England. Code, L. (1994). Responsibility and rhetoric. Hypatia, 9(1), 54 78. Deleuze, G. (2000). Proust and signs (R. Howard, Trans.). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Hulme, T. E. (1924). Bergson’s theory of art. In Speculations. New York, NY: Harcourt, Brace & Company. Hursthouse, R. (2002). On virtue ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. James, W. (1956). The moral philosopher and the moral life. In The will to believe and other essays in popular philosophy. New York, NY: Dover Publications. Marcel, G. (1995). The mystery of being (2 vols.). South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press. Murdoch, I. (1997). Literature and philosophy: A conversation with Bryan Magee. In Existentialists and mystics. Writings on philosophy and literature. New York, NY: Penguin Press. Nietzsche, F. (1967). On the genealogy of morals (W. Kaufmann, Trans.). New York, NY: Vintage books. Nietzsche, F. (1974). The gay science (W. Kaufmann, Trans.). New York, NY: Vintage books. Nussbaum, M. C. (1995). Poetic justice. The literary imagination and public life. Boston, MA: Beacon Press.

HOW STORIES CAN BE USED IN ORGANISATIONS SEEKING TO TEACH THE VIRTUES Katalin Illes and Howard Harris ABSTRACT Our focus is on the use of narrative in ethics education in organisations. The effectiveness of stories as a basis for executive education and organisational development has been described in other chapters in this book and elsewhere. Many writers provide examples linking stories and ethics, but the examples are drawn most often from overtly ethical stories. We offer a more expansive and inclusive view, suggesting that all stories are valuable for teaching ethics. We use Booker’s (2004) finding that all stories belong to one of seven basic plots overcoming the monster; rags to riches; the quest; voyage and return; comedy; tragedy; and rebirth to show that no major category of narrative need be omitted from those which can provide examples or links to the development of virtue in organisations. We provide examples of how stories can be used to encourage the development of specific virtues including courage, integrity, hope, inquisitiveness, humour and prudence. Six further aspects are considered whether only moral stories are useful, the value of

The Contribution of Fiction to Organizational Ethics Research in Ethical Issues in Organizations, Volume 11, 169 190 Copyright r 2014 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1529-2096/doi:10.1108/S1529-209620140000011009

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complexity, the benefit of familiarity, stories of failure, the selection of appropriate stories and whether non-fiction can be included. Keywords: Narrative; ethics; organisations; virtue; seven basic plots; Booker

INTRODUCTION Stories are widely used in the teaching of ethics. Indeed narrative is used more broadly, ‘in studies of educational experience’ (Connelly & Clandinin, 1990, p. 2), as a ‘means of moral inquiry in higher education’ (Buckland, 2010, p. 155), and it ‘has been quite fruitfully employed … for some time’ (Rhodes & Brown, 2005, p. 469) in organisation studies where it can provide practices and texts helpful in exploring organisational processes (Phillips, 1995, p. 626). Our focus is on the use of narrative in ethics education in organisations. The effectiveness of stories as a basis for executive education and organisational development has been described in other chapters in this book and elsewhere (Ghesquie`re & Ims, 2009; Phillips, 1995; Teas, 2012; Williams, 1997). Many writers provide examples linking stories and ethics, but the examples are drawn most often from overtly ethical stories, from ‘classic cautionary tales’ (Greenwood, 2000, p. 155). Ghesquie`re (2014) for example uses Aesop’s fables to illustrate leadership behaviour and highlight some moral lessons. What we offer here is a more expansive and inclusive view, suggesting that all stories are valuable for these purposes. We shall argue that even when moral content is not explicit one can find references to virtue and character. This is so because story-tellers have an ‘interest in the social world and how it functions’ (Phillips, 1995, p. 627) and ‘narrative is the study of the ways humans experience the world’ (Connelly & Clandinin, 1990, p. 2). Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics 1112a) argues that we learn ethical behaviour from practice and example (Hartman, 2013, p. 127) and stories provide examples for narrative, especially fiction, ‘seek(s) to model the world’ (Phillips, 1995, p. 627). Those stories include examples of rational argument, reflection and decision, all elements of ethical behaviour and a reason for the use of cases in ethics education (O’Donovan, 2002). Even so it may be that only certain stories are useful in the regard. In the next part of the chapter we will use a classification said to encompass all stories ever written or told to show that no major category of narrative need be omitted from those which can provide examples or links to the

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development of virtue in organisations. Czarniawska suggests that ‘there are no structural differences between fictional and empirical narratives, and their respective attraction is not determined by their claim to be fact or fiction’ (1997, p. 19). The classification which we shall use is that of Thomas Booker (2004). Booker concludes that there are ‘only a handful of basic plots to stories’ (2004, p. 5). He identifies seven plots which he calls hero, rags to riches, quest, voyage and return, comedy, tragedy, rebirth based on over 30 years of investigation and reports his findings in his 700-page book The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories. Whilst admitting that not every story ‘fits neatly and with mechanical regularity’ (2004, p. 5) into one or other of the seven plots and that some stories include more than one Booker finds that the degree and frequency of match is such that readers are often disappointed or feel unfulfilled when ‘something has somewhere gone adrift’, and that to a ‘remarkable extent’ the plots are recognisable (2004, pp. 5 6). Booker is not without his critics, although the concerns are primarily about his literary judgement (see for instance the reviews by Boddy, 2004; Mars-Jones, 2004) whilst the underlying concept that there is a small number of plots has been noted by others (Fiore, Metcalf, & McDaniel, 2007) and even described as ‘commonplace’ (Mars-Jones, 2004). Booker has argued that his seven plots provide a complete classification, that no story falls outside the scheme. It is not our purpose here to dispute that. We believe that he provides the evidence to show that the seven basic plots encompass a very large part of the repertoire. That in itself is sufficient for our purpose, which is to show that stories from many sources can be used in the discussion of ethics in organisations. By showing, as we do in the next section of the chapter, how each of the plot types can be used we intend to show not only the value of stories in the teaching of ethics and the development of ethical capacity but also the range of ethical dilemmas, problems and virtues which are demonstrated in stories.

STORIES IN ORGANISATIONS In this part of the chapter we look at how stories based on each of the seven plots can be used in the development of organisational ethics. We do so from a virtue ethics perspective. We show how each of the plots can be linked with one or more of the virtues, especially with virtues which are

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considered to be important in the development of effective managers, professionals and directors. In what follows we show how each of the basic plots provide examples of courage, integrity, hope, inquisitiveness, humour, judgement and prudence.

Hero The main aim of the hero in Booker’s schema is to overcome a monster. Not any monster but the monster, one which threatens not just an individual but a whole community as we see in Jaws, Beowulf, King Kong and many Westerns or science fiction thrillers (See Table 1 for details of all stories mentioned in the chapter.). They are stories of physical as well as psychological danger. The hero rather than the monster is the focus of our interest as we consider the relevance of this and other stories in the teaching of ethics. There is a persistent element in the stories of a hero, one who either displays or develops character as a result of the events which unfold in the story. These events are not restricted to acts of physical courage such as St George slaying the dragon, or the police chief overcoming the giant shark in Jaws. There are also well-known stories where the monster is overcome by persistence, fortitude or (moral) courage. In business there is the example of Apple founder Steve Jobs as he single mindedly insisted on bringing together IT and elegance in Apple. Or the successful battle by the consumer advocate Erin Brockovich against a major energy company, made into a film, Erin Brockovich, which shows how the single mother of three improbably rallies a community to fight the utility’s claims that it was unaware of the pollution caused by its activities. The organisational relevance is heightened as the untrained Brockovich achieves success working within three distinct organisational frameworks the utility company, the law firm within which she had sought work and the California court system. The classical story of Ulysses provides a further example of the development of courage, especially of the use of specific practices to enhance courageous behaviour. On the sea journey home from the campaign in Troy Ulysses has to take his shipload of men past the island of the Sirens whose ravishing music can tempt mariners off course. Ulysses has himself bound to the mast so he cannot respond to the siren calls (Bulfinch, 1993, p. 195). The leader as a hero is a universally energising concept. Although research in leadership is moving towards celebrating empowerment and distributed, post-heroic leadership, models where outstanding, charismatic

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Table 1.

List of Novels, Films and Classical Works Mentioned in the Chapter.

Title

Author

Format

Datea

Aeneid Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland Anna Karenina Beowulf Buffy the Vampire Slayer Carmen Daphnis and Chloe Divine Comedy Erin Brockovich Four Weddings and a Funeral Hamlet Jaws King Kong Le Rouge et Le Noir [The Red and The Black] Macbeth Moby Dick Odyssey Pilgrim’s Progress Pygmalion Raiders of the Lost Ark Robinson Crusoe Round the World in Eighty Days Seinfeld Superman The Castle The Comedy of Errors The Lexus and the Olive Tree The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe [Narnia] The Lord of the Rings The Office The Picture of Dorian Gray The Prince The Wonderful Wizard of Oz Through the Looking Glass Voyage to the Centre of the Earth Watership Down

Virgil L. Carroll L. Tolstoy Anon. J. Whedon G. Bizet Greek Dante Alighieri S. Soderbergh M. Newell W. Shakespeare S. Spielberg Cooper, Schoedsack M. Stendhal

Epic poem Book Novel Classical TV series Opera Pastoral Epic poem Film Film Play Film Film Novel

c25BCE 1865 1877 c800 2000 1875 c100CE 1321 2000 1994 1603 1975 1933 1831

W. Shakespeare H. Melville Homer J. Bunyan G. B. Shaw S. Spielberg D. Defoe J. Verne David, Seinfeld DC Comics F. Kafka W. Shakespeare T. L. Friedman C. S. Lewis

Play Novel Epic poem Book Play Film Novel Novel TV series Comic Novel Play Book Book

1611 1851 c800BCE 1851 1912 1981 1719 1873 1989 1938 1926 1594 2000 1950

J. R. R. Tolkien Gervais, Merchant O. Wilde N. Machiavelli L. F. Baum L. Carroll J. Verne J. Adams

Book TV series Novel Book Play Book Novel Novel

1937 1949 2001 1890 1513 1939 1871 1864 1972

a

Date of first publication or production.

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individuals with clear purpose, integrity and passion fighting for a just cause are celebrated as heroes both in organisations and communities (see for instance Hannah, Avolio, & Walumbwa, 2011; Ladkin & Taylor, 2010). As a hero Nelson Mandela transcended cultural boundaries and set an outstanding example of courage, forgiveness, non-violence and human dignity. He demonstrated the superiority of moral power over other forms of power. The monster overcome was apartheid. At the time of Mandela’s death South African president Jacob Zuma said that what made Mandela great ‘was precisely what made him human. We saw in him what we seek in ourselves’ (2013). Booker sets out a series of stages though which the hero, and the story, pass. The ‘inmost rhythm … of the story is of an initial sense of constriction, followed by a sense of relative enlargement … more serious constriction … climax … [which] is released in a final, much deeper act of liberation’ (2004, pp. 49 50). It is here that Booker recognises the ethical elements of the hero story, noting that the liberation is ‘coupled with a sense that something of inestimable and lasting value has been won from the darkness’ (2004, p. 50). That might be reading too much into Booker. The names that he gives the five stages, and which we return to in a later section of the chapter, are Anticipation, Dream, Frustration, Nightmare and Miraculous Escape (2004, pp. 40 41). For Booker the hero finds ‘magic weapons’ with which to overcome the danger. That may be too narrow a conclusion, allowing less to the human character than it can accomplish when fully developed.

Rags to Riches In stories around the world we can often see a popular theme where an ordinary, perhaps insignificant person overcomes difficulty and is revealed as someone exceptional and worthy of our admiration. The theme can be identified in folk tales including for instance Cinderella which has over a thousand versions and can be ‘found in every corner of Europe, in Africa, in Asia (the earliest known version dates back to ninth-century China) and among the indigenous peoples of North America’ (Booker, 2004, p. 53). The squire who accompanies his master to London turns into King Arthur. The ugly duckling transforms into a magnificent swan, and in Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion the cockney flower girl is transformed into a lady. The transformation of Clark Kent from a newspaper reporter to ‘Superman’ occurs repeatedly.

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The role and usefulness of success-against-the-odds stories is widely acknowledged in the motivational and self-help genres and many corporate training activities employ them. Of the seven plots this is the one which is most recognisably linked with the development of ethics in organisations and with personal transformation including the development of the virtues of persistence, integrity and judgement. It extreme cases it can also encourage lack of self-constraint and greed. Virtues and desirable characteristics found within the basic rags to riches plot include following one’s path with integrity, behaving virtuously even when things are not really good and noticing the opportunities. An abundant supply of rags to riches stories will be found in newsmedia and on the internet, many in a format similar to the short case studies found in business ethics textbooks. Thus the list of ‘25 Inspirational Rags to Riches Stories’ (Pegg, 2013) includes one-paragraph histories of the rise of people who built organisations, such as Richard Branson and JD Rockefeller, and of some who rose within organisations, such as Petrobras CEO Maria Das Gracas Silva Foster. These short accounts are not fiction, but as Booker reminds us there are many fictional examples, using this quotation from Kafka’s The Castle at the head of his rags to riches chapter, ‘Though for the moment K. was wretched and looked down on, yet in an almost unimaginable and distant future he would excel everybody’ (Booker, 2004, p. 51). Booker acknowledges that this plot has a Dark Version to teach us that dishonesty and lack of virtues bring inevitable punishment. The story is presented in the same structural pattern: the hero or heroine is aiming high but chooses a dishonest, manipulative path. At the beginning of the story these characters succeed and make move from their poor initial state towards a materially richer environment. However, when they almost achieve their desired riches their dishonesty and character faults are revealed and they fall to the abyss of darkness as a punishment for their deeds. Stendhal’s novel Le Rouge et Le Noir is an example of the dark version of the rags to riches story.

The Quest A key feature of the plot which Booker calls The Quest is the concept of a ‘call’ (2004, p. 70), the pull of a distant, all important goal. The call comes before the quest begins for without a call the journey would not be a quest. It is this element of a ‘call’ that is paramount in the link between these stories and organisational ethics. As Booker notes, these are not individual

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escapades of derring-do; the one who sets out is always accompanied by companions, who need to be ‘brought along with’ the leader, enlisted in the quest in a manner not unlike the effort of a newly appointed CEO seeking to turn a business around or give it new life in a journey that requires effort. By emphasising the call and the journey, and as examples of the importance of that goal as a focus and motivator, these stories provide examples of hope, the virtue which McCloskey (2006) describes as mobility, the willingness and the capacity to move on. In terms of organisational ethics, stories of the quest show how a move from one (perhaps un-)ethical landscape to another can be achieved and often demonstrate the time and effort required for success. This time element tends to mean that the sense of quest cannot be conveyed in the short case or single paragraph. Indeed many of Booker’s examples are long; ‘Some of the most celebrated stories in the world are quests: Homer’s Odyssey, Virgil’s Aeneid, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. The theme has inspired myths, legends, fairy tales and stories of all kinds, right up to such popular modern examples as Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, Richard Adams’s Watership Down or Steven Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark’ (2004, p. 69). These are way beyond an overnight reading task, and even though The Lord of the Rings may have passed into common parlance today as Pilgrim’s Progress did a century before, it is the characters and the outcomes which are more widely recognised than the journeys. Thus the movie or the television series may be the contemporary form in which the story of the quest is accessible to contemporary society. The quest for the triumph of light over dark can take time, and a multi-episode, multi-season television series such as Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer can provide a gallery of examples to illustrate specific elements in the quest and do so within the organisational context not only of Sunnydale High School where Buffy is a student but also within the organisational constraints of the calling of being a ‘slayer’ (Harris, 2009). There are times when the hero’s companions are fully differentiated characters, and these characters complete the qualities of the hero and make the hero ‘whole’. On other occasions the companion displays opposite qualities to those that we observe in the hero. In the story of the Jewish exodus, Moses is shadowed by his brother Aaron. The journeys in a quest have a noticeable pattern. The hero and the companions go through some near fatal ordeals then they have some time to regain their energy and rest before they are faced with the next set of difficulties. The first problem is usually the nature of the terrain that the hero and companions have to cross. The terrain is often alien, wild and

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unfriendly, a land full of dangers from animals and humans. Surviving the hardship and the dangers of the environment is the first challenge. It is followed by one of four specific obstacles monsters, temptations, deadly opposites or a journey to the underworld. These obstacles may be hazards of the mind as well as physical impediments. The hero and the accompanying party also meet some helpers during their quest. These helpers come in different forms and provide help and guidance. The final ordeals in the quest stories often happen about half way through. In the Odyssey it takes Odysseus 12 books to get back to Ithaca but there are further 12 books to the end of the story. In the Dark version of the Quest the hero’s aim is only to destroy. A good example of this is Melville’s Moby Dick where Captain Ahab is obsessed by the almost supernatural white whale and sets out to destroy it. It is a dark story because there is nothing life-enriching or life-reinforcing in it. Ahab’s only aim is to kill and destroy and the story is full of omens of disaster so the reader is not surprised that in the end it is Ahab and not the whale that is killed. Actions have their consequences. In the seven plots there are many examples where right behaviour and virtues are richly rewarded in the end and unethical behaviour is severely punished.

Voyage and Return Although there is a journey in both the Quest and the Voyage and Return the two plots are considerably different. In the Voyage and Return stories the hero, heroine or the central characters travel out of their normal, everyday environments and enter into a strange new world. Initially they find this new environment exciting and bizarre but eventually some danger or a shadow intrudes and the hero or heroine feels trapped and want to escape. After some exciting twists and turns in the story they manage to escape and return to their safe and familiar environment. Well-known Voyage and Return stories are C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass and Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland. In these stories the voyage is from a familiar physical location to another albeit strange physical location. A variation of this plot is when the journey is not a physical but rather a social one where the hero moves from a familiar social environment to an exotic social milieu, perhaps of a distinctly different social class or a different ethnic or religious culture. The lead characters of the Voyage and Return stories do not have a quest-like

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calling or purpose, they usually fall into the new, unexpected environment. By the end of the story some of the heroes are transformed by their unusual experiences and others go back to their regular settings totally unchanged. Robinson Crusoe for example is fundamentally changed through his voyage and turned from a self-centred, potentially dark figure into a mature, fulfilled and light person. In stories of Voyage and Return can be found the basis for personal and organisational development of the virtues of inquisitiveness (Harris & Castle, 2007) and openness, and, leaving the virtue focus aside for a moment, for the well-accepted benefit of lifelong learning whether at a personal or organisational level (Senge, 1990). Given that we learn ethics by practice and example (after Aristotle, above) to be effective for this purpose the story must contain the five elements set down by Booker, especially the life-changing transformation which leads to greater maturity and fulfilment (Booker, 2004, p. 106). This suggests how Booker’s classification and fivefold structure can be used to help in the selection of appropriate stories to use in a particular education or training situation, a point to which we will return later. As before, it is the voyages of psychological discovery that are more relevant than those geographical explorations such as Round the World in Eighty Days or Voyage to the Centre of the Earth. Beginning with Senge’s promotion of the learning organisation (1990) the need for continuous learning at an organisational level has been widely accepted. As to the importance of that personal transformation, a report on global leadership found that ‘global leaders require training programs that will help them radically redraw their provincial mental maps into global ones’ (Black & Gregerson, 2000), and a study of global leaders in Fortune 500 companies that ‘inquisitiveness is the essence-of global leadership. Inquisitiveness lies at the heart of explorations. Exemplar leaders are constantly curious and eager for knowledge’ (Black, Morrison, & Gregersen, 1999, p. 41). Thus the power of Voyage and Return stories as a basis for training in this arena. There are many autobiographies of business leaders which might be suitable, ranging from Andrew Carnegie’s (1889) realisation of the need to philanthropy to the contemporary CEO Ray Anderson’s realisation that his carpet business could not continue to consume the resources of the earth (Anderson, 2009) or the establishment of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. The Voyage and Return plot can also be a useful framework to contain and record the ‘adventures’ of organisational life particularly in multinational corporations with subsidiaries in many ‘strange lands’. Passing on the ‘lessons learnt’ by the different travellers could provide a unique and

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fun learning opportunity to new members encouraging them to be open and curious to differences.

Comedy Booker’s ‘comedy’ plot has a particular twist it is not so much about being funny but about things not being what they seem. Yet Booker argues that ‘comedy is a very specific kind of story. It is not any story which is funny’ (2004, p. 107). Indeed it is not humour but the ‘jigsaw puzzle’ which Booker identifies as the heart of the comedy plot and with it a process or moment of ‘recognition’ when something previously hidden is revealed (2004, p. 116) and the earlier ‘chaos of misunderstanding’ (2004, p. 107) is resolved. This often has to do with the identities of the people in the story and it is this aspect of personal knowledge, the replacement of a time when ‘people are insufficiently aware of each other’s and their own identity’ (2004, p. 117), a ‘twilight when nothing is seen clearly’ (2004, p. 150), with one of clarity, that is relevant in considering how comedy can be used in the development of ethical understanding in organisations. There is deception, sleight of hand, people seeing what they want or expect to see. But the contrivance serves a purpose and by the time of the conclusion the ‘need for concealment is at an end. Everyone has emerged in or discovered their true identity’ (Booker, 2004, pp. 128 129) making the comedy another vehicle for the exploration of identity. The resolution of misunderstanding that emerges in the fully developed classical comedy can provide a model for the exploration of cross-cultural differences in an environment where initial misunderstanding and confusion is accepted without rancour. It could also be a novel tool for corporate induction programmes where the organisational chart and relationships are explained. Newcomers can be bewildered by the communication shorthand used. It also takes a while to figure out the real power lines that are not necessarily identical to the positions listed on the organisational chart. Booker uses many examples to support this plan, ranging from the revelation of noble origins in Daphnis and Chloe, through the confusion of identities in Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors, to the understanding of the nature of love that emerges in the twentieth-century film Four Weddings and a Funeral. Two recent television series provide contemporary examples. The Office highlights the shortcomings of individuals in an office environment and takes the character faults to the extreme. These extremes trigger the moral

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values in the viewers who will intuitively make their own moral conclusions and are reminded of the desired, right behaviours. The programme is a fictional documentary about the day-to-day lives of office employees of the imaginary Wernham Hogg Paper Company. It is a social satire highlighting social clumsiness, the trivialities of human behaviour, self-importance and conceit, frustration and desperation for fame. In an episode of the Seinfeld series, Seinfeld tells someone that his (good for nothing) flatmate is a marine biologist and the flatmate seeks to work through the implications. The management virtue most obviously in play here is integrity. The challenge to some characters in the comedy is to maintain their integrity as all around them seems confused or unreal, the integrity which emerges when all is resolved and the integrity shown by those who seek after truth along the way. Whilst our emphasis is on the use of stories in the development of virtue, comedy and humour also have a place in lightening the atmosphere in the training room and in the establishment of cordial relations among participants. People may watch and engage with the story because it is funny. Laughter and humour are not among the seven principal virtues but humour is included by Comte-Sponville (2003) in his list of great virtues, and in the list of seven leadership virtues published by the Australian Institute of Management (Barker & Coy, 2003).

Tragedy The tragedy shows that there are circumstances which cannot be resolved with a win win outcome and that acceptance of this may be part of the unavoidable role of the leader, CEO or manager. This inability to avoid doing something unpalatable, something which is sure to harm some of those involved, or the inability to find any ethical way out, forced to choose the lesser of two evils, is sometimes called the problem of dirty hands (see for instance Temes, 2005; Walzer, 1973). The stories show that these situations occur in real life and are not restricted to the academic paper or the training room, and the stories show the emotional turmoil which often follows the crisis. The stories can be used to help the leader prepare for the disappointment and distress by showing that others have found themselves in a similar quandary; the stories may also help the wider organisation understand that for some in the enterprise dirty hands might be unavoidable and that this did not of itself constitute either personal or organisational failure. For some of the better known tragedies the personal failings

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of the leader may be better known than the wider story, and it may be better to avoid stories such as Macbeth and Hamlet where the understanding of the five-fold story needed for effective use in training might be hard to establish in the face of a well-embedded partial picture. (This is the second time that Booker’s classification and five-fold structure shows its value as a way to help in the selection of appropriate stories. We return to this point in the discussion.) If contemporary or personal stories involving ethical dilemmas may be difficult to discuss openly, discussing Machiavelli’s The Prince in a fair, non-judgemental way might help leaders and the whole organisation to appreciate the complexities of leadership and that sometimes the leaders ‘dirty their hands’, commit dark acts and pay for the unethical acts personally. With this act a dark chapter is closed in the life of the organisation and enables the community to begin a new phase. Booker reminds us that the word tragedy originates from a Greek word meaning ‘goat’. It is rooted in the ancient ritual practice of the ‘scapegoat’ whereby a goat or some other animal was sacrificed to restore health in the community (2004, p. 191). Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, Bizet’s opera Carmen and Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina are only a few of the tragedies that follow closely Booker’s five-stage depiction of the tragedy.

Rebirth The virtues of hope and love and the process of growth are identified by Booker himself as central to the rebirth stories because the situation of the hero here is dire compared with the protagonist in either the Quest or Voyage and Return plots. In the rebirth story ‘we are looking … at what happens to someone when he (sic) becomes possessed by the dark part of himself … passing into the grip of an egocentric obsession’ (Booker, 2004, p. 203). In both the Quest and Voyage stories the explorer may be seeking growth or personal development but that need not mean that they start out from the dark side as in the rebirth model. It is a story about hope, and a confirmation that growth and personal change is possible even from the most unappealing positions. One element of the model of ethical development propounded by Kohlberg is that those whose decision-making process is at one of the lower levels are unable to comprehend the way in which those who make moral decisions at one of the ‘higher’ levels make those decisions (Kohlberg, Levine, & Hewer, 1983); for example, someone

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at the middle level, making decisions based on convention, cannot understand the need to engage with ethical principles in the way that a person at the highest, post-conventional level would. Rebirth stories show that redemption is possible. They are therefore reminders that everyone can do better, that no-one should be ‘written off’ on the basis of their current failure to comprehend, stories with a message of universal hope for organisations and individuals. Booker provides a list of traditional rebirth stories, mainly remote from the contemporary organisational context. A more relevant and engaging source may be found among that group of reformed criminals who have had their revelation and are willing to talk about it to others. Some people take the opportunity to reflect on their shadow sides in prison and start a new life after serving the sentence. Rebirth could also be a good framework for consideration of the story of someone fighting addiction. Spending time in a rehabilitation centre could feel like death and overcoming a life threatening habit may feel like a rebirth and the beginning of a clean, new life. In an organisation context the example could be the burnt out workaholic CEO in the City who could feel ‘dead’ and after a redemptive experience come back transformed and leading a more complete life. Rebirth stories are particularly meaningful and powerful in a Hindu context where rebirth is taken as a fact of life and one works with his or her karma. Dark deeds of past lives are punished in this life and good deeds of past lives are rewarded in this life. An employee or employer with such a belief system will be particularly motivated to endure hardship and will work very hard to accumulate credit for the future by leading a virtuous life.

DISCUSSION Six aspects of the use of stories in activities to enhance ethical behaviour and understanding in organisations are considered in this discussion section. They are whether only moral stories are useful, the value of complexity, the benefit of familiarity, stories of failure, the selection of appropriate stories and whether non-fiction can be included. Each is considered in turn. In our description of the use of the various plots we have paid particular attention to the virtue approach to ethical decision making and moral development. We recognise that many who design or conduct ethics programs in organisations may be more familiar or more comfortable with

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utilitarian, deontological or care approaches, and much if not all of what we say in this section will be applicable if those approaches are adopted, notwithstanding our continuing emphasis on the virtue approach. Particularly when considering ethics in organisations it is well to remember that ethical problems are of two kinds, those where it is hard to work out the best response and those where the correct response is clear but the action is difficult (Jackson, 1996; McCann, 2013; Nash, 1990).

All Stories Not Only Moral Ones Case studies with clear correct/incorrect answers and ethical dilemmas in narrative form engage people primarily at a rational level. They might improve someone’s awareness about ethical issues but this rather abstract and detached understanding in itself will not necessarily encourage the person to act ethically. Longer stories and ones where character development occurs can develop an emotional awareness in course participants and help them to bring the subconsciously present virtues and ethical behaviours into the forefront of consciousness. They provide a more personal experience where participants are emotionally involved and have a deep level of personal understanding of actions and their consequences through the different plots that they witnessed and emotionally followed from early childhood throughout their lives. Sekerka describes how this story telling technique has been used in ethical development workshops for military officers (Sekerka, Godwin, & Charnigo, 2012). This inclusion of a wider group of stories will increase diversity. Writing of the use of narrative in organisational studies Rabinow notes that increasing ‘the diversity of the ways we approach the world of organizations increases the complexity of what we find there: each perspective reveals a new set of social objects and a new set of possible relations’ (1986) and beyond that the ‘alternative discursive practices of narrative fiction allow us to see an object “the subjective experience of organizational life” that can easily be obscured by more traditional social science approaches’ (in Phillips, p. 628). The more traditional moral education approach, with clearly articulated moral stories, also has the danger of disregarding the pluralist world in which most contemporary organisations operate, and of placing greater emphasis on moral decision making than on ethical behaviour (Hartman, 2013, p. 131). Easy cases may not be the most instructive. Complex stories are more likely to include disputed cases and conflicted individuals, situations in which it may be necessary to ‘test our

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intuitions against a tentative principle’ (Hartman, 2013, p. 131) and be closer to the realities of organisational life. The use of fiction places a heightened responsibility on the person choosing the stories and leading the discussion. The issue is one of ‘story teller subjectivity’ and Rhodes and Brown (2005) suggest this is especially so in moral stories.

Bringing Situations to Life Ethical action, particularly ethical action in organisations, occurs in a context and ethical decision making and ethical behaviour is affected by situation (Trevin˜o, 1986). The development of moral character ‘is a long process’ (Hartman, 2013, p. 189 after Aristotle) and stories which are restatements of simple principles are of little help when in the actual situation to hand the principles are neither evident nor unambiguous. Using life stories with their complexities and dilemmas that individuals can relate to and engage with might be more fruitful for developing one’s ability to act with integrity and wisdom in different contexts. Illustrating the stages in the life journey and drawing parallels between reality and fiction is a useful way for learning patience, keeping hope, developing courage and resilience. Outlining and applying Booker’s five recognisable stages in the rags and riches stories can provide a useful framework for the discussion. 1. Initial wretchedness at home and the ‘call’ When we first meet the hero or heroine they are usually in an unhappy, lowly state. Their misery is caused by ‘dark’ figures who maltreat them. At the end of this phase something happens that sends the hero or heroine out into the unknown wider world. 2. Initial success Although this phase is challenging for the hero or heroine we also get a glimpse of their glorious future as we witness their first success. At this stage they might even meet the ‘Prince or the Princess’ who will conquer the dark figures by the end of the story. We also get a glimpse of the hero’s or heroine’s strength and virtuous character. 3. Central crisis All of a sudden it goes wrong. The dark figures return and the hero or heroine is separated from the things that are most precious to them. The hero or heroine are in despair, they hit the lowest point.

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4. Independence and the final ordeal As the hero or heroine emerge from the crisis we see them in a new light. They are still unfulfilled but they have discovered an independent strength in themselves. They are ready for the final battle with the dark force to achieve their goal. When they concur the enemy and the dark shadow is fully and finally removed from their lives the hero or the heroine is ready to enter the final stage of the story. 5. Final union, completion and fulfilment The reward in the rags to riches stories is usually a loving union with the ‘Prince or the Princess’. Beyond the loving human union they also receive a more material ‘kingdom’ that they are ready to rule with their wisdom and maturity. The end of the story shows a perfect state of wholeness that will always be there for the hero and heroine. It demonstrates that leading a virtuous and courageous life is rewarded.

Familiarity (of Form) Assists Learning One value of using stories in teaching ethics is that we can assume some level of resonance with the plot right from the beginning. Booker argues that all stories have five discernible stages. This is a finding in addition to the seven basic plots. When we hear stories with recognisable plots repeatedly, we know their progress and at some level we know that this is how it is and this is how it should be, it is ‘natively intuitive’ (Fiore, Metcalf, & McDaniel, 2007, p. 40). By taking advantage of our high level of conditioning and habitual thinking we can create ‘compelling experiential learning scenarios’ for participants (Fiore et al., 2007, p. 43). Aristotle suggested that ‘We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit’. It also means that by doing a virtuous act occasionally will not guarantee that the person’s next act will be virtuous. Once we repeatedly made the ethical choices and they become second nature to us we shall act ethically almost without thinking, simply out of habit.

Without Reward The inclusion of ‘dark’ versions in some plots and the occasion of failure found in many stories is consistent with the ideas that perfection is

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impossible (Slote, 2011), and that development is not easy and takes time (Aristotle, 2000, 1112b). Erikson (1968) identifies eight stages of human development. These stages are interconnected and continuously influence each other. Developing and polishing one’s character and virtues is a quest for a lifetime where the ultimate reward is in the virtuous acts themselves. Some stories, similar to some life experiences, do not result in success. However, they are very valuable for teaching us to try again, to try differently and persistently work towards our ideals.

Booker’s Classification Can Help in the Selection of Effective Stories Given that there is a never-ending store of tales, films, songs and other narratives, how are stories to be selected for particular training or development events. Two ways have already been mentioned above. Voyage and return stories have to have a personal learning element or they are not going to be useful in the discussion and development of virtue. Stories where one element of the five-fold structure is well known (e.g. the failure in Macbeth) may reduce the usefulness when the whole (or some other element) is needed for the planned development task. A three-step process can be used to search for or select stories for a specific task: • Identify the organisational or personal virtue/characteristic which will be the focus of the exercise, session or programme • Choose which of the seven basic plots is most likely to address that topic or be helpful • Ensure that stories within that plot include the necessary elements of the five-fold structure. The concept of the seven basic plots can itself be used as a training tool from an organisational training and development perspective. After introducing the seven plots concept, participants could be asked to explain the current challenges in the organisation, and then to retell the story using one of the seven plots. Different participants might choose different plots for the same situation. This would have the value of looking at the situation from different perspectives and helping to identify the ethical issues and to map out the strategy for resolution.

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Does This Apply Equally to Fiction and No-Fiction? The theme of this collection is the contribution of fiction to organisational ethics yet we have included fiction and non-fiction stories without distinction. The distinction has become indistinct, with advertorials, mockumentaries, novels which explore political and philosophical issues and films designed to convey public messages. These and other recent actions have worked to ‘radically destabilize distinctions between what is real and what is fictional’ (Rhodes & Brown, 2005, p. 467). Phillips, writing about the role of narrative fiction in the study of organisations believes that ‘the divisions between narrative fiction and more conventional approaches to organizational analysis remain insupportably and unnecessarily overdrawn’ (1995, p. 628). This suggests that it would not be possible to draw a clear distinction between fiction and non-fiction in selecting stories. Many of the sources we quoted earlier regarding the effectiveness of narrative or stories in the teaching of ethics did not draw a distinction either, referring to narrative or stories rather than limiting themselves to fiction.

CONCLUSION Our focus has been on the use of narrative in ethics education in organisations. Whilst the effectiveness of stories as a basis for executive education and organisational development is widely accepted, and many writers have provided examples linking stories and ethics, most examples are drawn from overtly ethical stories. We have shown that a more expansive and inclusive view is possible, suggesting that all stories are valuable for these purposes. We have used Booker’s (2004) finding that all stories belong to one of seven basic plots overcoming the monster; rags to riches; the quest; voyage and return; comedy; tragedy; and rebirth to show that no major category of narrative need be omitted from those which can provide examples or links to the development of virtue in organisations. Specifically we have shown how narratives can be used to encourage the development of the virtues of courage, integrity, hope, inquisitiveness, humour and prudence. The analysis has been expanded by consideration of the positive contribution which stories can make to the development of ethical awareness through the complexity and reality of the situations they convey, the benefit to educators of the familiarity with the basic plots and patterns identified by Booker and others, together with the capacity of narrative to

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convey the positive impact of striving without success in stories of failure. We have shown how an understanding of the nature of each of the basic plots and their structure can be used to assist in the selection of appropriate stories for specific training and development needs and have also shown that the distinction between fiction and non-fiction is becoming more blurred so that both fiction and other forms of narrative can be effective in the development of ethical capacity in organisations.

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USING FILMS TO TEACH BUSINESS ETHICS STUDENTS Teressa L. Elliott and Catherine Neal ABSTRACT With the large majority of colleges and schools of business integrating ethics into their curricula, business ethics educators must work to improve the quality of instruction and find methods that enhance student learning. Because many films now address business ethics issues, the content of these films may be used to enhance the teaching of business ethics to undergraduate and graduate business students. This chapter suggests films that may be presented in business ethics classes to illustrate the four ethical categories set forth by the accrediting body for schools of business, The Association to Advance Collegiate Schools of Business (AACSB International), in their 2004 report on ethics education in business schools: ethical decision-making, ethical leadership, responsibility of business in society, and corporate governance. Keywords: Ethics; films; teaching; AACSB

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INTRODUCTION Business ethics and, unfortunately, unethical business practices, have become woven into the fabric of American society. High profile scandals such as Enron, WorldCom, Fannie Mae, and Madoff Investment Securities, combined with the charismatic individuals accused of recent ethical breaches, have increased public interest in and concern with business ethics. Cavaliere, Mulvany, and Swerdlow (2010) argue that, “Teaching Ethics in the aftermath of the current financial crisis is an enormous opportunity and societal obligation for business educators to train this generation to do better than the last generation” (p. 4). Additionally, the advent of round-the-clock news channels reporting ongoing and widespread ethics violations has resulted in a society in which unethical business practices are conspicuous, familiar, and expected. Unethical business practices have become so commonplace that they are now regularly reflected in pop culture, including American films. Some films, such as Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, directly address business ethics issues, while others simply reflect this phenomenon as part of American life. It may be disheartening and worrisome that unethical business practices are so ubiquitous that they are written into the screenplays of dozens of films. However, this phenomenon may be used positively: The content of these films may be used to enhance the teaching of business ethics to undergraduate and graduate business students. Osborn (2001) states that “the non-threatening nature of the ‘texts’ provides a particularly useful point of entry for legal study” when discussing how studying films could help students better grasp concepts (p. 171). And Cavaliere et al. (2010) state that we should “anticipate new directions ethics education may take” because our current financial crisis is viewed to be a result of unethical practices (p. 4). This also applies to business ethics students. As Machura and Ulbrich (2001) state, “Experience transmitted by media is sometimes a functional equivalent for experience gained in the real world” (p. 117). Students might not yet have real-world experience regarding the types of ethical dilemmas studied in business ethics classes, so using films can give students this experience by proxy, help aid in discussion, and foster a better understanding of the concepts and issues involved. It has also been argued that the fact that businesses and businesspeople must act ethically has not been stressed enough and using films to illustrate ethical decision-making could strengthen this lesson (Cavaliere et al., 2010). Cavaliere et al. (2010) additionally argue that to ensure that ethics classes are effective, “practical example and case study” should be used and “sermon[izing]”should even

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be considered (p. 6). Films can replace case studies and can act as sermons with their vivid portrayals of ethical dilemmas and resolutions and thus can be effectively used in the ethics classroom. We have used films in our classrooms and have found that the use of films generates a vigorous classroom discussion and we have also used films as assignments outside of the classroom. In our experience, our students have a better grasp of the ethical theories we present after applying them to films and this could be a function of their interest in the films, but also because, by applying the ethical theories to films, students are given another exposure to the theories in addition to the textbook, class lectures, and class discussions. Thus, by adding another opportunity to apply ethical theories, students have a better understanding of them because they apply them many times, and in many different ways. Shepard, Goldsby, and Gerde (1997) argue that “there are several advantages to the use of novels, plays and short stories over standard business case studies to explore ethical theories and moral business dilemmas” (p. 44). Shepard et al. (1997) state that literature is more complex than case studies and that, “Students cannot easily jump to a hasty solution to an ethical problem because the situations of several characters must be considered, characters that we know much more about than in business case studies” (p. 44). Also, this “tempers the typical bottom-line mentality students bring to analyzing a case study” and “fiction more nearly maps reality even though case studies may actually be based on real-life situations” (Shepard et al., 1997, p. 44). Finally, “Novels, plays and short stories provide information on characters as employees, managers, community members, spouses, parents, children, and other fallible human beings with conflicting desires, drives, and ambition” (Shepard et al., 1997, p. 45). While novels, plays, and short stories are obviously not films, because both are a fictionalized depiction of life, these same arguments can be applied to support using films in our classrooms as teaching tools as well. This is why the majority of the films we chose here are fictional and not documentaries. We also chose these films because they are films we use in our own classes and of course, other instructors may choose other films to use in class. We also focus on films with straightforward issues and the characters then are not as nuanced, and that is so that the focus will be on the ethical theories discussed and not the films themselves. We use the films as a conduit for class discussion and not as ends in themselves. With the large majority of colleges and schools of business integrating ethics into their curricula, business ethics educators must work to improve the quality of instruction and find methods that enhance student learning.

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Business professors “may not be as confident when it comes to teaching abstract philosophical ethics concepts” and the use of films could help here (Cavaliere et al., 2010, p. 5). We are not advocating that business professors use the films here to replace becoming comfortable with these concepts, but professors themselves can better understand these concepts when studying them in a fictional presentation. Studying films could further professors’ understanding of these concepts just as reading fiction can help deepen understanding and appreciation of the real world for readers as Kennedy and Lawton (1992) support when they advance the use of fiction/ literature in teaching business ethics. Here, however, we propose that films can help our students learn business ethics. “Some analysis of legal film is rooted in a desire to understand the nature of the broader relationship between law and popular culture and this has emerged as the study of popular culture itself has moved further forward into the mainstream” (Greenfield, 2001, p. 25). Thus, films, as a reflection of popular culture, are also acceptable as teaching tools. After a wave of high profile corporate scandals in 2001 and 2002, The Association to Advance Collegiate Schools of Business (AACSB International), the accrediting body for schools and colleges of business, revised accreditation standards for schools of business to emphasize the importance of ethics in the business school curriculum. In 2004, AACSB International, through its Ethics Education Task Force, published a report on ethics education in business schools. While AACSB International stopped short of mandating certain courses and/or specified treatment of business ethics, the Task Force provided strong guidance by recommending four broad themes of coverage, with the Task Force describing the four themes as “cornerstones of a comprehensive and viable ethics education curriculum in business schools” that “should inform ethics education” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 10). These themes are: responsibility of business in society, ethical decision-making, ethical leadership, and corporate governance (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004). In this chapter, we take each of these themes and discuss films that illustrate the themes because, as AACSB International suggests, these themes are essential to ethics education and should be examined in business ethics classes. Instructors may then use the films we suggest to illustrate these themes in their own business ethics classes. We have chosen these themes because, while AACSB International, as mentioned above, does not require these themes be specifically used in business ethics courses, AACSB International is the accrediting body for schools and colleges of business and as such, reviews colleges of business to either award accreditation or

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allow accreditation to be maintained. We therefore think it could be beneficial for business ethics classes to study these themes to bolster an assurance of learning argument for AACSB International. Accreditation requires that colleges of business show that their students are learning specific skills and outcomes (assurance of learning) and this argument could be strengthened if a college of business is using the very themes AACSB International suggests. Additionally, most business ethics classes already cover these broad themes so using films to illustrate what is already being covered in class could be helpful to instructors. We believe AACSB International chose these themes because a business ethics class should, on a threshold level, discuss the responsibility of business in society, show students how to engage in ethical decision-making, show students examples of ethical leadership, and discuss corporate governance. The films we use below are all older films (ranging in years from 1995 to 2009), although more recent films are also available for use. The films are also all American films, although international films could also be used. There are a few reasons we cite these particular films, however: these are films we use in our classes and we are thus familiar with their use as classroom tools; because the films are older, they are films the students are already familiar with and we have found we are better able to generate student interest if they are already familiar with the films and they are also better able to dig deeper into the films if they begin with a basic understanding of the film and plot; and, finally, the films directly relate to topics discussed in class (i.e., the Enron case) so are good films to use when discussing specific class topics. The use of films is not unlike the case study method employed by most business ethics educators so incorporating films into business ethics classes should be easy for educators to do. Machura and Ulbrich (2001) point out that even law schools are offering more courses on the law in film. And, in an age when students have unprecedented exposure to and use of multimedia, incorporating film is a method that may be used to engage students, pique their interest, and enrich their learning experience. People who watch films “are able to draw conclusions applicable to their own lives and experiences” (Machura & Ulbrich, 2001, p. 131). Thus, using films in the classroom could be an effective learning tool and as a starting-point for classroom discussion. Shaw (2004) finds the use of films in the classroom to be helpful for a number of reasons, but focuses on classroom discussion as the primary advantage of using films in class. Depending on how much class-time faculty have for the class, the films may be shown in class (in whole or in part) or, could be required viewing as homework.

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EXAMINING FILMS USING THE FOUR THEMES AND ETHICAL THEORIES AACSB International Theme: Ethical Decision-Making Professional Codes of Conduct/Utilitarianism/Virtue Ethics “Almost all business people, regardless of their levels in the organization, face issues of potential harm and fairness on a regular basis” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 12). To develop a student’s ethical decision-making skills, “students are encouraged to consider multiple stakeholders and to assess and evaluate using different lenses and enlarged perspectives” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 12). To develop this theme, instructors may examine professional codes of conduct: what should you do when you must juggle a mandated professional code of conduct with your own moral code? It is also appropriate here to introduce the ethical theories of utilitarianism and virtue ethics as these are two ethical theories that are commonly discussed in business ethics classes. Mill’s (1861/ 2007) utilitarianism holds that ethical decisions are ones that lead to the greatest good for the greatest number, or the “greatest happiness principle.” To reach this determination, a cost/benefit analysis must be done to see which decision will indeed lead to the greatest good for the greatest number. This theory works well with this AACSB International theme as you will engage in ethical decision-making by applying this theory. Aristotelian virtue ethics also leads to ethical decisions because, under this theory, a person acts as a person of good moral character when making decisions. Under virtue ethics, people must learn and practice virtues such as honesty, trustworthiness, and empathy. To further explore these topics, we examine the films Michael Clayton and Jerry Maguire. In the drama Michael Clayton (Fox, Orent, Pollack, & Samuels, 2007), Michael Clayton must engage in ethical decision-making when he must decide between turning in his client or remaining silent. An added twist to his decision-making is that he must decide if he should violate his ethical code of conduct as an attorney which he will arguably be doing if he turns in his firm’s client (UNorth) for harming farmers with their weed killer. This is a more difficult decision than it appears because attorneys are held to a high standard in their professional ethical code and must zealously represent their clients and also keep client confidences confidential. Michael does ultimately turn the client over to the police and is thus arguably engaging in ethical decision-making; he is ostensibly violating his professional ethical code, however, when doing so. Thus, while

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students will likely argue that Michael had to make an ethical decision and that he ultimately made the right decision, an argument can be made that the ethical decision here would be for Michael to honor the ethical code of his profession. Another attorney in the film, Karen Crowder, can be used as an example of the attorney who does follow her professional ethical code to an unhealthy, illegal, and unethical degree, however, as the general counsel for UNorth who knew about the harmful effects of the weed killer and did nothing about it. The film could lead to an interesting discussion of how these characters engaged in ethical decision-making, yet arrived at different conclusions. “Even though movies usually suggest particular interpretations, two different viewers will still not perceive the same film identically” (Machura & Ulbrich, 2001, p. 132). If students interpret Michael Clayton differently, class discussion will likely be enhanced with students able to hear other viewpoints. Instructors may also use this film and this theme as a springboard to a discussion of utilitarianism. Because a memo discovered in the film which serves a major plot point discusses a cost/benefit analysis, utilitarianism would be particularly appropriate to apply here. Instructors could apply the utilitarian approach to Michael’s ethical decision-making and make the connection that, using that approach, Michael could argue either position: turn his client over to the police, or to not say anything about the harmful effects of UNorth’s weed killer. To help develop students’ own ethical decision-making skills, instructors could encourage students to think like Michael and argue either position using a utilitarian approach or other ethical theories such as the categorical imperative or ethical egoism (both of which will be discussed below). Utilitarianism could also be applied to the film Jerry Maguire which is a drama, but with comedic elements (Brooks, Crowe, Mark, & Sakai, 1996). Jerry Maguire is a successful sports agent who ruins his career by writing a mission statement that advocates behavior that would lower the amount of money sports agents earn from their clients. Instructors could explain to students that, using utilitarianism, Jerry would not have proceeded as he did. Under this theory, Jerry’s actions are not justified. Using a cost/benefit analysis, the costs (loss of job, clients, and marriage) outweigh the benefit (the support of his only remaining client). Also, the greatest good for the greatest number, the “greatest happiness principle,” is not furthered by Jerry’s actions. Thus, it is interesting for instructors to show how, even though Jerry is arguably acting ethically, one of our ethical theories, utilitarianism, does not justify his actions.

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Instructors could then ask their class which theory would justify Jerry’s actions? Would Aristotelian virtue ethics justify Jerry’s actions? In the film, Jerry has decided to (finally) act as a virtuous person when writing his manifesto. Students might find it interesting to list the virtues Jerry either has or lacks, or discuss how Jerry’s virtues evolve throughout the film. Even though Jerry Maguire is a good example of ethical decision-making, this film can lead to a discussion that compares two different ethical theories (utilitarianism and virtue ethics) that, interestingly, lead to two different results.

AACSB International Theme: Responsibility of Business in Society Milton Friedman/FDA Regulations In its report, AACSB International (2004) points out that business must not break the law, must make money for their owners, and must pay taxes; among other duties. “Business and society are mutually interdependent,” however, and students need “to understand the symbiotic relationship between business and society” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 10). “The responsibilities of business go far beyond a financial accounting concern for the bottom line of short-term profit and loss” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 10). Business must contribute “to the communities where it hopes to prosper” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 10). This theme would link well with Friedman’s (1970) position regarding corporate social responsibility. Friedman (1970) believed that individuals are responsible for their society and may work to improve society, but the social responsibility of a corporation is to make a profit. Another topic that lends itself to this theme is a discussion of federal regulation in examining how business is forced, by government, to act responsibly in society. A good agency to examine in this context is the Federal Drug Administration. With this theme and these topics, we look at the films Tommy Boy and Thank You For Smoking. Instructors can present the comedy Tommy Boy (Michaels, 1995) to encourage discussions of Friedman’s position. Tommy Boy is trying to save his family business from an unscrupulous businessman (Zalinsky) to not only save the company, but to also save the town that depends on the company for employment. Tommy Boy goes to great lengths, including using his personal wealth, to try to save the company. The question becomes: Would Friedman support Tommy Boy’s actions? While Tommy Boy is coowner of the company and thus, only has a fiduciary duty to the company

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shareholders, if an argument could be made that improving the surrounding community keeps people employed with money in their pockets to spend, and thus, could keep Callahan Auto Parts in business and making money (because the surrounding community would have money to spend at Callahan Auto Parts), then Friedman might support Tommy Boy’s actions, but, absent a direct link to profits, Friedman’s philosophy would most likely support Zalinsky. Friedman would tend to support Zalinsky then and not Tommy Boy. Because Tommy Boy is a more sympathetic character than Zalinsky, however, it would be interesting to have students try to defend Tommy Boy’s actions in light of Friedman’s philosophy. Another film that instructors could use to illustrate the responsibility of business in society while also discussing Friedman is the satiric comedy Thank You for Smoking (Sacks, 2005). Thank You for Smoking is the fictional story of Nick Naylor, a lobbyist for the tobacco industry and also their chief spokesperson. This film can be an excellent starting point for a few different discussions. First, instructors, as with Tommy Boy, can discuss Friedman’s (1970) argument that the social responsibility of a business is to make a profit. Obviously, tobacco companies are very profitable. But their product is physically harmful to consumers. Do the tobacco companies owe a responsibility to consumers and their physical health? Does this responsibility mean their product should be taken off the market? What about other potentially harmful products such as alcohol and handguns? And, how does the fact that only adults may legally consume and use these products change the argument? Adults are arguably mature enough to assume the risks of consuming and using these products does this change the class discussion? To fulfill a responsibility to society, must only completely safe products be marketed by businesses? Second, the idea of marketing this product and ethical issues surrounding marketing would be a good discussion topic. In the film, characters discuss marketing to teenagers and children. A popular ethics case study involves this issue do tobacco companies market to underage smokers? And if yes, is this ethical? As mentioned above, the AACSB International report (2004) states that, “The responsibilities of business go far beyond a financial accounting concern for the bottom line of short-term profit and loss” (p. 10). It would lead to a good discussion to compare this to Milton Friedman’s argument, and Thank You for Smoking brings this statement into sharp focus. The film portrays the tobacco industry as ignoring this precept completely. Again, instructors can present this to their classes and ask, is this ethical? Or, as perhaps with the marketing practices of the tobacco industry, is this just good business practice?

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Finally, tobacco companies were sued and lost a great deal of money in the tobacco case settlements. These cases, and the legal and ethical ramifications, would be a good topic in a business ethics class. If a product is legal, then how can we sue a company for producing it? A discussion of the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), its regulations, and how the agency operates would be appropriate here. A discussion of how the law and ethics overlap is an important component of any business ethics class, and this discussion would cover administrative law and the FDA as well. In this case, the instructor could explain the history of FDA regulations and warning labels on cigarettes, the fact that evidence showed in the tobacco cases that tobacco companies were better aware of the addictive power of nicotine than earlier supposed, and thus, the tobacco cases were allowed to continue. There is also a public policy issue here: smoking is a public health issue and so, the tobacco companies should bear some of the financial burden because those companies have the deep pockets. The lawsuits against the tobacco companies (and the fact that the legal system allowed them to continue without dismissal) support the view that tobacco companies, as a business, have a social responsibility to society. Thank You for Smoking is a good example of this ethical theme and could be helpful to instructors as a discussion starting point.

AACSB International Theme: Ethical Leadership Social Contract Theory of Ethics/Ethical Egoism/Categorical Imperative Executives “must be both ‘moral persons’ and ‘moral managers’” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 11). Executives must consider all stakeholders and act transparently (moral persons) and know they must act “as ethical role models,” talk about ethics, and hold “organization members accountable for ethical conduct” (moral managers) (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 11). This theme combines well with a discussion of three important ethical theories: the social contract theory of ethics, ethical egoism, and the categorical imperative. Regarding the social contract theory of ethics, as philosophers Locke (1690/1986) and Rawls (1971/2005) argue, if you are making decisions behind a veil of ignorance, you do not know if your decision will make you a winner or a loser, so you will likely make a fair decision to ensure that you will be less likely to be disadvantaged by the outcome. Ethical egoism is another important ethical theory to discuss in business ethics courses. Hobbes’ (1651/2009) theory of ethical egoism states that self-interest is the central factor in ethical decision-making.

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While Hobbes is obviously not a contemporary proponent of this theory, Hobbes is still discussed in business ethics classes today in connection with this theory, just as Kant and Mills (discussed below and above, respectively) are still studied today. Hobbes clearly and thoroughly discusses this theory and as Hobbes is historically associated with ethical egoism, discussing Hobbes is important. Finally, Kant’s (1785/1949) categorical imperative needs to be discussed in a business ethics class. Immanuel Kant argues that people should not be a means to an end and should not be used to offer a one-sided benefit to others. The categorical imperative urges people to look at the consequences of their actions and do what is right for society. With this theory, you must act in a way you would be comfortable with if everyone acted in the same way. In other words, what universal rule or standard would you impose on society? In connection with this theme and these theories, we can again examine Michael Clayton and can also examine the film Erin Brockovich as well as the documentary on Enron (discussed in more detail below): Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room. Michael Clayton, discussed earlier, may also be used to illustrate ethical leadership in a business ethics class by applying the theory of justice or social contract theory of ethics (Rawls, 1971/2005). In Michael Clayton then, this theory would have caused the major characters to act as ethical leaders within their companies. They would not know if they would be a winner (make millions) or a loser (use the weed killer and die) so they would reduce their risk and would thus lead their companies to make ethical decisions (i.e., do not distribute a hazardous product). And, once the leaders of a company are ethical, with the “top-down” approach, employees will act ethically as well. The entire ethical dilemma would have been avoided in Michael Clayton had ethical leadership existed within the law firm and company. Another example of ethical leadership is seen in the Steven Soderbergh drama Erin Brockovich, based on a true story (DeVito, Shamberg, & Sher, 2000). While Erin Brockovich is not an executive as referenced in the AACSB International report (2004), she does act as a “moral person” and “moral manager” in the film (p. 11). Regarding Erin Brockovich, an argument could be made with Hobbes’ ethical egoism that ethical leaders, such as Erin Brockovich, cannot follow this theory. In the film, Erin Brockovich works for a law firm that files suit on behalf of people harmed by the environmental damage caused by a company. At one point, Erin must decide if she should talk the plaintiffs into arbitrating the case. This triggers a discussion of ethical egoism because, while it might be best for Erin and her law firm to arbitrate, it is arguably not the best choice for their clients.

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Following ethical egoism and thinking only of your own interests makes it difficult, if not impossible, to be an ethical leader because ethical leadership means you must consider the interests of everyone involved and in this case, while adhering to ethical egoism benefits Erin, as an ethical leader, she must abandon this theory and support her clients. Additionally, the Enron scandal, as shown in the documentary Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room (Ellwood, Gibney, Kliot, & Motamed, 2005) exemplifies ethical egoism very well as well as an absence of ethical leadership as the AACSB International theme presents. The top executives at Enron such as Skilling, Lay, and Fastow, were obviously only considering their own self-interests (Hobbes, 1651/2009). Instructors could lead students in a discussion of what interests are involved in the Enron case and also ask students if ethical egoism is a valid ethical theory should Skilling, Lay, and Fastow be able to justify their actions by using this ethical theory? Does applying this theory make the actions of the Enron executives ethical? Instructors can finish by pointing out that the theory ethical leaders are most likely to apply is Kant’s (1785/1949) categorical imperative, and this theory can be applied to both Michael Clayton and Erin Brockovich. When using Erin Brockovich, it can be pointed out that the company involved in the film (PG&E) violates this theory by using the community, damaging the environment, and harming the residents for a one-sided benefit. Also, most (if not all) people would agree that a good standard or rule to apply is to value human life and health above profits. Erin clearly agrees with this and that is why she is such a strong advocate for the residents harmed by PG&E. Thus, the categorical imperative supports Erin’s ethical leadership and instructors could find it interesting to discuss with students how this theory, and not ethical egoism, could support Erin’s ethical leadership role. Instructors can then return to Michael Clayton when discussing the categorical imperative. As noted above, Immanuel Kant argues that people should not be a means to an end and should not be used to offer a onesided benefit to, in this case, a corporation. Seen in this light, UNorth cannot produce and distribute their weed killer. The corporation should govern itself in a way that does not use people (farmers) as a means to an end (profits). Also, here we see UNorth ignoring the categorical imperative because people (their consumers) are being used with only UNorth reaping the benefits. If UNorth considers the consequences of their actions death the corporation must then stop their unethical practices because higher profits do not excuse and justify putting their dangerous weed killer on the market.

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This should be the universal rule imposed on society: put people, not profits, first. UNorth is not following standards society would want imposed on it. Thus, when discussing the categorical imperative, instructors can show students that if UNorth had applied the categorical imperative in Michael Clayton, the company would not have made its poor ethical choices.

AACSB International Theme: Corporate Governance SEC Regulations/Fraud/GAAP/Sarbanes Oxley Act “Knowing the principles and practices of sound, responsible corporate governance can also be an important deterrent to unethical behavior” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 13). Students need to understand how regulatory bodies, laws, internal controls, codes of conduct and the Board of Directors “can be [an] important factor(s) in managing risk and reputation” (Ethics Education Task Force, 2004, p. 13). Finally, most, if not all, business ethics classes now discuss the Enron scandal. Sipe (2007) argues that the Enron scandal may “be used as the central case study in an introductory business law course” (p. 325). A documentary about Enron (discussed briefly above) Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, would thus be a good film to present in a business ethics class (Ellwood et al., 2005). Cox, Friedman, and Edwards (2009) also used this film in a classroom study because the authors felt this film would interest students, make the ethical issues more apparent, and increase student understanding, and would do so better than class lecture. Another film that was recently the focus of an article was Inside Job (Biktimirov & Cyr, 2013). Inside Job would be another good film to use in class, but because most ethics courses study Enron as a case study, the Enron documentary would be particularly good for students to view. The AACSB International report (2004) states that students need to understand how regulatory bodies, laws and internal controls, codes of conduct, and the Board of Directors “can be [an] important factor(s) in managing risk and reputation” (p. 13). The Enron documentary can illuminate for students how the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) (regulatory bodies), laws, internal controls (accounting rules and Generally Accepted Accounting Principles (GAAP)) all impact the Enron case. The documentary explains that CEO Jeff Skilling used mark-to-market accounting and ultimately, the company filed bankruptcy and top executives served time in jail. While a business ethics class necessarily focuses on ethical theories, the legal issues involved in the Enron scandal are also

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important for instructors to point out to students to show them how the documentary and the Enron scandal best illustrate this theme of corporate governance. The overlap between law and ethics here could lead to a discussion of mark-to-market accounting as used at Enron and discussed in the documentary. Mark-to-market accounting is not illegal, but, as students are likely to argue, it is unethical as used by Enron. As a result of the creative use of mark-to-market accounting, pensions were destroyed, jobs were lost, and a company filed bankruptcy. Thus, while legal, using this accounting method is arguably unethical. A discussion of mark-to-market accounting could also lead to a discussion of internal controls, regulatory bodies, and rules and regulations. The documentary points out that the Enron accounting firm, Arthur Andersen, approved the use of mark-to-market accounting so the internal controls were lax and is likely due to the corporate governance at Enron. This also makes it possible for instructors to discuss regulatory bodies such as the SEC which investigated Enron because its profits seemed unnaturally high. Instructors can here teach students about SEC regulations and the Securities Act of 1933 and the Securities Exchange Act of 1934 which are applicable to this film and also important laws to discuss in a business ethics class dealing as they do with securities fraud and investor protection. Another important legal issue to discuss in a business ethics class is fraud and the Enron documentary directly deals with this issue. Instructors can discuss the legal definition of fraud, and also point out that sometimes actions can be fraudulent, but not arise to the legal definition of fraud. In that case, are the actions unethical? In the Enron case, using mark-tomarket accounting booking potential, but not realized, profits is arguably fraudulent. This accounting method is not illegal, however, so instructors could use this as a springboard to discuss fraud from both a legal and ethical perspective. Finally, the Enron documentary and mark-to-market accounting can be used to open a discussion of accounting rules and regulations. A discussion of GAAP is appropriate here. Instructors can discuss accounting loopholes and while legal, is it ethical for a corporation to exploit these loopholes? Enron, as far as corporate governance, was governed in such a way that exploiting these loopholes was encouraged. This can lead to an unethical atmosphere within a company, however. Of course, any discussion of Enron and law and ethics must also contain a discussion of the Sarbanes Oxley Act (Sarbanes Oxley Act of 2002). The Enron case led directly to passage of this Act and current business ethics classes usually

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contain an examination of Sarbanes Oxley, the Enron case, as well as other accounting scandals such as the Tyco and WorldCom cases. The Enron documentary naturally leads to a discussion of Sarbanes Oxley and how this Act was passed to ensure cases like Enron will not happen again. It would be interesting for instructors to note that the poor/unethical corporate governance of Enron led to its downfall and to the Sarbanes Oxley Act and thus, this documentary is a good film to show to illuminate not only the theme of corporate governance, but also the interplay between law and ethics.

CONCLUSION AACSB International has given us four themes we need to examine in our business ethics classes and an effective method available to instructors to illustrate these themes is to discuss films in class. We have here discussed films that may be used as examples in each category and we have also given guidance for using these films. We have focused on American films, but international films (e.g., Cinema Paradiso) could also be examined and while we focused on films, instructors could also use plays and novels or television shows as well. Television shows such as “Nurse Jackie” and “Breaking Bad” are also filled with ethical dilemmas that could lead to spirited class discussions. We not only want our students to learn, but also find learning interesting and using films in class, as we have described here, will lead to success on both levels.

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